When I taught Spanish, some students would complain that it was too complicated, too hard. To be sure, there are some facets of it that are difficult, at first. For example, ser y estar can be a little perplexing, por y para are perplexing and the a personal just makes no sense at times. I would counter that Spanish is much easier to pronounce, even though the comeback from the students would be, How can you tell? They all talk so darned fast! True, dat.
Even so, English isn't exactly easy. Sure, conjugation of verbs is pretty simple compared to Spanish: I eat, you eat, he/she/it eats, we eat, they eat. Wow, one variation. But try being a foreigner unfamiliar with Spanish and confronting our pronunciations. Why, for example, is one word tough but the other though, even though they're virtually spelled the same? Then there's their, there and they're which, it should be pointed out, even Americans can't understand (not to mention hear and here -- There hear!).
The debate can go on. There are some languages, like Irish and Chinese, that can be downright frustrating. Others, like English and Spanish, are comparatively easier. But no language, even Esperanto, is a piece of cake.
But back to English. Whenever I was confronted with a particularly intransigent student, I would pull this one out:
Take the verb to get. In the infinitive, it means to obtain, generally speaking. But start adding prepositions or other verbal forms at the end of it and see what you come up with:
Get by
Get around
Get through
Get over
Get with
Get to
Get up
Get down
Get between
Get on
Get under
Get about
Get across
Get at
Get away
Get into
Get off
Get together
Get it
Get nowhere
Get back at
Get cracking
Get wind of
Get out
And the list goes on.
Think about that the next time someone complains about how hard a foreign language is to learn.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, March 29, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Tom Boerwinkle, R.I.P.
Today I read that Tom Boerwinkle died. Unless you're a fan of NBA basketball or a member of his family, you probably don't know who he was. He's not in the Hall of Fame, he never won an NBA championship nor did he do something irresponsible or noteworthy like some NBA players and father ten kids by eight different women. All he was was a decent NBA player and a responsible member of society.
Some reports are referring to him as the Biggest Vol, because he played his college ball at Tennessee. To me and others of my vintage who grew up watching the Chicago Bulls in the 1970's, however, he was the pillar of that team, the seven-foot center out of Tennessee who wasn't flashy but solid. He did his job and didn't seek the limelight. His teams were good, but they never made it to the NBA Finals. He has a couple of club records, but really that's about it.
He died, the article says, of something called Myelodysplastic syndromes, a form of leukemia. Fans didn't even know he was sick since he'd been out of and kept out of the limelight since he retired. From what I recall of him, he was an unassuming and gentle man, not one to blow his own horn or cause trouble on the court. As I said, he was just a good, solid, professional basketball player. He probably appreciated his size since it gave him his professional career, but I wonder how he felt sticking out in a crowd.
What his death means to me and the other Bulls' fans of his era is that his passing is a milestone in our own lives. Whether it was Mickey Mantle or Walter Payton, or Ryan Freel or Korey Stringer, professional athletes have an impact on young children. They mark them just as songs and games and foods do, so that when the child has become an adult, the memory of their childhood is recalled by mention of the player. For me, the '69 Cubs will always do that, and the Bulls from the 70's have the same effect, because I was just learning to play basketball when Boerwinkle and his teammates competed. It isn't hero worship, or the awe of celebrity. It's just something the imprints a young person such that the mere mention of that thing -- in this case, a professional basketball player -- brings the person back to his childhood.
Boerwinkle died too young, sadly. For thousands if not millions of Bulls' fans, his death reminded them of their advancing age, if not their mortality. We never think about our age growing up, other than to hope for the freedom that adulthood brings us. Years pass with us blissfully ignoring what awaits us. Then one of our milestones from childhood rears up and jolts us unexpectedly, reminding us of of the impermanence of life.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Some reports are referring to him as the Biggest Vol, because he played his college ball at Tennessee. To me and others of my vintage who grew up watching the Chicago Bulls in the 1970's, however, he was the pillar of that team, the seven-foot center out of Tennessee who wasn't flashy but solid. He did his job and didn't seek the limelight. His teams were good, but they never made it to the NBA Finals. He has a couple of club records, but really that's about it.
He died, the article says, of something called Myelodysplastic syndromes, a form of leukemia. Fans didn't even know he was sick since he'd been out of and kept out of the limelight since he retired. From what I recall of him, he was an unassuming and gentle man, not one to blow his own horn or cause trouble on the court. As I said, he was just a good, solid, professional basketball player. He probably appreciated his size since it gave him his professional career, but I wonder how he felt sticking out in a crowd.
What his death means to me and the other Bulls' fans of his era is that his passing is a milestone in our own lives. Whether it was Mickey Mantle or Walter Payton, or Ryan Freel or Korey Stringer, professional athletes have an impact on young children. They mark them just as songs and games and foods do, so that when the child has become an adult, the memory of their childhood is recalled by mention of the player. For me, the '69 Cubs will always do that, and the Bulls from the 70's have the same effect, because I was just learning to play basketball when Boerwinkle and his teammates competed. It isn't hero worship, or the awe of celebrity. It's just something the imprints a young person such that the mere mention of that thing -- in this case, a professional basketball player -- brings the person back to his childhood.
Boerwinkle died too young, sadly. For thousands if not millions of Bulls' fans, his death reminded them of their advancing age, if not their mortality. We never think about our age growing up, other than to hope for the freedom that adulthood brings us. Years pass with us blissfully ignoring what awaits us. Then one of our milestones from childhood rears up and jolts us unexpectedly, reminding us of of the impermanence of life.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
British knighthood
The other night I saw a commercial for musical acts that are going to appear at a local venue. One of them was Sir James Galway. I wondered if it was the same James Galway who played the flute (I suspected it was but was hoping it wasn't). I checked him out on Google and found out that in fact it was the same James Galway who had been knighted by that old lady across the Atlantic for some contribution or other to the Dying Empire. At first I was appalled because I thought Galway was an Irishman which, technically, he is, having been born in Belfast. But since he was born in the Six Counties the Evil Empire refuses to return to us, that makes him a British subject and his knighthood is understandable, no matter how noxious is it to my sensibilities.
But there is a line to this. Why any American would deign to receive a knighthood from the British is beyond me. That hypocrite Ted Kennedy received an honorary knighthood in his last year of life and the fool accepted it. It's bad enough that an American would accept such a title, but an American of Irish ancestry whose family left at the height of the Famine due to the gentry's landgrab had no business accepting the knighthood. That he did so only underscores the hypocrisy with which the Kennedy family has always operated.
Dwight D. Eisenhower also accepted a knighthood. For someone who had to put up with the intractable and insufferable British superiority complex during World War II to accept a knighthood is amazing to me. The argument can be made that he did so out of political expediency, but he could easily have quashed any feelers before the announcement was made. I just shake my head at how Americans will come a'running whenever the British dangle anything that suggests royalty at them.
For a country that has as one of its most solid bases that all men are created equal, even if it hasn't always practiced this, it shows a perplexing propensity to kneel at the altar of British royalty. Sure, the so-called royals are people too, but I'll be darned if I'm bowing to anyone, much less a person of putative royalty. I can drag out the arguments that we kicked them out of our country twice and saved their bacon two other times, but those really only speak to the fact that we are a different culture and that we may be allies but that's it. The notion that we should accept some knighthood because it's an honor is misguided; not one citizen is beneath Barack Obama but we pay respect to the office of the President of the United States. That we should pay respect to a monarch who alleges to be superior by virtue of birth to anyone is a crock.
There may well be other knighthoods or honors that other monarchs bestow on Americans. If there are, I'm not aware of them. But even if they do, they're certainly no different, intriniscally, than the British knighthood. The one difference is the shared history with Britain and, for me, the horrific history of British subjugation of Ireland for nearly a millenium that devalues any claim the British have to being in a position to bestow honors on anyone. Again, mindful of Godwin's Law, it's as if I would accept some honor from the Third Reich. That, to me, makes no sense.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But there is a line to this. Why any American would deign to receive a knighthood from the British is beyond me. That hypocrite Ted Kennedy received an honorary knighthood in his last year of life and the fool accepted it. It's bad enough that an American would accept such a title, but an American of Irish ancestry whose family left at the height of the Famine due to the gentry's landgrab had no business accepting the knighthood. That he did so only underscores the hypocrisy with which the Kennedy family has always operated.
Dwight D. Eisenhower also accepted a knighthood. For someone who had to put up with the intractable and insufferable British superiority complex during World War II to accept a knighthood is amazing to me. The argument can be made that he did so out of political expediency, but he could easily have quashed any feelers before the announcement was made. I just shake my head at how Americans will come a'running whenever the British dangle anything that suggests royalty at them.
For a country that has as one of its most solid bases that all men are created equal, even if it hasn't always practiced this, it shows a perplexing propensity to kneel at the altar of British royalty. Sure, the so-called royals are people too, but I'll be darned if I'm bowing to anyone, much less a person of putative royalty. I can drag out the arguments that we kicked them out of our country twice and saved their bacon two other times, but those really only speak to the fact that we are a different culture and that we may be allies but that's it. The notion that we should accept some knighthood because it's an honor is misguided; not one citizen is beneath Barack Obama but we pay respect to the office of the President of the United States. That we should pay respect to a monarch who alleges to be superior by virtue of birth to anyone is a crock.
There may well be other knighthoods or honors that other monarchs bestow on Americans. If there are, I'm not aware of them. But even if they do, they're certainly no different, intriniscally, than the British knighthood. The one difference is the shared history with Britain and, for me, the horrific history of British subjugation of Ireland for nearly a millenium that devalues any claim the British have to being in a position to bestow honors on anyone. Again, mindful of Godwin's Law, it's as if I would accept some honor from the Third Reich. That, to me, makes no sense.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
NFL draft
(Warning: This blogpost contains plenty of Sports Crappola)
As I've mentioned before, I'm not a big fan of the NFL but I do love the draft. I can't explain why, exactly, since I have zero interest in how pro teams do and even less interest in the Super Bowl (I know what I just said; it was intentional). I am a Draftnik, although the days of watching the first two rounds of the draft are long gone. I keep up with the prospects and read virtually anything that I can find on them, trying to evaluate what would be the best move for the Chicago Bears, since that's the team with which I'm most familiar.
There is plenty about the draft that cracks me up. First, the people who actually attend the draft wearing their teams' jerseys and then have seizures when the picks are announced; the players when drafted putting on baseball hats; the green room where people dress up better than many of them would to go to church; and the breathless announcing by Mel Kiper and others of stats that just roll of their tongues like their own social security numbers do (how do they memorize all those forty times, tackles for loss, GPA's, shuttle times, Wonderlic scores, etc.?).
