I obtained, I do not remember when or how, Exile: A Literary Quarterly, vol 16, no 4, copyright 1992. Probably between 1994 and 1997 in NYC, where I obtained many books and literary journals for free or nearly free. I know I didn't pay anywhere near the price listed on the front cover, $25.00, neither 25 American nor Canadian dollars. Exile is published in Canada.
Like its price, Exile: A Literary Quarterly, vol 16, no 4 is huge for a literary Journal: over 500 large-format pages, around 8 1/2 by 11 inches, I'm guessing. The paper is thick, the volume weighs so much more than any other volume of a literary or scholarly journal I've ever hefted.
Is it also much, much bigger than any other volume of Exile, I'm wondering? I had never seen a different number of the publication, although I'd seen a few more copies of vol 16, no 4, until I bought a copy of Exile: The Literary Quarterly, vol 27, no 1, published in 2003 -- bought it via Amazon Marketplace a few years ago. The Amazon listing didn't say how many pages it had. Imagine my disappointment when it arrived, just over 140 smaller-format pages, about an inch less tall and an inch less wide than the big one from 1992.
The front cover of the one from 1992 has a photo of an Irish poet I'd never heard of, John Montague. Had he just passed away, was the 1992 number so much bigger because it was a tribute issue to Montague? No. He's also published in the 1998 issue, which mentions that he "became, in 1998, the first Ireland Professor of Poetry." He's still alive now at age 87.
Sometime between 1992 and 1998 they changed the A in the name of the quarterly to a the. But there's no doubt that it is the same publication. among the many hints are the identical quotations from Borduas ("Together we will undertake[...]") and Cortazar ("The only true exile[...]") at the beginning of each volume, and the identical editor, Barry Callaghan, replaced some time between 1992 and 1998 by his son Michael.
Maybe all of the earlier numbers are indeed like vol 16 no 4, which would be great, because it is awesome not only in size but also in the selection of authors and artists whose work is printed there: Atwood. Pasolini. William Kennedy. That Montague guy. Croatians, Swedes, Germans, many, many Canadians. On and on.
The prospect is too great. I can't believe it, it's too good to believe, that one number after the next was just as immense and impressive as that one, 4 times a year for years. Vol 16, no 4 must have been a special occasion, for some reason which I have not yet been able to discern.
I cannot find out for sure now by buying every number of Exile, A and The, currently for sale on Amazon. That is not within my current budget. If I win the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature the week after next, I'll be able to buy them all -- but if I win the Nobel I probably won't have to buy any of them, because someone at Exile will read this, and, instead of helping someone who actually needs it, will send me every back issue for free, because of the Tom Petty Ab-So-Lute-Ly Backwards Law of Microeconomics. I suppose it's possible that some nearby university library has every issue of Exile.
Wait, maybe I have discerned why vol 16, no 4 is so splendacious and large: the publisher/editor/poet Barry Callaghan slips in an Afterword just before that long huge list of contributors, mentioning that his dad, Morley, had recently passed, and that "these books, these fifteen years in exile, are dedicated to him."
Hm. I'd read that Afterword before but somehow I never put the huge size and immense quality of this number together with the dedication of fifteen years' worth of the journal by Barry Callaghan to the memory of his Dad.
Now, after 20 years of wondering and having read the Afterward several times, now suddenly it seems obvious.
You see, I'm really not terribly bright. Please help me, someone.
In conclusion, France is a land of many contrasts, and literary journals are fun and mysterious and show how big and rich the world is. Not so much like most TV.
Showing posts with label steven bollinger nobel prize 2016. Show all posts
Showing posts with label steven bollinger nobel prize 2016. Show all posts
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Nuggets
We're in that awkward in-between time of the year, those few days between when the MacArthur Foundation has disappointed me again and when the Nobel Committee, most likely, will disappointment me again. Get it together guys, this is getting old, and so am I.
I've tried to just take it easy today, because it seemed like I should. Taking it easy is not something which comes naturally to me. I'm always struggling to help the world break on through: past Trump, past two-party systems, past the GOP, past petroleum, past capitalism... Past silly notions that I somehow don't deserve the Mac and the Nobel.
I almost took it so easy today that I didn't blog at all, but I couldn't quite.
Past nationalism, I almost forgot to add. I struggle to get people past the notion that there's something wrong with someone being from somewhere else, the notion that someone should automatically be distrusted because he or she is from somewhere else.
We haven't quite yet gotten to the point where the general public has really faced the fact that capitalism is anti-social, that it calls for sociopaths. Those times when Trump ripped off those he did business with, because he could, and when he and Mitt paid no taxes, because they could, and when that AIDS medication douchebag almost got away with those price hikes -- they were all just being good capitalists. When someone gives someone a break, for that moment they're not being business-savvy. The public has sort of halfway faced these things when they acknowledge that it's dog-eat-dog in the business world.
Anyway. One step at a time: past Trump. Past two-party systems. Past big oil. Keep on strugglin' against that big bad ol' entropy. Get me that damn Nobel...
Have yrselves a nice evening, pardners and cowgirls. A nice lunch, cobbers. A nice every other part of the day or night, every other part of the big spinning blue marble. Don't shoot! Be nice! Play with a kitten, or a doggie or a baby elephant or a human whom you happen to adore and the feeling's mutual, ya lucky cobber!
You see: when I write "mee r munkee. mee luv yu" on this blog, I'm striving. I don't love everybody all the time with the unconditional love you sometime get from well-treated animals. But I admire being able to love like that. I know, monkeys aren't always nice. Sometimes in real life a chimp will rip a person's face off, or so I've heard. On the other hand, sometimes monkeys and people can be nice.
I've tried to just take it easy today, because it seemed like I should. Taking it easy is not something which comes naturally to me. I'm always struggling to help the world break on through: past Trump, past two-party systems, past the GOP, past petroleum, past capitalism... Past silly notions that I somehow don't deserve the Mac and the Nobel.
I almost took it so easy today that I didn't blog at all, but I couldn't quite.
Past nationalism, I almost forgot to add. I struggle to get people past the notion that there's something wrong with someone being from somewhere else, the notion that someone should automatically be distrusted because he or she is from somewhere else.
We haven't quite yet gotten to the point where the general public has really faced the fact that capitalism is anti-social, that it calls for sociopaths. Those times when Trump ripped off those he did business with, because he could, and when he and Mitt paid no taxes, because they could, and when that AIDS medication douchebag almost got away with those price hikes -- they were all just being good capitalists. When someone gives someone a break, for that moment they're not being business-savvy. The public has sort of halfway faced these things when they acknowledge that it's dog-eat-dog in the business world.
Anyway. One step at a time: past Trump. Past two-party systems. Past big oil. Keep on strugglin' against that big bad ol' entropy. Get me that damn Nobel...
Have yrselves a nice evening, pardners and cowgirls. A nice lunch, cobbers. A nice every other part of the day or night, every other part of the big spinning blue marble. Don't shoot! Be nice! Play with a kitten, or a doggie or a baby elephant or a human whom you happen to adore and the feeling's mutual, ya lucky cobber!
You see: when I write "mee r munkee. mee luv yu" on this blog, I'm striving. I don't love everybody all the time with the unconditional love you sometime get from well-treated animals. But I admire being able to love like that. I know, monkeys aren't always nice. Sometimes in real life a chimp will rip a person's face off, or so I've heard. On the other hand, sometimes monkeys and people can be nice.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Where I See Myself In 5 Years
I'm 55 years old, and last night, for the first time in my life, when I tried to picture myself in 5 years I actually came up with something.
Many times over the course of my life I've been asked, "Where do you see yourself 5 years from now?" and I've never been able to come up with anything. Then last night, channel-surfing, I saw Danny McBride, playing one of the title characters in "Vice Principals" (I was going to watch the entire series but was unable to keep up past the first 2 episodes, because there is simply too much to watch. There is too much good stuff on TV to watch it all! Think about THAT, and compare it to the 1970's, if you ever start to think that the world can't be changed!), posing the question to an actress playing a high school student in a time out. The student was clearly drawing a blank, so McBride snapped at her: "Just make something up!"
And that is how, 55 years in, I finally was able to do the in-5-years thing: I just made something up.