In the buildup to the draft, Kiper and McShay, principally, and virtually every other sports outlet publishes their Mock First Round Draft, where they try to predict what teams will choose which players. These are great conversation starters, but if one were to ascertain their accuracy, they'd fall far short of being accurate. Too often, clubs will leak misinformation in the guise of providing a reporter with a scoop who in turn feeds it to the draft expert who then puts it out there like he's a savant. The team officials must have a lot of fun with those.
Over the years I've been involved with rotisserie basketball and last year did my first year of fantasy football just for grins. I'm more knowledgeable about basketball than football, but I placed a respectable third in the football league. For a first-timer, that's not too bad. What these experiences have shown me is that a person with moderate involvement in a sport can probably do just as well drafting players as the high-priced experts hired by the teams do. They all want us to think they're the latest Gil Brandt who can uncover hidden gems that no one else can find, when in fact the science of drafting has advanced too far for anyone to be a Gil Brandt ever again. What's more, there are just as many players that don't pan out chosen by general managers as there would be by fans. Sure, they may have some inside information, but by and large, they're taking as much of a gamble as anyone else is.
I think an equally interesting fantasy sport would be fantasy general manager. Admittedly, it would have a very limited season, and it would probably only work for football. It might have worked for basketball before foreign players began to get drafted, but no more. And forget baseball and hockey, since those sports draft kids out of high school and junior hockey in the frozen tundra.
Here's my pitch: Each year when a draft is held, take the players drafted in the first round and mark them as being Hall of Famers, Pro Bowlers, journeymen or busts. After five years or so, take out the draft lists and see who's got more correct. This notion of trying to pick which team will draft which player is impossible, given the trades that occur, so why bother? Besides, that doesn't prove anything. What a GM does is try to get the player that will help his squad. Therefore, assess the players' potential by categorizing his expected accomplishments. For example, Jerry Rice was drafted out of Mississippi Valley State in the first round by the San Francisco 49ers. Great. But who knew then that he'd be a Hall of Famer?
This has a very narrow focus group, I admit. But to those of us who enjoy sports, it's an intriguing idea, given the fact that most of us think we could do at least as well as the well-paid general managers who make these picks.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
As I've mentioned before, I'm not a big fan of the NFL but I do love the draft. I can't explain why, exactly, since I have zero interest in how pro teams do and even less interest in the Super Bowl (I know what I just said; it was intentional). I am a Draftnik, although the days of watching the first two rounds of the draft are long gone. I keep up with the prospects and read virtually anything that I can find on them, trying to evaluate what would be the best move for the Chicago Bears, since that's the team with which I'm most familiar.
There is plenty about the draft that cracks me up. First, the people who actually attend the draft wearing their teams' jerseys and then have seizures when the picks are announced; the players when drafted putting on baseball hats; the green room where people dress up better than many of them would to go to church; and the breathless announcing by Mel Kiper and others of stats that just roll of their tongues like their own social security numbers do (how do they memorize all those forty times, tackles for loss, GPA's, shuttle times, Wonderlic scores, etc.?).
In the buildup to the draft, Kiper and McShay, principally, and virtually every other sports outlet publishes their Mock First Round Draft, where they try to predict what teams will choose which players. These are great conversation starters, but if one were to ascertain their accuracy, they'd fall far short of being accurate. Too often, clubs will leak misinformation in the guise of providing a reporter with a scoop who in turn feeds it to the draft expert who then puts it out there like he's a savant. The team officials must have a lot of fun with those.
Over the years I've been involved with rotisserie basketball and last year did my first year of fantasy football just for grins. I'm more knowledgeable about basketball than football, but I placed a respectable third in the football league. For a first-timer, that's not too bad. What these experiences have shown me is that a person with moderate involvement in a sport can probably do just as well drafting players as the high-priced experts hired by the teams do. They all want us to think they're the latest Gil Brandt who can uncover hidden gems that no one else can find, when in fact the science of drafting has advanced too far for anyone to be a Gil Brandt ever again. What's more, there are just as many players that don't pan out chosen by general managers as there would be by fans. Sure, they may have some inside information, but by and large, they're taking as much of a gamble as anyone else is.
I think an equally interesting fantasy sport would be fantasy general manager. Admittedly, it would have a very limited season, and it would probably only work for football. It might have worked for basketball before foreign players began to get drafted, but no more. And forget baseball and hockey, since those sports draft kids out of high school and junior hockey in the frozen tundra.
Here's my pitch: Each year when a draft is held, take the players drafted in the first round and mark them as being Hall of Famers, Pro Bowlers, journeymen or busts. After five years or so, take out the draft lists and see who's got more correct. This notion of trying to pick which team will draft which player is impossible, given the trades that occur, so why bother? Besides, that doesn't prove anything. What a GM does is try to get the player that will help his squad. Therefore, assess the players' potential by categorizing his expected accomplishments. For example, Jerry Rice was drafted out of Mississippi Valley State in the first round by the San Francisco 49ers. Great. But who knew then that he'd be a Hall of Famer?
This has a very narrow focus group, I admit. But to those of us who enjoy sports, it's an intriguing idea, given the fact that most of us think we could do at least as well as the well-paid general managers who make these picks.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, March 25, 2013
Board games
Keith Law isn't a name with which most people are familiar. He writes for espn.com and devotes himself to major league baseball, specializing in the MLB draft and in assessing the teams' various farm systems. He's a Harvard grad who's worked with a MLB team, and I appreciate his more cerebral approach to the game, even if he uses Sabrmetrics beyond my understanding (which really isn't that hard, since it involves math). But what I like about Mr. Law most is that he's very diverse. He's not all about baseball and only baseball. In fact, he has his own blog that only treats sports tangentially. You can read The Dish here:
http://meadowparty.com/blog/
Anyway, one of the topics with which Mr. Law busies himself is gaming, as in video and board games. I haven't heard of a tenth of the ones he reviews, but it got me thinking: What are the video and board games I like? As if anyone would care, here are my favorites and my relative aptitude for them:
Stratego: I've played this since I was a child. I'm not bad at it. My childhood friend Greg and I used to play it so much that he actually came up with a larger map with slightly different features for two sets of pieces per player. I still have that board. Now if only I had someone with whom to play it.
Joint Operations: Typhoon Rising: It's really the first online FPS (first person shooter) game that I played, and although my skills were nowhere near as good as those teenagers who played it with vastly superior operating systems twenty-four hours a day, I wasn't bad. I enjoyed it more than one can believe. I could have been addicted to it myself had it come out when I was young.
Chess: It's the classic game of strategy. I can understand how many smart people went nuts trying to master it. I'm not bad when I've been playing it for awhile, but I don't have the time for it. I'm not bad for a casual player, but I lack the patience necessary to be a great player. I get fidgety when waiting for the other player's move, and then when it's in the endgame, I rush my moves out of impatience. But I do love the game.
Cribbage: Sure, this is a card game, but it's about the only one I'm decent at, and it is played on a board. I have a sweet board I bought in Granada, Spain, and I'd love to be able to use it.
Uno: The only non-board card game at which I have any proficiency, it's Gar-animaled, which explains its allure to me. I prefer the cutthroat version.
Axis and Allies series: I've played this by myself, not how it's ended to be played. I enjoy games of strategy and war games, and this is a win-win as a result. Now if only I had someone with whom to play.
The Myst Trilogy: I played Myst and fell in love with it. Then I got caught up in JOTR and left this alone. Computers were improved and the game didn't match the pace of the improvements, but I have the boxed set and would love to revisit it someday. It's logic and strategy combined.
Chinese Checkers: I'm not great at it, but I prefer it to the basic checkers game, especially if more than two people are playing.
Trivial Pursuits: About the only version of this I've played is the original version, although I think I'd be quite good at an all-sports version of the game.
Mahjongg Dimensions: My gallows humor says I play it to fend off Alzheimer's, but I just find it enthralling. I'm good enough now I can play it when I'm on the phone.
Sudoku: I got frustrated with this and gave it up for awhile until I read in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo that Lisbeth Sander did them easily. Now I'm back to frustrating myself liberally, shocking myself occasionally and wasting time endlessly. No, it's not a board or a video game, but I do need to write on something hard, so it makes the list.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
http://meadowparty.com/blog/
Anyway, one of the topics with which Mr. Law busies himself is gaming, as in video and board games. I haven't heard of a tenth of the ones he reviews, but it got me thinking: What are the video and board games I like? As if anyone would care, here are my favorites and my relative aptitude for them:
Stratego: I've played this since I was a child. I'm not bad at it. My childhood friend Greg and I used to play it so much that he actually came up with a larger map with slightly different features for two sets of pieces per player. I still have that board. Now if only I had someone with whom to play it.
Joint Operations: Typhoon Rising: It's really the first online FPS (first person shooter) game that I played, and although my skills were nowhere near as good as those teenagers who played it with vastly superior operating systems twenty-four hours a day, I wasn't bad. I enjoyed it more than one can believe. I could have been addicted to it myself had it come out when I was young.
Chess: It's the classic game of strategy. I can understand how many smart people went nuts trying to master it. I'm not bad when I've been playing it for awhile, but I don't have the time for it. I'm not bad for a casual player, but I lack the patience necessary to be a great player. I get fidgety when waiting for the other player's move, and then when it's in the endgame, I rush my moves out of impatience. But I do love the game.
Cribbage: Sure, this is a card game, but it's about the only one I'm decent at, and it is played on a board. I have a sweet board I bought in Granada, Spain, and I'd love to be able to use it.
Uno: The only non-board card game at which I have any proficiency, it's Gar-animaled, which explains its allure to me. I prefer the cutthroat version.
Axis and Allies series: I've played this by myself, not how it's ended to be played. I enjoy games of strategy and war games, and this is a win-win as a result. Now if only I had someone with whom to play.
The Myst Trilogy: I played Myst and fell in love with it. Then I got caught up in JOTR and left this alone. Computers were improved and the game didn't match the pace of the improvements, but I have the boxed set and would love to revisit it someday. It's logic and strategy combined.
Chinese Checkers: I'm not great at it, but I prefer it to the basic checkers game, especially if more than two people are playing.
Trivial Pursuits: About the only version of this I've played is the original version, although I think I'd be quite good at an all-sports version of the game.
Mahjongg Dimensions: My gallows humor says I play it to fend off Alzheimer's, but I just find it enthralling. I'm good enough now I can play it when I'm on the phone.
Sudoku: I got frustrated with this and gave it up for awhile until I read in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo that Lisbeth Sander did them easily. Now I'm back to frustrating myself liberally, shocking myself occasionally and wasting time endlessly. No, it's not a board or a video game, but I do need to write on something hard, so it makes the list.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Cringeworthy
Cringeworthy. I dont't know if I came up with that word or if I heard it somewhere else. Whatever the case, aren't there times when a performer is doing something that isn't remotely funny or good yet because of the celebrity's stature, everyone cheers as if it's the greatest or funniest performance ever? I don't know what happend to booing, except that it's probably not PC to do anymore, but why must we encourage a person to continue with an act or performance that is so wretchedly horrible?
Karen and I have seen some movies that, no matter how good the movie, contain some awkwardly cringeworthy moments. The first time we saw one of these was in the Vince Vaughn vehicle The Dilemma, an uneven movie that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a drama, a comedy or a dramedy. Putting that aside for the moment, there was one scene in the movie that just flamed:
Then there was the equally uneven Wanderlust, with Jennifer Anniston and Paul Rudd. I didn't realize that Paul Rudd was in Anchorman since I'd never seen the movie, but knowing that explains his one scene in front of the mirror:
Unlike Vince Vaughn (and it pains me to say this about a fellow follower of the Indian Head), Rudd has more diversity and texture to his performances. Vaughn is a one-trick pony. He should have stuck with drama; apparently, when the ersatz Dan Devine threw him out of practice in Rudy, he must have thought he took that as a cue to leave drama and try his hand at comedy. His schtick is always the same and it painfully goes on forever. Rudd should know better than this.
The last example pains me to say this, because we loved the movie Bridesmaids. The movie is what The Hangover is for people not as inclined to raunchy humor although, of course, there was some of it in there. It had a sweetness to it that balanced the raunch and the humor was more creative -- most of the time. Not so in this scene that came straight out of Vaughn's playbook:
I think Kristen Wiig is superior to either Vaughn or Rudd as a comedic actor, but she really blew it in this scene. Fortunately, the rest of the movie is superior to either of the other two. That scene where the group tries on dresses after eating at the inferior restaurant is classic.
These are but three examples of what goes on all the time. Those infernal Twilight movies bring people out in droves but they're pure dreck. Comedians who either aren't funny or who have ceased being funny continue to get booked and people encourage them; see, Pablo Francisco. Even the venerable Bill Cosby needs to hang it up. I admire and respect Cosby, but his days as a comedian are over. He should just be the eminence gris of comedians and tell war stories instead of trying to do stand-up. Even Will Farrell doesn't know when to stop sometimes.
It's said that to play comedy is harder than to play drama. For all I know that's true. But these people need someone to be honest with them and tell them when something they're doing isn't working.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Karen and I have seen some movies that, no matter how good the movie, contain some awkwardly cringeworthy moments. The first time we saw one of these was in the Vince Vaughn vehicle The Dilemma, an uneven movie that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a drama, a comedy or a dramedy. Putting that aside for the moment, there was one scene in the movie that just flamed:
Then there was the equally uneven Wanderlust, with Jennifer Anniston and Paul Rudd. I didn't realize that Paul Rudd was in Anchorman since I'd never seen the movie, but knowing that explains his one scene in front of the mirror:
Unlike Vince Vaughn (and it pains me to say this about a fellow follower of the Indian Head), Rudd has more diversity and texture to his performances. Vaughn is a one-trick pony. He should have stuck with drama; apparently, when the ersatz Dan Devine threw him out of practice in Rudy, he must have thought he took that as a cue to leave drama and try his hand at comedy. His schtick is always the same and it painfully goes on forever. Rudd should know better than this.
The last example pains me to say this, because we loved the movie Bridesmaids. The movie is what The Hangover is for people not as inclined to raunchy humor although, of course, there was some of it in there. It had a sweetness to it that balanced the raunch and the humor was more creative -- most of the time. Not so in this scene that came straight out of Vaughn's playbook:
I think Kristen Wiig is superior to either Vaughn or Rudd as a comedic actor, but she really blew it in this scene. Fortunately, the rest of the movie is superior to either of the other two. That scene where the group tries on dresses after eating at the inferior restaurant is classic.
These are but three examples of what goes on all the time. Those infernal Twilight movies bring people out in droves but they're pure dreck. Comedians who either aren't funny or who have ceased being funny continue to get booked and people encourage them; see, Pablo Francisco. Even the venerable Bill Cosby needs to hang it up. I admire and respect Cosby, but his days as a comedian are over. He should just be the eminence gris of comedians and tell war stories instead of trying to do stand-up. Even Will Farrell doesn't know when to stop sometimes.
It's said that to play comedy is harder than to play drama. For all I know that's true. But these people need someone to be honest with them and tell them when something they're doing isn't working.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Odds and ends
There is no question that when it comes to technology, I'm a Luddite. I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but facts is facts. Karen always says that for someone so (allegedly) smart, I sure can be pretty stupid when it comes to technology. Actually, she says goofy, but I know what she really means. And she's right. But just because someone's smart doesn't mean they can understand everything and do it competently. For example, I don't recall reading that Albert Einstein, the father of the theory of relativity, could hit a curveball. I could. I don't think Albert understood the Spanish subjunctive either. I do.
But I digress. I'm not making excuses for my obvious shortcoming. It certainly gets in my way at times. Yesterday, my overly patient assistant Mary was asking me what I wanted for my password for this new, super whizbang office phone to which we're transitioning our phone lines. Before I give my password out -- which will help absolutely no one, which you'll see in a minute -- one has to know that this phone can do basically everything except cook dinner and take out the garbage. Among the other features it provides direct access to my phone of emails that I receive which would be great if I had a smart (Smart?) phone. But I don't. I purposely have a dumb phone because, in my Luddite version of the world, my phone should be for making phone calls and nothing else. I don't have the need or desire to play games on it, read books, take photos or any of the multitudinous other things that smart (Smart?) phones can do. Heck, I can barely hear Karen half the time on the darned thing. I'd settle for good reception.
Anyway, Mary gets done explaining all these nifty things to me that sound very much like blah, blah, blah to me and asks, now what do you want for your password? Without missing a beat I tell her Iwillneverusethisthing, and she laughs. I said, No, I'm serious (I wasn't really, but what the heck), and she laughs again and starts typing it. It tells her that it needs to have a number, so I tell her to put a twelve after it, resulting in the ridiculously unsecurity-conscious password of Iwillneverusethisthing12. I doubt I'll ever use it.
I'm not a Luddite in the true meaning of the word. I don't abhor progress. I even use the computer now and then. But it's a constant struggle for me. Let's examine my record with technology:
Recently I was told that I had a message on my office phone and that to retrieve it, I had to push the button with the blinking light on the phone. I kept pushing the light that was flashing, not noticing the button on the console that also had a tiny light that would have allowed me to retrieve my messages.
The headlight on my car went out, so being the cheap person I am, I bought replacement bulbs and looked up on youtube how to replace the bulbs. I dutifully did everything it told me to do and still couldn't replace the bulb, so I ended up taking it to a body shop where they replaced the headlight for me instead of the high beams I had been unsuccessfully and erroneously trying to replace.
It was only when I had to replace the rear brakelight that I was successful using a socket wrench. I had never before used a socket wrench successfully.
I bought a chainsaw and had to take it back to Home Depot to have them instruct me on how to get it started.
When I replaced the toilet a few months ago, I was told it would take me at most four hours. It took me three days.
I'm expert in hitting three or four keys at once on my keyboard and making my document disappear, reformat or replace text with different fonts or old text I'd previously deleted. When I ask a techy to help me figure out what I'd done, he can't.
When I go to the bodyshop or the parts store and they ask me what kind of motor I have I'm clueless. You'd think I'd have memorized it by now.
I keep my Ipod on shuffle. Somehow, it stopped shuffling music. Then I called the Apple store to ask them about something and casually mentioned that the thing had stopped shuffling songs even though I'd set it on shuffle on my Itunes. The guy patiently told me I had to also set it to shuffle on my Ipod. (In my defense, the wonks that run Apple seem to think that their products are so intuitive that the manual they included in the box that contained my Ipod was written in Osmotic, a language I don't understand).
I routinely can't conference telephone calls. Don't even ask me why.
I could go on forever. This is but a taste of my ineptitude with technology. Our grandfather took apart and rebuilt a Model T when he was a teenager. I'm sure my grandfather is spinning in his grave so fast that he's probably near China right now. I can't help it. This stuff just isn't intuitive to me.
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While I've been typing this and waiting for the person on craigslist to tell me whether the other person has come to take the chairs I so desperately need for my office, I trolled the internet (OK, nbcnews.com and espn.com) and found these two gems.
I'm no fan of Gwyneth Paltrow, despite the fact that she speaks Spanish with a Castilian accent. I find her pretentious beyond belief. You can only imagine the howls this site provided me:
http://jezebel.com/5971671/do-make-be-barf-the-year-in-goop
Absolutely hilarious.
The other is about the coach of the Florida Gulf Coast Eagles whose team yesterday achieved an improbable upset of Georgetown in the NCAA tournament. Since I'd never heard of the guy I checked it out. Whoever did this page did a great job with it:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjkiebus/this-is-what-happens-when-you-practice-your-free-throws
Then I followed the links at the bottom of that page and came up with this:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/jpmoore/every-march-madness-school-ranked-by-their-most-embarrassing
Even Karen might find that one amusing if she takes the time to scroll through it. The payoff should make her smile.
Finally, there are actually some funny jokes in this one about Harvard's upset win over New Mexico. But beware: It involves Sports Crappola:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ktlincoln/the-31-best-jokes-about-harvards-march-madness-win
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But I digress. I'm not making excuses for my obvious shortcoming. It certainly gets in my way at times. Yesterday, my overly patient assistant Mary was asking me what I wanted for my password for this new, super whizbang office phone to which we're transitioning our phone lines. Before I give my password out -- which will help absolutely no one, which you'll see in a minute -- one has to know that this phone can do basically everything except cook dinner and take out the garbage. Among the other features it provides direct access to my phone of emails that I receive which would be great if I had a smart (Smart?) phone. But I don't. I purposely have a dumb phone because, in my Luddite version of the world, my phone should be for making phone calls and nothing else. I don't have the need or desire to play games on it, read books, take photos or any of the multitudinous other things that smart (Smart?) phones can do. Heck, I can barely hear Karen half the time on the darned thing. I'd settle for good reception.
Anyway, Mary gets done explaining all these nifty things to me that sound very much like blah, blah, blah to me and asks, now what do you want for your password? Without missing a beat I tell her Iwillneverusethisthing, and she laughs. I said, No, I'm serious (I wasn't really, but what the heck), and she laughs again and starts typing it. It tells her that it needs to have a number, so I tell her to put a twelve after it, resulting in the ridiculously unsecurity-conscious password of Iwillneverusethisthing12. I doubt I'll ever use it.
I'm not a Luddite in the true meaning of the word. I don't abhor progress. I even use the computer now and then. But it's a constant struggle for me. Let's examine my record with technology:
Recently I was told that I had a message on my office phone and that to retrieve it, I had to push the button with the blinking light on the phone. I kept pushing the light that was flashing, not noticing the button on the console that also had a tiny light that would have allowed me to retrieve my messages.