5 years from now, at age 60, lean and fit, a man who runs 30 or more FAST miles in an average week, outdoors, not in a gym, I will be an extremely rich and famous writer, the author of several huge best-sellers, books translated into more than 40 languages. 40 and growing fast. I'm a frequent guest on the big-time celebrity talk-show circuit, a big wheel in the Democratic Party, an unofficial advisor to the Clintons and Obamas, a guy who plots and schemes with Gates and Buffet and Musk, a Nobel Prize winner, a MacArthur Foundation genius grant recipient, a member of the American Academy of Art and Sciences and the French Legion of Honor, a Fellow of the British Academy and the Leopoldina and pour le mérite of Germany and a whole bunch of other things.
But mostly I am known for stomping on the dying ashes of the petroleum industry and replacing it with solar, wind, tidal, geothermal and other means of energy production. By virtue of my great fame I am able to spread knowledge of the lies and dirty tricks of Big Oil and have just about shamed them to death. Through my many connections I've put solar panels on many millions of buildings from Peoria to Peking, windmills in many a windy place, built tidal and geothermal power plants. I've put oil out of business. We mainly just use it for lubrication now, and we've got plenty for that without ever having to drill any more.
I've built a few hydroelectric plants too. I'm aware that huge dams cause problems, but sometimes it's been either that or oil, gas and nuclear, and I stamp out oil, gas and nuclear.
(I confess that I still don't understand hydrogen fuel cells. Whenever I read or hear about them I always think: "Oh the humanity" etc. I still don't know how to categorize them: dirty, clean, safe, dangerous?)
I promote research into ever more efficient and clean ways for humans to do what we do, both by writing and speaking inspirationally about the importance of this transformation, and, through my political connections, by making sure that the educational and research infrastructure in technology and engineering thrives.
5 years from now I will have become the first person to win Nobel Prizes in both the Literature and Peace categories. 5 years from now the weather already will have begun to calm back down, and people will already be able to breathe easier again, literally, and to see more stars again at night. Because of me. All because of ME.
Many times over the course of my life I've been asked, "Where do you see yourself 5 years from now?" and I've never been able to come up with anything. Then last night, channel-surfing, I saw Danny McBride, playing one of the title characters in "Vice Principals" (I was going to watch the entire series but was unable to keep up past the first 2 episodes, because there is simply too much to watch. There is too much good stuff on TV to watch it all! Think about THAT, and compare it to the 1970's, if you ever start to think that the world can't be changed!), posing the question to an actress playing a high school student in a time out. The student was clearly drawing a blank, so McBride snapped at her: "Just make something up!"
And that is how, 55 years in, I finally was able to do the in-5-years thing: I just made something up.
5 years from now, at age 60, lean and fit, a man who runs 30 or more FAST miles in an average week, outdoors, not in a gym, I will be an extremely rich and famous writer, the author of several huge best-sellers, books translated into more than 40 languages. 40 and growing fast. I'm a frequent guest on the big-time celebrity talk-show circuit, a big wheel in the Democratic Party, an unofficial advisor to the Clintons and Obamas, a guy who plots and schemes with Gates and Buffet and Musk, a Nobel Prize winner, a MacArthur Foundation genius grant recipient, a member of the American Academy of Art and Sciences and the French Legion of Honor, a Fellow of the British Academy and the Leopoldina and pour le mérite of Germany and a whole bunch of other things.
But mostly I am known for stomping on the dying ashes of the petroleum industry and replacing it with solar, wind, tidal, geothermal and other means of energy production. By virtue of my great fame I am able to spread knowledge of the lies and dirty tricks of Big Oil and have just about shamed them to death. Through my many connections I've put solar panels on many millions of buildings from Peoria to Peking, windmills in many a windy place, built tidal and geothermal power plants. I've put oil out of business. We mainly just use it for lubrication now, and we've got plenty for that without ever having to drill any more.
I've built a few hydroelectric plants too. I'm aware that huge dams cause problems, but sometimes it's been either that or oil, gas and nuclear, and I stamp out oil, gas and nuclear.
(I confess that I still don't understand hydrogen fuel cells. Whenever I read or hear about them I always think: "Oh the humanity" etc. I still don't know how to categorize them: dirty, clean, safe, dangerous?)
I promote research into ever more efficient and clean ways for humans to do what we do, both by writing and speaking inspirationally about the importance of this transformation, and, through my political connections, by making sure that the educational and research infrastructure in technology and engineering thrives.