The headlight on my car went out, so being the cheap person I am, I bought replacement bulbs and looked up on youtube how to replace the bulbs. I dutifully did everything it told me to do and still couldn't replace the bulb, so I ended up taking it to a body shop where they replaced the headlight for me instead of the high beams I had been unsuccessfully and erroneously trying to replace.
It was only when I had to replace the rear brakelight that I was successful using a socket wrench. I had never before used a socket wrench successfully.
I bought a chainsaw and had to take it back to Home Depot to have them instruct me on how to get it started.
When I replaced the toilet a few months ago, I was told it would take me at most four hours. It took me three days.
I'm expert in hitting three or four keys at once on my keyboard and making my document disappear, reformat or replace text with different fonts or old text I'd previously deleted. When I ask a techy to help me figure out what I'd done, he can't.
When I go to the bodyshop or the parts store and they ask me what kind of motor I have I'm clueless. You'd think I'd have memorized it by now.
I keep my Ipod on shuffle. Somehow, it stopped shuffling music. Then I called the Apple store to ask them about something and casually mentioned that the thing had stopped shuffling songs even though I'd set it on shuffle on my Itunes. The guy patiently told me I had to also set it to shuffle on my Ipod. (In my defense, the wonks that run Apple seem to think that their products are so intuitive that the manual they included in the box that contained my Ipod was written in Osmotic, a language I don't understand).
I routinely can't conference telephone calls. Don't even ask me why.
I could go on forever. This is but a taste of my ineptitude with technology. Our grandfather took apart and rebuilt a Model T when he was a teenager. I'm sure my grandfather is spinning in his grave so fast that he's probably near China right now. I can't help it. This stuff just isn't intuitive to me.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
While I've been typing this and waiting for the person on craigslist to tell me whether the other person has come to take the chairs I so desperately need for my office, I trolled the internet (OK, nbcnews.com and espn.com) and found these two gems.
I'm no fan of Gwyneth Paltrow, despite the fact that she speaks Spanish with a Castilian accent. I find her pretentious beyond belief. You can only imagine the howls this site provided me:
http://jezebel.com/5971671/do-make-be-barf-the-year-in-goop
Absolutely hilarious.
The other is about the coach of the Florida Gulf Coast Eagles whose team yesterday achieved an improbable upset of Georgetown in the NCAA tournament. Since I'd never heard of the guy I checked it out. Whoever did this page did a great job with it:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjkiebus/this-is-what-happens-when-you-practice-your-free-throws
Then I followed the links at the bottom of that page and came up with this:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/jpmoore/every-march-madness-school-ranked-by-their-most-embarrassing
Even Karen might find that one amusing if she takes the time to scroll through it. The payoff should make her smile.
Finally, there are actually some funny jokes in this one about Harvard's upset win over New Mexico. But beware: It involves Sports Crappola:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/ktlincoln/the-31-best-jokes-about-harvards-march-madness-win
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, March 22, 2013
Great Big Sea concert
Well, that was fun. In a twenty-four hour period I spent ten hours in the car, the last two of them getting sick. But it was all for a worthwhile cause.
My girl is, for various and several reasons, very fond of music. She has an eclectic taste, from Saw Doctors to bluegrass to 80's music to Irish music. She's taught me more about music than I'd ever known, which isn't all that hard, frankly, but I still marvel at her ability to have every song lyric to every song ever recorded since 1950 memorized and harmonized. She's amazing.
One of her favorite groups, in fact, is Great Big Sea. A group of just guys from Newfoundland, they specialize in reviving and putting a modern spin on Irish shanties. Given my predilection for Irish music, this immediately appealed to me. Karen loves 'em.
So months ago, prior to my move eastward, she bought tickets to see them on a Wednesday night. Not wanting to disappoint her or eat the money for the tickets, I trekked west to join her for the night. Great Big Sea didn't disappoint.
While we were waiting the hour and a half prior to the show starting -- more on that anon -- Karen let me know about the secret she'd been hinting at: The group has a song called Good People (which I'd never heard before) and in connection with the song had sent selected members an email inviting them to send in photos that they'd use in the show. Well, of course, you just knew that Karen not only would send one of us in but that it would get chosen to be in the show. How she was able to fold or bend the digital image so that it'd be chosen escapes me, but she did it. So when the song began in the second set, we anxiously waited for it to pop up -- she eager with anticipation, me dreading to see my face plastered on a 10'x10' screen in front of a few hundred of my closest strangers. When it did appear toward the end of the song -- which I knew it would because I'm wearing a weird, tassled toreador hat and effecting my goofiest photograph smile -- Karen whooped it up in triumph while I tried to find a hole in which to hide. That was more difficult because by the time it appeared, Karen had dutifully informed the rest of the Great Big Sea cult in our immediate vicinity of her impending triumph, so she received hearty congratulations from them.
What I enjoyed the most about the evening, however, was watching my girl dance to the Canadians' music. She jumped around and clapped like she was a pubescent teen at a Justin Bieber concert, only she wasn't crying or reaching out to the band so they could touch her. Watching her enjoy herself was worth more than the price of admission for me and I will always cherish the sight of her singing and bopping around like a teenager. I even laughed when she called out for Bob the musician, who vaguely resembles Richard Attenborough:
(You decide; I don't say this out of spite, but to me he does resemble him, especially from afar and in the body; both are, shall we say, portly. Karen says, though, that Bob has really nice skin. How she knows this exactly is beyond me. All I know is that everytime I try to type Bob's name I type Bog...I wonder if that's a Freudian slip).
The only thing that was less than stellar about the evening was the venue. Although I swore I'd never return to the House of Blues in Chicago, I did because it's the only venue Great Big Sea uses when they're in town. Yes, it has some cachet because of the whole Blue Brothers connection and because countless cool acts have played there. None of that matters. What matters are seats, realistic starting times, no bait and switch when it comes to who's playing and when they're starting. We arrived at 6.30p for doors that were to open at 7.00p and were pleasantly surprised when they opened at 6.55p due to the cold, only to find out that the show didn't start until 8.30p. And we had no seats, because we refused to spend $150 on food prior to the show. At least Bill and Kevin were kind enough to get a stool for Karen to use since she recently had surgery, and we ended up sharing that. This was infintely better than the Plain White T's experience we had and an upgrade over the first Great Big Sea concert we attended there. If you're headed to the House of Blues in Chicago, beware. If I averaged our three visits on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 3.5, and only because this time we were treated respectfully and they gave Karen a chair.
Be that all as it may, if you ever get the chance, check out Great Big Sea. They're a lot of fun, the music's great and it's great value for the money.
And if your girl likes them, even better.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My girl is, for various and several reasons, very fond of music. She has an eclectic taste, from Saw Doctors to bluegrass to 80's music to Irish music. She's taught me more about music than I'd ever known, which isn't all that hard, frankly, but I still marvel at her ability to have every song lyric to every song ever recorded since 1950 memorized and harmonized. She's amazing.
One of her favorite groups, in fact, is Great Big Sea. A group of just guys from Newfoundland, they specialize in reviving and putting a modern spin on Irish shanties. Given my predilection for Irish music, this immediately appealed to me. Karen loves 'em.
So months ago, prior to my move eastward, she bought tickets to see them on a Wednesday night. Not wanting to disappoint her or eat the money for the tickets, I trekked west to join her for the night. Great Big Sea didn't disappoint.
While we were waiting the hour and a half prior to the show starting -- more on that anon -- Karen let me know about the secret she'd been hinting at: The group has a song called Good People (which I'd never heard before) and in connection with the song had sent selected members an email inviting them to send in photos that they'd use in the show. Well, of course, you just knew that Karen not only would send one of us in but that it would get chosen to be in the show. How she was able to fold or bend the digital image so that it'd be chosen escapes me, but she did it. So when the song began in the second set, we anxiously waited for it to pop up -- she eager with anticipation, me dreading to see my face plastered on a 10'x10' screen in front of a few hundred of my closest strangers. When it did appear toward the end of the song -- which I knew it would because I'm wearing a weird, tassled toreador hat and effecting my goofiest photograph smile -- Karen whooped it up in triumph while I tried to find a hole in which to hide. That was more difficult because by the time it appeared, Karen had dutifully informed the rest of the Great Big Sea cult in our immediate vicinity of her impending triumph, so she received hearty congratulations from them.
What I enjoyed the most about the evening, however, was watching my girl dance to the Canadians' music. She jumped around and clapped like she was a pubescent teen at a Justin Bieber concert, only she wasn't crying or reaching out to the band so they could touch her. Watching her enjoy herself was worth more than the price of admission for me and I will always cherish the sight of her singing and bopping around like a teenager. I even laughed when she called out for Bob the musician, who vaguely resembles Richard Attenborough:
(You decide; I don't say this out of spite, but to me he does resemble him, especially from afar and in the body; both are, shall we say, portly. Karen says, though, that Bob has really nice skin. How she knows this exactly is beyond me. All I know is that everytime I try to type Bob's name I type Bog...I wonder if that's a Freudian slip).
The only thing that was less than stellar about the evening was the venue. Although I swore I'd never return to the House of Blues in Chicago, I did because it's the only venue Great Big Sea uses when they're in town. Yes, it has some cachet because of the whole Blue Brothers connection and because countless cool acts have played there. None of that matters. What matters are seats, realistic starting times, no bait and switch when it comes to who's playing and when they're starting. We arrived at 6.30p for doors that were to open at 7.00p and were pleasantly surprised when they opened at 6.55p due to the cold, only to find out that the show didn't start until 8.30p. And we had no seats, because we refused to spend $150 on food prior to the show. At least Bill and Kevin were kind enough to get a stool for Karen to use since she recently had surgery, and we ended up sharing that. This was infintely better than the Plain White T's experience we had and an upgrade over the first Great Big Sea concert we attended there. If you're headed to the House of Blues in Chicago, beware. If I averaged our three visits on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 3.5, and only because this time we were treated respectfully and they gave Karen a chair.
Be that all as it may, if you ever get the chance, check out Great Big Sea. They're a lot of fun, the music's great and it's great value for the money.
And if your girl likes them, even better.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Gun control
We're a few months removed from the tragedy at Sandy Hook, and the politicians still can't seem to exert some testicular fortitude and do the right thing. Lest anyone think I'm referring to banning semi-automatic weapons, allow me to disabuse you of that notion right away.
Statistics, of course, can be made to say whatever a person wants them to say. But statistics prove that the overwhelming majority of deaths by firearm are caused by pistols. The old saw that guns don't kill people, people kill people, is true, especially when you consider that things like hammers, knives, bottles, cars, gas, poisons, pillows and other inanimate objects are used to do away with people, but all of them must be used by a human in order to take that life. No one is advocating that Congress bans those items.
The problem with semi-automatic weapons is fear. Those rifles make a lot of noise and can do a lot of damage in a very short while. For that matter, so can fertilizer in the wrong hands. Again, there's no ban on fertilizer being argued. The one constant in all of these discussions is the human element and, unfortunately, the sometimes warped and damaged nature of that human.
From Columbine to Virginia Tech to Aurora to Sandy Hook, the one constant that people want to overlook has been mental health. Lip service is paid to it as the focus remains on the nature of the weapon. When it's mentioned that criminals also get these weapons in violation of the regulations, mention is made again about making the penalties for crimes committed with guns stiffer, but the talk quickly circles back to the weapons themselves. The weapons must be punished.
This is an outgrowth of the PC mentality that is all the rage in this country. Excuses are made for bad behavior. Rehabilitation is the watchword. Take away the instrument and the person, with the state's help at taxpayer cost, will come out of his incarceration (as if using that term gussies up the fact that the person's in jail) a functioning member of society. It happens, but the sad fact is that recidivism is a word little used and even less understood. The PC sect believes with the belief of a soul-saving revivalist preacher that everyone can be turned away from evil. That's patently untrue, as evidenced by such creatures as Hitler, Stalin, Gacy, Speck and Bundy.
What's true for evil is also true for mental illness. Again, people don't want to stigmatize these people. Just use the word retarded and see what kind of a reaction you get. My point isn't that we stigmatize or label them, just prevent them from getting weapons. And there's only one way to do that.
Privacy Act laws are designed to keep citizens from being discriminated against for a variety of reasons: Employment, insurance, medical assistance, etc. Given the connection between the shooters in virtually every mass killing over the last ten years, it's an easy conclusion to make that people with ascertainable mental illnesses should not have access to guns. Part of the problem is that state and federal agencies are not sharing information on mentally ill people such that there are loopholes in background checks. Allegedly, something is being done about this. But wait until the ACLU puts its foot down about the violation of these people's rights.
The First Amendment has time, place and manner restrictions such that free speech isn't truly unfettered. There are reasonable controls placed on it that still allow citizens the enjoyment of unabridged speech with very narrow limitations. The same could be done with health records to prevent mentally ill people to gain access to guns. That would reduce the number of Sandy Hook incidents while at the same time permitting law abiding gunowners in full possession of their mental faculties enjoyment of their weapons. Some of them are sportsmen, some hunters, but many have the rifles for protection. When confronted with a drugged up intruder in possession of a knife or a semi-automatic of his own, having a pea-shooter is of little benefit. You don't bring a knife to a gunfight, and you don't bring a revolver to a shootout against an AK47.
Adam Lanza was deranged. His mother purportedly tried to get him committed. We may never know how he was able to gain access to her guns, but she made a horrible mistake allowing him that access, and she paid for it with her life. Unfortunately, so did a bunch of other innocent souls.
Even assuming background checks are tightened up and criminals receive stiffer penalties for using guns in the commission of crimes, there will still be the odd incident in which a seemingly normal gunowner becomes unhinged and shoots up an office or house. It's going to happen regardless. We can no more control that than we can control a person driving a car and having a heart attack. But we can reduce the chances for tragedy that are within our control, and background checks sharing information about mental health is a start. Pulling guns from law abiding gunowners is, as one wag put it, like not letting sober drivers buy a car.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Statistics, of course, can be made to say whatever a person wants them to say. But statistics prove that the overwhelming majority of deaths by firearm are caused by pistols. The old saw that guns don't kill people, people kill people, is true, especially when you consider that things like hammers, knives, bottles, cars, gas, poisons, pillows and other inanimate objects are used to do away with people, but all of them must be used by a human in order to take that life. No one is advocating that Congress bans those items.
The problem with semi-automatic weapons is fear. Those rifles make a lot of noise and can do a lot of damage in a very short while. For that matter, so can fertilizer in the wrong hands. Again, there's no ban on fertilizer being argued. The one constant in all of these discussions is the human element and, unfortunately, the sometimes warped and damaged nature of that human.
From Columbine to Virginia Tech to Aurora to Sandy Hook, the one constant that people want to overlook has been mental health. Lip service is paid to it as the focus remains on the nature of the weapon. When it's mentioned that criminals also get these weapons in violation of the regulations, mention is made again about making the penalties for crimes committed with guns stiffer, but the talk quickly circles back to the weapons themselves. The weapons must be punished.
This is an outgrowth of the PC mentality that is all the rage in this country. Excuses are made for bad behavior. Rehabilitation is the watchword. Take away the instrument and the person, with the state's help at taxpayer cost, will come out of his incarceration (as if using that term gussies up the fact that the person's in jail) a functioning member of society. It happens, but the sad fact is that recidivism is a word little used and even less understood. The PC sect believes with the belief of a soul-saving revivalist preacher that everyone can be turned away from evil. That's patently untrue, as evidenced by such creatures as Hitler, Stalin, Gacy, Speck and Bundy.
What's true for evil is also true for mental illness. Again, people don't want to stigmatize these people. Just use the word retarded and see what kind of a reaction you get. My point isn't that we stigmatize or label them, just prevent them from getting weapons. And there's only one way to do that.
Privacy Act laws are designed to keep citizens from being discriminated against for a variety of reasons: Employment, insurance, medical assistance, etc. Given the connection between the shooters in virtually every mass killing over the last ten years, it's an easy conclusion to make that people with ascertainable mental illnesses should not have access to guns. Part of the problem is that state and federal agencies are not sharing information on mentally ill people such that there are loopholes in background checks. Allegedly, something is being done about this. But wait until the ACLU puts its foot down about the violation of these people's rights.
The First Amendment has time, place and manner restrictions such that free speech isn't truly unfettered. There are reasonable controls placed on it that still allow citizens the enjoyment of unabridged speech with very narrow limitations. The same could be done with health records to prevent mentally ill people to gain access to guns. That would reduce the number of Sandy Hook incidents while at the same time permitting law abiding gunowners in full possession of their mental faculties enjoyment of their weapons. Some of them are sportsmen, some hunters, but many have the rifles for protection. When confronted with a drugged up intruder in possession of a knife or a semi-automatic of his own, having a pea-shooter is of little benefit. You don't bring a knife to a gunfight, and you don't bring a revolver to a shootout against an AK47.
Adam Lanza was deranged. His mother purportedly tried to get him committed. We may never know how he was able to gain access to her guns, but she made a horrible mistake allowing him that access, and she paid for it with her life. Unfortunately, so did a bunch of other innocent souls.
Even assuming background checks are tightened up and criminals receive stiffer penalties for using guns in the commission of crimes, there will still be the odd incident in which a seemingly normal gunowner becomes unhinged and shoots up an office or house. It's going to happen regardless. We can no more control that than we can control a person driving a car and having a heart attack. But we can reduce the chances for tragedy that are within our control, and background checks sharing information about mental health is a start. Pulling guns from law abiding gunowners is, as one wag put it, like not letting sober drivers buy a car.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
First Amendment and celebrities
The First Amendment is one of the hallmarks of the American way of life. Other countries have tried to imitate it, but they have restrictions on speech that contrast their laws with our First Amendment and leave them short of our unabridged right to free speech. Forget time, place and manner restrictions; Oliver Wendell Holmes pretty much took care of that a century ago.
To paraphrase what Voltaire said, I may hate what you say but I'll defend to the death your right to say it. Political speech is next to religious debate for the amount of heat it generates. I enjoy the exchange of ideas and the attempt to convert someone to my way of thinking, which rarely happens. As long as the debate is mature, I have no problem with that.
I do, however, have a problem with celebrities exercising their right to free speech, especially when it involves politics. Of course, I don't think they should be silenced. They have as much right to speak their minds and embrace positions that oppose mine just as much as a private citizen would. But there is a difference.
Celebrities have unlimited access to media. Private citizens do not. Joe Sixpack down the block isn't going to get on television shows once, much less with the regularity of Alec Baldwin. Nor will he host a show like Bill Maher. This gives the celebrity almost unfettered access to media outlets that he or she can use to trumpet his or her particular political viewpoint. It also gives their candidates added benefits in the form of celebrity endorsements for which they don't have to spend money.
To be sure, the overwhelming majority of these celebrities are liberal. They support the Democratic Party as regularly as they breathe. The rare conservative celebrity who dares to voice his or her opinion is shunned, oftentimes shut out from working on projects because of his political viewpoint.
This is not a figment of my imagination. There have been rare but solid reports that reflect the liberal bias in the media with accompanying stories of people not hired because of their conservative views. To suggest this is McCarthyism runs the risk of tripping over a corollary to Godwin's Law, but it's true: Conservatives have to play ball or risk being blacklisted by the mainstream media and Hollywood.
Trying to combat this is nearly impossible. Congress and both the MSM and Hollywood are in such an incestuous relationship that no legislation seeking to curb this would ever stand a chance. Even if it did, the First Amendment would prohibit it. If things were more balanced, I probably wouldn't mind so much. But when such strident viewpoints are married to powerful media figures like David Letterman, Bill Maher, Jaime Foxx, Brian Williams, Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Alec Baldwin and their ilk, supporting a conservative counterpoint is well nigh impossible.
What's more, younger people are cowed by these figures, whether through peer pressure to join the cool set or by the presence of the celebrity. When the First Lady of the United States is chosen to announce the award for the Best Picture Oscar, how is someone supposed to divorce the obvious connection between celebrity and the liberal agenda. George Bush's wife wasn't invited to do this. For that matter, one of their very own, Ronald Reagan, didn't have his wife do this. Perhaps time will tell. But I'm skeptical.
Moreover, what makes these celebrities so much smarter than the average citizen? Are they imbued with greater knowledge? Have they studied more? Do they take time away from their press junkets to really investigate what's going on at a grass roots level? To be fair, there are some that do. But many of them simply choose a position and make it their own, sanctifying it with their celebrity and thereby putting their imprimatur on it for the public to see. For many people, a celebrity's stamp of approval means more than their own thought. If it's good enough for Ms. Wonderful to support, then so should I, goes the reasoning. And this doesn't go unnoticed by the MSM and celebrities.
I like to think I'm somewhat intelligent. I know I'm well-read. I can think for myself. The last thing I need is come nitwit celebrity trying to convince me that he or she has all the answers, or that the person he supports does. No one does, conservative or liberal. But celebrities believe that they and their minions are the only ones who have the answers and are hell-bent on foisting them on the masses, no matter how uninformed they may be. They are verging on my one-word description of conservatives who, in my opinion, are at their worst when they're arrogant. Liberals, heretofore, are not only hypocritical but now also arrogant.