5 years from now I will have become the first person to win Nobel Prizes in both the Literature and Peace categories. 5 years from now the weather already will have begun to calm back down, and people will already be able to breathe easier again, literally, and to see more stars again at night. Because of me. All because of ME.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
I Am Not Guilty Of Tsundoku!
At openculture.com, Jonathan Crow informs us that
The Japanese word tsundoku [...] means buying books and letting them pile up unread. The word dates back to the very beginning of modern Japan, the Meiji era (1868-1912) and has its origins in a pun. Tsundoku, which literally means reading pile, is written in Japanese as 積ん読. Tsunde oku means to let something pile up and is written 積んでおく. Some wag around the turn of the century swapped out that oku (おく) in tsunde oku for doku (読) – meaning to read. Then since tsunde doku is hard to say, the word got mushed together to form tsundoku.
I repeatedly had to try to convince my mother that I was not guilty of tsundoku: "I've read some of them all the way through, I've read at least a part of all of them, and each and every one of them may prove to be very crucial at any moment for reference! If they weren't I'd get rid of them!"
And it was all true! Ask some of the local used-book dealers if I haven't sold a few books to them!
And because she was a great Mom, she either tried to understand or tried to seem like she didn't think I was full of it on the subject of the books when she was around me, or both. She and I loved each other very much, but we were also very different in many ways. I'm sure she and other non-tsundoku would get together and commiserate about their tsundoku friends and relatives --
-- except that I, as I said, am not tsundoku! Maybe some people somewhere actually are, but not me! I'm making intensive use of all of this stuff! Don't try to change me! Get away from my books! No, I do NOT want a Kindle, thankyouverymuch! I'll gladly take a MacArthur or a Nobel, though!
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Haggi, Schoepfer des Hartmuts
Hartmut Klotzbücher (siit Bilt)
ist drei Monate juenger als ich und ein Monat juenger als der Praesident der Vereinigten Staaten. Comicgarten Leipzig sagt von ihm, er habe "eigenwillige Ortografih." Und das find ich vernuenftig. Die Ortografih, meine ich. Das Alter ist auch ganz gescheit, aber ich und Hartmut Klotzbücher und Praedient Obama und Nastassia Kinski und Bono koennen eigentlich nichts dafuer, dass wir alle so ueberwaeltigend brillant und sexy sind. Wir hatten alle bloss das Glueck, zur richtigen Zeit geboren zu sein.
Ich bin nicht hierher gekommon um Caesar zu preisen sondern um noch einen Post in meinem Blog zu veroeffentlichen. Weil ich reich und beruehmt werden moechte, und weil man nie weiss, was fuer einen Quatsch von Blog-Post zum Renner werden wird. (Einmal schrieb ich, "Mehr ist nicht unbedingt besser, aber es ist mehr," und die Zeile schien eingen Leuten gut zu gefallen. Aber es scheint dass von dem Standpunkt des Reich-und-behuehmt-durch-Quatsch-Bloggens aus gesehen, mehr tatsaechlich auch besser ist. Hoffen wir.)
Und auch weil ich Haggi-Comics mag. Aber wie Ihr sieht, hab ich eigentlich nichts gescheites darueber zu sagen. Ich schrie ganz unverschaemt "HAGGI!" um Leser hierher zu locken, und jetzt hoffe ich dass mein Quatschen Euch lustig genug ist dass einige von Euch mir nicht uebel nehmen werdet dass ich "HAGGI!" geschriehen habe. Haggi ist nicht hier Thema sondern, wie zumeist in meinem Blog, ich. (Wie ein intelligenter Mann mir mal sagte, "Deine Posts kreisen primaer um deine Befindlichkeit." Nein, ich denke nicht, dass er das als Lob meinte. Aber ich bin was ich bin. Ich kann nicht ploetzlich der Mann werden, der mir dies sagte.)