I don't like being told what to do by anyone, conservative or liberal. But the way liberal celebrities lecture people and snidely criticize anyone with a conservative bent, I'm less likely to accept them pleasantly.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
To paraphrase what Voltaire said, I may hate what you say but I'll defend to the death your right to say it. Political speech is next to religious debate for the amount of heat it generates. I enjoy the exchange of ideas and the attempt to convert someone to my way of thinking, which rarely happens. As long as the debate is mature, I have no problem with that.
I do, however, have a problem with celebrities exercising their right to free speech, especially when it involves politics. Of course, I don't think they should be silenced. They have as much right to speak their minds and embrace positions that oppose mine just as much as a private citizen would. But there is a difference.
Celebrities have unlimited access to media. Private citizens do not. Joe Sixpack down the block isn't going to get on television shows once, much less with the regularity of Alec Baldwin. Nor will he host a show like Bill Maher. This gives the celebrity almost unfettered access to media outlets that he or she can use to trumpet his or her particular political viewpoint. It also gives their candidates added benefits in the form of celebrity endorsements for which they don't have to spend money.
To be sure, the overwhelming majority of these celebrities are liberal. They support the Democratic Party as regularly as they breathe. The rare conservative celebrity who dares to voice his or her opinion is shunned, oftentimes shut out from working on projects because of his political viewpoint.
This is not a figment of my imagination. There have been rare but solid reports that reflect the liberal bias in the media with accompanying stories of people not hired because of their conservative views. To suggest this is McCarthyism runs the risk of tripping over a corollary to Godwin's Law, but it's true: Conservatives have to play ball or risk being blacklisted by the mainstream media and Hollywood.
Trying to combat this is nearly impossible. Congress and both the MSM and Hollywood are in such an incestuous relationship that no legislation seeking to curb this would ever stand a chance. Even if it did, the First Amendment would prohibit it. If things were more balanced, I probably wouldn't mind so much. But when such strident viewpoints are married to powerful media figures like David Letterman, Bill Maher, Jaime Foxx, Brian Williams, Madonna, Bruce Springsteen, Alec Baldwin and their ilk, supporting a conservative counterpoint is well nigh impossible.
What's more, younger people are cowed by these figures, whether through peer pressure to join the cool set or by the presence of the celebrity. When the First Lady of the United States is chosen to announce the award for the Best Picture Oscar, how is someone supposed to divorce the obvious connection between celebrity and the liberal agenda. George Bush's wife wasn't invited to do this. For that matter, one of their very own, Ronald Reagan, didn't have his wife do this. Perhaps time will tell. But I'm skeptical.
Moreover, what makes these celebrities so much smarter than the average citizen? Are they imbued with greater knowledge? Have they studied more? Do they take time away from their press junkets to really investigate what's going on at a grass roots level? To be fair, there are some that do. But many of them simply choose a position and make it their own, sanctifying it with their celebrity and thereby putting their imprimatur on it for the public to see. For many people, a celebrity's stamp of approval means more than their own thought. If it's good enough for Ms. Wonderful to support, then so should I, goes the reasoning. And this doesn't go unnoticed by the MSM and celebrities.
I like to think I'm somewhat intelligent. I know I'm well-read. I can think for myself. The last thing I need is come nitwit celebrity trying to convince me that he or she has all the answers, or that the person he supports does. No one does, conservative or liberal. But celebrities believe that they and their minions are the only ones who have the answers and are hell-bent on foisting them on the masses, no matter how uninformed they may be. They are verging on my one-word description of conservatives who, in my opinion, are at their worst when they're arrogant. Liberals, heretofore, are not only hypocritical but now also arrogant.
I don't like being told what to do by anyone, conservative or liberal. But the way liberal celebrities lecture people and snidely criticize anyone with a conservative bent, I'm less likely to accept them pleasantly.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, March 17, 2013
St. Patrick's Day and the NCAA Tournament
Today's a day full of notable events. It's St. Patrick's Day, of course. It's celebrated here in a fashion not entirely to my liking, but people all over the world are Irish for the day. In the States, it's Selection Sunday, the start of the most compelling sporting event on the globe. I don't care what anyone says about fútbol, March Madness is by far the most compelling competition there is, and even moreso the first weekend. Today the NCAA chooses the sixty-eight teams that will comprise the tournament. But today is notable for another reason that is altogether bittersweet.
Karen came in last Thursday for her grandson's birthday and for our firm's Open House. She was luminous in her beauty and the best ambassador anyone could want for any endeavor. It was a tiresome weekend, with lots of trips and lots of work, but that we shared it allowed us to get beyond the lack of sleep and the cold weather and the less than wholesome food to which we were subjected. She got to spend time with her grandbabies, and that means more to her than just about anything in this world. That made my heart smile.
She got to meet my coworkers, from the ornery and snarky to the charming and pleasant, and she was a perfect queen to each one of them. Karen is the kind of person who can fit into any situation, no matter how diverse and disparate the crowd. To a person they loved her, and with good reason.
But today my girl returns to our home to handle the household without my help. She'll take care of our dogs, pay the bills, go to work then come home exhausted...and still do it all with nary a complaint. Better yet, she'll still be more beautiful than any ten women doing the same things.
I love her with all my heart. I'll miss her even more. But the good news is that I get to return the favor this Wednesday, when I slog home to attend a concert for which she purchased tickets long ago. It's one of her favorite bands, and although we'll have to stand for hours listening to loud music in a confined space surrounded by a few hundred of our closest strangers in various stages of inebriation, I know she'll love every minute of it. And I've come to love the group to which she's introduced me, so I'll enjoy the show as well. More than anything, however, I'll enjoy watching my girl enjoy herself with abandon. Then I'll get to return home with her and sleep in our bed, snuggled up against her, willing away thoughts that with the morning I'll have to return to my monk's existence in another state.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Karen came in last Thursday for her grandson's birthday and for our firm's Open House. She was luminous in her beauty and the best ambassador anyone could want for any endeavor. It was a tiresome weekend, with lots of trips and lots of work, but that we shared it allowed us to get beyond the lack of sleep and the cold weather and the less than wholesome food to which we were subjected. She got to spend time with her grandbabies, and that means more to her than just about anything in this world. That made my heart smile.
She got to meet my coworkers, from the ornery and snarky to the charming and pleasant, and she was a perfect queen to each one of them. Karen is the kind of person who can fit into any situation, no matter how diverse and disparate the crowd. To a person they loved her, and with good reason.
But today my girl returns to our home to handle the household without my help. She'll take care of our dogs, pay the bills, go to work then come home exhausted...and still do it all with nary a complaint. Better yet, she'll still be more beautiful than any ten women doing the same things.
I love her with all my heart. I'll miss her even more. But the good news is that I get to return the favor this Wednesday, when I slog home to attend a concert for which she purchased tickets long ago. It's one of her favorite bands, and although we'll have to stand for hours listening to loud music in a confined space surrounded by a few hundred of our closest strangers in various stages of inebriation, I know she'll love every minute of it. And I've come to love the group to which she's introduced me, so I'll enjoy the show as well. More than anything, however, I'll enjoy watching my girl enjoy herself with abandon. Then I'll get to return home with her and sleep in our bed, snuggled up against her, willing away thoughts that with the morning I'll have to return to my monk's existence in another state.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, March 11, 2013
Small town life
Recently I moved from a suburb of a large metropolitan community to a relatively small town. Karen was worried that I might have trouble adjusting. She shouldn't have worried.
My present and future hometown is quaint. There's no other way to say it. It isn't surrounded by strip malls, although there is an outlet mall down the road and a Costco in the town on the other side of it. Its main street isn't much until night, when it comes alive. The neighborhoods are a mix of the old and the new. But what makes this town so special is its people.
I'm from a much faster-paced lifestyle where people, if they take the time to be nice, often forget to do so. Here, it's a rule of thumb that niceness is to be expected. Sure, you might find a diffident teen here or there, and perhaps there's an angry cuss of an adult mixed in for flavor, but people here are nice on a par with Ireland. Heck, even the auto repairman to whom I'm bringing my car couldn't be nicer.
The closest thing to which I can liken is is a fictional town, Grady. That was the setting for the movie Doc Hollywood, one of my favorite movies despite Michael J. Fox. Grady has the mix of the physical beauty with the niceness of its people with just the right amount of quirkiness thrown in for equal measure. Karen and I were in Florida and I would have liked to see the actual town in which the movie was filmed, Miconapy, Florida, but it wasn't to be. Here are some photos of Miconapy that I took off the internet:
If you take out the palm trees and imagine snow, you'd have my new hometown.
The pace of life here is nicer, slower, more amenable to...well, living. Sure, it's a change. The local TV ads crack me up. That St. Baldrick's Day is the lead story on the news when six teenagers died in a horrible crash elsewhere surprises me. There's almost no mention of national news. But that's OK. Sometimes, less is more.
Did I mention this is Karen's hometown? That also explains why I love it so.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My present and future hometown is quaint. There's no other way to say it. It isn't surrounded by strip malls, although there is an outlet mall down the road and a Costco in the town on the other side of it. Its main street isn't much until night, when it comes alive. The neighborhoods are a mix of the old and the new. But what makes this town so special is its people.
I'm from a much faster-paced lifestyle where people, if they take the time to be nice, often forget to do so. Here, it's a rule of thumb that niceness is to be expected. Sure, you might find a diffident teen here or there, and perhaps there's an angry cuss of an adult mixed in for flavor, but people here are nice on a par with Ireland. Heck, even the auto repairman to whom I'm bringing my car couldn't be nicer.
The closest thing to which I can liken is is a fictional town, Grady. That was the setting for the movie Doc Hollywood, one of my favorite movies despite Michael J. Fox. Grady has the mix of the physical beauty with the niceness of its people with just the right amount of quirkiness thrown in for equal measure. Karen and I were in Florida and I would have liked to see the actual town in which the movie was filmed, Miconapy, Florida, but it wasn't to be. Here are some photos of Miconapy that I took off the internet:
If you take out the palm trees and imagine snow, you'd have my new hometown.
The pace of life here is nicer, slower, more amenable to...well, living. Sure, it's a change. The local TV ads crack me up. That St. Baldrick's Day is the lead story on the news when six teenagers died in a horrible crash elsewhere surprises me. There's almost no mention of national news. But that's OK. Sometimes, less is more.
Did I mention this is Karen's hometown? That also explains why I love it so.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, March 10, 2013
What ifs...
What ifs are typically viewed one of two ways: Either they're not worth the time or people stress about them too much. I'm not sure in which camp I fit, but I find one aspect of them intriguing.
Movies have been attempted to deal with the issue of What Ifs. They don't tend to work because of the nature of the medium. But writing about them is a more sensible approach, methinks, because the permutations can be drawn out and reviewed more readily.
Everyday, people make choices as to what to do, when to do something, how to do it and what not. What fascinates me is to consider possibilities, not known options. Sure, had I gone out with that member of the homecoming court in high school, things might have been different. But I'm referring to things like this:
What if I'd gotten on that train instead of the one that left a few minutes later? What if I hadn't transferred schools? What if I'd I'd attended a different school for my last degree?
There are unknowables in all What If situations. But I'm not so focused on the measurable ones (girlfriends, jobs, etc.), but the day-to-day, things that people don't have to put much effort into considering.
For example: Had I turned at this corner in the one a block down, might I have met a person who could have changed my life? Would my life have ended instead? What if I had gotten into a car with so-and-so instead of my buddies? Would my life have turned out differently because of s subtle and unmonumental decision?
Life depends on these little choices as much as on the titanic ones. We've all heard about the person who was late to boarding the airplane that went down, or the person who left just before the bank robbery began that ended with deaths. Those moments cause everyone to pause and consider the choices they make. But momentous events can come from smaller choices as well.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Movies have been attempted to deal with the issue of What Ifs. They don't tend to work because of the nature of the medium. But writing about them is a more sensible approach, methinks, because the permutations can be drawn out and reviewed more readily.
Everyday, people make choices as to what to do, when to do something, how to do it and what not. What fascinates me is to consider possibilities, not known options. Sure, had I gone out with that member of the homecoming court in high school, things might have been different. But I'm referring to things like this:
What if I'd gotten on that train instead of the one that left a few minutes later? What if I hadn't transferred schools? What if I'd I'd attended a different school for my last degree?
There are unknowables in all What If situations. But I'm not so focused on the measurable ones (girlfriends, jobs, etc.), but the day-to-day, things that people don't have to put much effort into considering.
For example: Had I turned at this corner in the one a block down, might I have met a person who could have changed my life? Would my life have ended instead? What if I had gotten into a car with so-and-so instead of my buddies? Would my life have turned out differently because of s subtle and unmonumental decision?
Life depends on these little choices as much as on the titanic ones. We've all heard about the person who was late to boarding the airplane that went down, or the person who left just before the bank robbery began that ended with deaths. Those moments cause everyone to pause and consider the choices they make. But momentous events can come from smaller choices as well.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Saturday, March 9, 2013
To-do list
I'm getting my new office together this weekend. I never thought I'd have my own office, but the economy and circumstances beyond my control have compelled me to take the step. Today I drove around my new area in search of office equipment. Being the miserly one that I am when it comes to myself, I seek cheap but high quality equipment that won't cost me too much to move to the new office. That's not asking too much, is it?
Be that as it may, it caused me to think of other things that I'd like to do that are unconnected to my practice.
I'd love to see Spring Training once before I die. Hopefully, it's the Spring before the Cubs win their first World Series title since 1908.
I'd have liked to see Machu Picchu, but my bout with pulmonary embolisms probably put an end to that dream.
Seeing the Aurora Borealis, however, is still in the realm of the reachable. I do believe I'll get to see that with Karen someday. We'd also like to take a cruise to Alaska, so we may get a two-for on that one.
I'd like to cross the equator. Not necessarily on a ship, especially with seamen, because I don't the treatment meted out to pollywogs.
I have to visit Normandy. I don't want to see anything else in France. Bastogne is in Belgium, and that's about the only other battlefield in Europe I want to see. I'd like to visit Iwo Jima also, although the sulphuric smells may make me wish I hadn't.
I'd like to get a couple of books published. The Spanish Year is written and awaits revisions and editing. The other book, as yet untitled, is more important from this perspective. Like John Hancock, I intend to make sure my name is prominently displayed on that one.
I'd like to take Karen to Scotland so she can show me her ancestral land. Since the Scots want free of the English, I can make an exception for this one. Especially since it would please my girl so.
I might like to compete in a chess tournament once. Nothing with grandmasters, mind you.
Learning the guitar would be fun. I suppose I should learn to read music first, though.
I'd love to attend a clambake. That would be the perfect end to my first sailing cruise.
Hang-gliding has always intrigued me. Perhaps I should go the safer route and get up in a glider instead. No, parachuting holds no interest for me. Nor does bungee jumping.
The countries I want to visit are Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Portugal and Greece.
I'd love to learn to speak Portuguese, Italian, Arabic and Irish.
A train trip across the Northwest or across the Canadian Northwest would be very enjoyable, I'm thinking.
Riding in a bobsled has always intrigued me. Luge holds no such interest for me.
Using a sniper rifle would be amazing.
Isn't it curious? I have no desire to meet a celebrity, although it would be entralling to meet George Will.
Arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court would be wild. I may have to settle for being admitted, though.
One place I definitely want to visit is Arlington Cemetery. John Basilone's grave, though, has special significance to me.
Finally, I'd love to be able to introduce Karen to our Mother. I think the two of them would have a blast together.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Be that as it may, it caused me to think of other things that I'd like to do that are unconnected to my practice.
I'd love to see Spring Training once before I die. Hopefully, it's the Spring before the Cubs win their first World Series title since 1908.
I'd have liked to see Machu Picchu, but my bout with pulmonary embolisms probably put an end to that dream.
Seeing the Aurora Borealis, however, is still in the realm of the reachable. I do believe I'll get to see that with Karen someday. We'd also like to take a cruise to Alaska, so we may get a two-for on that one.
I'd like to cross the equator. Not necessarily on a ship, especially with seamen, because I don't the treatment meted out to pollywogs.
I have to visit Normandy. I don't want to see anything else in France. Bastogne is in Belgium, and that's about the only other battlefield in Europe I want to see. I'd like to visit Iwo Jima also, although the sulphuric smells may make me wish I hadn't.
I'd like to get a couple of books published. The Spanish Year is written and awaits revisions and editing. The other book, as yet untitled, is more important from this perspective. Like John Hancock, I intend to make sure my name is prominently displayed on that one.
I'd like to take Karen to Scotland so she can show me her ancestral land. Since the Scots want free of the English, I can make an exception for this one. Especially since it would please my girl so.
I might like to compete in a chess tournament once. Nothing with grandmasters, mind you.
Learning the guitar would be fun. I suppose I should learn to read music first, though.
I'd love to attend a clambake. That would be the perfect end to my first sailing cruise.
Hang-gliding has always intrigued me. Perhaps I should go the safer route and get up in a glider instead. No, parachuting holds no interest for me. Nor does bungee jumping.
The countries I want to visit are Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Portugal and Greece.
I'd love to learn to speak Portuguese, Italian, Arabic and Irish.
A train trip across the Northwest or across the Canadian Northwest would be very enjoyable, I'm thinking.
Riding in a bobsled has always intrigued me. Luge holds no such interest for me.
Using a sniper rifle would be amazing.
Isn't it curious? I have no desire to meet a celebrity, although it would be entralling to meet George Will.
Arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court would be wild. I may have to settle for being admitted, though.
One place I definitely want to visit is Arlington Cemetery. John Basilone's grave, though, has special significance to me.
Finally, I'd love to be able to introduce Karen to our Mother. I think the two of them would have a blast together.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, March 8, 2013
Chocolate chip ice cream
Today I write in defense of something that has no defenders. In fact, it has many detractors, people who would take its noble essence and embellish it beyond recognition, while still trying to capitalize on the history of its good name. I submit, dear readers, that it is time for chocolate chip ice cream to take its rightful place among ice cream flavors.
I'm not here to argue that chocolate chip ice cream should be everyone's favorite. Speaking selfishly -- because in reality, that's all this post is about, my selfishness -- I don't want it to be the most beloved flavor, because then I'll have to compete with everyone to buy it. As it is, it appears so rarely on cooler shelves that one would think it was being rationed. I merely ask that like its brethern, it be left alone to exist in its simplest form, its truest form, the way God through man intended it.
Go to any store now and you can find any variation of chocolate chip ice cream you'd like: Mint chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, chocolate chip cookie dough. I defy anyone to find a normal-sized container of just straight chocolate chip ice cream, though. It's as if it's been banned for being more tasteful than other flavors.
What's the big deal? Consider, for a second, the three primary flavors of the ice cream world: Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Sure, they've been lumped together with the o-so-cosmopolitan name of Neopolitan. They've had fruit put in them, chocolate chips put in them, caramel and fudge drizzled over them. But one can still find containers of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, standing alone by themselves without any adornment, right there on the shelves with the bastardized containers of chocolate chip married with unnatural ingredients. Why must chocolate chip suffer these indignities? Why can't it be left alone like chocolate, vanilla and strawberry?
For whatever reason, chocolate chip has fallen into disfavor. There used to be several brands that offered straight chocolate chip ice cream. No more. The only straight chocolate chip that I can find is made by Haagen Das and even then it's not in every store. Breyer's also has one, but again some stores only offer it on a limited basis.
It seems the trend in ice cream is to offer designer flavors, with candy bars mixed in or exotic fruits blended in. I'm all for diversity, even with ice cream flavors. But enough is enough. There are standards to be maintained. Chocolate chip ice cream offers the perfect blend of the traditional flavor of vanilla with the crunchiness and unique flavor of the chips. Its virtue is in the perfect blend of textures and flavors that can't be overcome by any other compounded ice cream flavor.
So the next time you get a chance, ask your grocer or the ice cream vendor for straight chocolate chip ice cream. You'll be doing the world a favor by restoring balance to our dessert options.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I'm not here to argue that chocolate chip ice cream should be everyone's favorite. Speaking selfishly -- because in reality, that's all this post is about, my selfishness -- I don't want it to be the most beloved flavor, because then I'll have to compete with everyone to buy it. As it is, it appears so rarely on cooler shelves that one would think it was being rationed. I merely ask that like its brethern, it be left alone to exist in its simplest form, its truest form, the way God through man intended it.
Go to any store now and you can find any variation of chocolate chip ice cream you'd like: Mint chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, chocolate chip cookie dough. I defy anyone to find a normal-sized container of just straight chocolate chip ice cream, though. It's as if it's been banned for being more tasteful than other flavors.
What's the big deal? Consider, for a second, the three primary flavors of the ice cream world: Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Sure, they've been lumped together with the o-so-cosmopolitan name of Neopolitan. They've had fruit put in them, chocolate chips put in them, caramel and fudge drizzled over them. But one can still find containers of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, standing alone by themselves without any adornment, right there on the shelves with the bastardized containers of chocolate chip married with unnatural ingredients. Why must chocolate chip suffer these indignities? Why can't it be left alone like chocolate, vanilla and strawberry?
For whatever reason, chocolate chip has fallen into disfavor. There used to be several brands that offered straight chocolate chip ice cream. No more. The only straight chocolate chip that I can find is made by Haagen Das and even then it's not in every store. Breyer's also has one, but again some stores only offer it on a limited basis.
It seems the trend in ice cream is to offer designer flavors, with candy bars mixed in or exotic fruits blended in. I'm all for diversity, even with ice cream flavors. But enough is enough. There are standards to be maintained. Chocolate chip ice cream offers the perfect blend of the traditional flavor of vanilla with the crunchiness and unique flavor of the chips. Its virtue is in the perfect blend of textures and flavors that can't be overcome by any other compounded ice cream flavor.
So the next time you get a chance, ask your grocer or the ice cream vendor for straight chocolate chip ice cream. You'll be doing the world a favor by restoring balance to our dessert options.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Teaching Spanish
Learning a foreign language was, for me, quite fun. For whatever reason, I took to it like a duck to water. My wiring is such that I can understand the vagueries of languages far better than I can the mysteries of calculus or algebra. For that matter, the only solid connection with algebra I have is that I know its root is Arabic and that comes from my study of Spanish.
I enjoy teaching Spanish. I enjoyed learning not only the language but also Spanish literature. Sure, some of it stunk -- Cien años de soledad confused the heck out of me in Spanish, so I read it in English only to discover that I understood it better -- if at all -- in Spanish -- but it opened up new vistas, new worlds that I never understood even if I knew they existed.
For whatever reason, I also took to teaching Spanish. I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy about professing to understand a language I was still struggling to learn. Teaching freshman year Spanish wasn't much of a challenge. The department gave us the textbooks and we followed along like lemmings. Where my own contributions came into play were in the presentation of the materials.
I'm no stand-up comedian. But when a male student used the false cognate and protested that he was embarazado, I told him he was a medical miracle, which caused him to smile uneasily until he found out that instead of being embarrassed he was pregnant, thereby compounding his shame. Another student called it Dondi instead of DON day, which prompted me to tell him I wasn't familiar with comic strips. The confused look on her face was priceless.
Perhaps my favorite classes, however, were the attendance optional ones that I ran once a semester. Had the administration known what I was up to, they would not have sanctioned them. I gave any student who was morally or religiously opposed the option to not attend the next day's class with no penalty, but the subject was, for lack of a more didactic term, swear words.
Before one has a coniption fit about this, please realize that I wasn't teaching students how to swear. That's not to say that some students didn't try to use it for that purpose. I was able to navigate through their thinly-veiled attempts to procure this information from me. One notable attempt involve a woman in her forties who asked me how to say the filthiest thing any student had ever asked me. I looked her in the eye and said, Do you know you could be my mother? I was twenty-four at the time. Needless to say, these classes always had perfect attendance. I even taught a couple of these for fellow grad students.
The high point of my teaching career had to be when we played keg softball at the local park. We chipped in and bought four kegs of beer, commandeered a local baseball diamond and, against municipal ordinance, drank our way through nine innings of softball. I think I got home at one in the morning.
Some students couldn't have cared less. Some actually may have been inspired. All I know is that I found another hobby that kept me interested doing something I found I loved to do.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I enjoy teaching Spanish. I enjoyed learning not only the language but also Spanish literature. Sure, some of it stunk -- Cien años de soledad confused the heck out of me in Spanish, so I read it in English only to discover that I understood it better -- if at all -- in Spanish -- but it opened up new vistas, new worlds that I never understood even if I knew they existed.
For whatever reason, I also took to teaching Spanish. I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy about professing to understand a language I was still struggling to learn. Teaching freshman year Spanish wasn't much of a challenge. The department gave us the textbooks and we followed along like lemmings. Where my own contributions came into play were in the presentation of the materials.
I'm no stand-up comedian. But when a male student used the false cognate and protested that he was embarazado, I told him he was a medical miracle, which caused him to smile uneasily until he found out that instead of being embarrassed he was pregnant, thereby compounding his shame. Another student called it Dondi instead of DON day, which prompted me to tell him I wasn't familiar with comic strips. The confused look on her face was priceless.
Perhaps my favorite classes, however, were the attendance optional ones that I ran once a semester. Had the administration known what I was up to, they would not have sanctioned them. I gave any student who was morally or religiously opposed the option to not attend the next day's class with no penalty, but the subject was, for lack of a more didactic term, swear words.
Before one has a coniption fit about this, please realize that I wasn't teaching students how to swear. That's not to say that some students didn't try to use it for that purpose. I was able to navigate through their thinly-veiled attempts to procure this information from me. One notable attempt involve a woman in her forties who asked me how to say the filthiest thing any student had ever asked me. I looked her in the eye and said, Do you know you could be my mother? I was twenty-four at the time. Needless to say, these classes always had perfect attendance. I even taught a couple of these for fellow grad students.
The high point of my teaching career had to be when we played keg softball at the local park. We chipped in and bought four kegs of beer, commandeered a local baseball diamond and, against municipal ordinance, drank our way through nine innings of softball. I think I got home at one in the morning.
Some students couldn't have cared less. Some actually may have been inspired. All I know is that I found another hobby that kept me interested doing something I found I loved to do.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, March 4, 2013
Marketing myself
I don't know why it is, but I can stand in front of a crowd and make a speech. I can stand in front of a crowd and teach. In my youth I was even comfortable playing basketball in front of large crowds, which I did on a couple of occasions. But I loathe the idea of standing in front of a crowd and trying to sing or act. It's just not something I feel comfortable doing.
Now I find myself in the position where I have to appear before crowds of unknown people to market myself. This causes me no discomfort. What does bother me is that I have to try to boast about myself without making it seem that I'm boasting. I'm not comfortable boasting about myself. Contrary to what my siblings may tell you, I'm not naturally conceited. I even like to think of myself as modest. So telling people why they should hire me over other people is difficult.
One of the ways I have to market myself is to be sociable. Next to singing or acting in front of other people, being sociable is about as uncomfortable to me. Karen thinks I may have a mild form of autism. I disagree. I think it was the way that I was raised -- or not raised, to be more precise -- that caused me to be uncomfortable around people in social situations.
That's not to lay all the blame at our parents' feet. I wasn't socially adroit in my earlier years and although I may have sloughed off some of that awkwardness over the years -- although not enough for Karen's liking -- I'm still uncomfortable.
And the final element to all of this is that this group I'm meeting is a Spanish-speaking group.
Let the good times roll....
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Now I find myself in the position where I have to appear before crowds of unknown people to market myself. This causes me no discomfort. What does bother me is that I have to try to boast about myself without making it seem that I'm boasting. I'm not comfortable boasting about myself. Contrary to what my siblings may tell you, I'm not naturally conceited. I even like to think of myself as modest. So telling people why they should hire me over other people is difficult.
One of the ways I have to market myself is to be sociable. Next to singing or acting in front of other people, being sociable is about as uncomfortable to me. Karen thinks I may have a mild form of autism. I disagree. I think it was the way that I was raised -- or not raised, to be more precise -- that caused me to be uncomfortable around people in social situations.
That's not to lay all the blame at our parents' feet. I wasn't socially adroit in my earlier years and although I may have sloughed off some of that awkwardness over the years -- although not enough for Karen's liking -- I'm still uncomfortable.
And the final element to all of this is that this group I'm meeting is a Spanish-speaking group.
Let the good times roll....
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Favorite artwork
Karen is very artistically gifted. I have difficulties drawing coherent stick figures. Be that all as it may, I have an appreciation for visual media that's about as eclectic as my musical tastes.
First of all, I don't get certain art. That's not to say that I find it less valuable or worthwhile, I just don't see the point of buying it or spending much time looking at it. To be perfectly honest, art museums bore the stuffing out of me. To put it simply, I know what I like and I like what I know. In other words, I know what I'll like when I see it.
When it comes to painting, perhaps my favorite artist is Velázquez. My favorite of his works is Las meninas. For those of you unfamiliar with the painting, here it is:
A book I bought in Spain explains the absolute artistry that is the picture, but since I'm so wretched at art, I won't even try to explain it.
I also appreciate El Greco. My favorite of his is El entierro del conde de Orgaz. Again, for those unfamiliar with the work:
Both of these paintings surprised me by their sheer size. How the artists were able to put them together to scale amazes me. El Greco also put in some personal elements to his painting; I've always liked hidden meanings in paintings.
Norman Rockwell is also a favorite of mine. I like just about anything he's painted. I love Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World:
I was particularly saddened to discover that three weeks after that painting was finished the model, Christina, who was afflicted with some disease that prevented her from walking, died.
Photography is also another medium I appreciate. There are plenty of photographers whose works I admire, but the non-pareil photog for me is Ansel Adams:
Moonrise over Hernández, New Mexico, is just one of the many photographs of his I enjoy.
But there's another medium that enthralls me and I don't know quite what to call it. When commericals show liquids flowing in slow motion, or when a movie has a scene where a helicopter is flying over buildings and filming them from directly above, I'm mesmerized. I can watch those things and sit there quiet as a churchmouse.
Other artistic endeavors confuse me more than please me. I rarely understand modern art. I don't understand performance art. Surrealism confuses me. Impressionism does nothing for me.
All this does is prove the maxim that art is in the eye of the beholder.
But show me milk chocolate being poured in slow motion and you have me in the bottom of your hand.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
First of all, I don't get certain art. That's not to say that I find it less valuable or worthwhile, I just don't see the point of buying it or spending much time looking at it. To be perfectly honest, art museums bore the stuffing out of me. To put it simply, I know what I like and I like what I know. In other words, I know what I'll like when I see it.
When it comes to painting, perhaps my favorite artist is Velázquez. My favorite of his works is Las meninas. For those of you unfamiliar with the painting, here it is:
A book I bought in Spain explains the absolute artistry that is the picture, but since I'm so wretched at art, I won't even try to explain it.
I also appreciate El Greco. My favorite of his is El entierro del conde de Orgaz. Again, for those unfamiliar with the work:
Both of these paintings surprised me by their sheer size. How the artists were able to put them together to scale amazes me. El Greco also put in some personal elements to his painting; I've always liked hidden meanings in paintings.
Norman Rockwell is also a favorite of mine. I like just about anything he's painted. I love Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World:
I was particularly saddened to discover that three weeks after that painting was finished the model, Christina, who was afflicted with some disease that prevented her from walking, died.
Photography is also another medium I appreciate. There are plenty of photographers whose works I admire, but the non-pareil photog for me is Ansel Adams:
Moonrise over Hernández, New Mexico, is just one of the many photographs of his I enjoy.
But there's another medium that enthralls me and I don't know quite what to call it. When commericals show liquids flowing in slow motion, or when a movie has a scene where a helicopter is flying over buildings and filming them from directly above, I'm mesmerized. I can watch those things and sit there quiet as a churchmouse.
Other artistic endeavors confuse me more than please me. I rarely understand modern art. I don't understand performance art. Surrealism confuses me. Impressionism does nothing for me.
All this does is prove the maxim that art is in the eye of the beholder.
But show me milk chocolate being poured in slow motion and you have me in the bottom of your hand.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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