Mam weiss nie -- nanu: ich weiss nie. Vielleicht koennen Andere es sehr genau voraussagen -- was fuer einen Blog-Post zum Renner werden wird. Wisst Ihr, welcher Post von diesem Blog dreimal soviele Pageviews hat als der zweitpopulaeste? Dieser, in welchem ich einen Author, und eine Zeitschrift die ihn veroeffentlicht hatte, grob schimpfte, weil ich hoerte, dass er ein Buch veroeffentlicht hatte, in welchem er behauptete, dass es seltsam waere, wenn Jesus existiert haette, dass 126 antike Geschichtsschreiber nichts von ihm geschrieben hatten. Den naechsten Tage sahe ich, dass mein Blog gelesen und kommentiert und gelinkt wird wie nie zuvor, dieses einen Posts wegen. Auch der naechste Tage schrieb ich einen zweiten Beitrag zum selben Thema. Ich hatte naemlich inzwischen die Liste von 126 angeblichen "Historikern" gefunden, von welchen dieser Hanswurst behauptet hatte, dass es seltsam waere, wenn es Jesus gegeben haeete, dass sie alle 126 nichts von ihn berichtete. Ich hatte die Liste gefunden, und in den zweiten Post zum Thema zerriss ich die Liste.
Wenn Du schon ein wenig von antiken Geschichte kennst, hast Du Dich vielleicht schon gefragt, ob wir ueberhaupt zur Zeit Geschriebenes von 126 antike griechischen und roemischen Geschichtsschreibern besitzen. Ich glaube, es ist weniger als 126.
Von 47 der 126 Personen auf dieser Liste besitzten wir zur Zeit gar nichts Geschriebenes. 4 aber erwaehnen Jesus tatsaechlich. Vielleicht 10 koennten irgendwie Historiker gennant werden. Usw. dies Liste ist erataeunlicher Quatsch, zumal wenn man erwaegt, dass die Zeitschrift, welche sie veroeffentlicht hat, Free Inquiry ist -- vor Jahrzehnten noch eine diskutable Zeitschrift, heute die Flagship der New Atheists. Und dieser zweiten Post ist naemlich der zweitpopulaerste Post dieses Blogs. Und hat rund 10mal soviele Pageviews wie der drittpopulaerste.
Ich selbst bin gar nicht sicher, dass es einen historischen Jesus gegeben hat. Aber mir was klar, dass dieser Mann einen ungewoehnlich glatten Wahnsinn veroeffentlicht hat, in einer nicht ganz unbekannten Zeitschrift. (Letzteres war ein grosses Teil davon, was mich rasend machte. Wenn es nichts als noch ein unsinniges Blog-Post gewesen waere, von einem Nobody verfasst, waere es ja gar nichts Ungewoehnliches gewesen.)
Diese 2 Beitraege postete ich in diesem Blog den 29. und 30. September 2014. Ich dachte in Oktober 2014, ich waere vielleicht im Begriff, reich und beruehmt zu werden. Aber nein. (Ich dachte, Free Inquiry wuerde vielleicht zugeben, dass sie Quatsch veroeffentlich haben. Auch das nicht. Im Gegenteil, sie foerderten den Beitrag von Print-Ausgabe-only zu ihrer Website. Dies ist es, was die New Atheists von uns anderen Atheisten unterscheidet: sie reden unaufhoerlich ueber historischen Themen, ohne sich einen Dreck zu scheren, ob das was sie sagen Sinn macht.)
Reich und beruehmt bin ich noch nicht, aber jetzt bin ich vor allem wegen dieser zwei Beitraegen beruehmter als bevor dem 29. September 2014. Ihr glaubt es nicht? Michael Paulkovich heiss der Esel, der diese Liste von 126 Name verfasste. Googlet mal bollinger paulkovich.
Nee, aber Haggi ist grosse Klasse. Ehrlich. Sorry.
ist drei Monate juenger als ich und ein Monat juenger als der Praesident der Vereinigten Staaten. Comicgarten Leipzig sagt von ihm, er habe "eigenwillige Ortografih." Und das find ich vernuenftig. Die Ortografih, meine ich. Das Alter ist auch ganz gescheit, aber ich und Hartmut Klotzbücher und Praedient Obama und Nastassia Kinski und Bono koennen eigentlich nichts dafuer, dass wir alle so ueberwaeltigend brillant und sexy sind. Wir hatten alle bloss das Glueck, zur richtigen Zeit geboren zu sein.
Ich bin nicht hierher gekommon um Caesar zu preisen sondern um noch einen Post in meinem Blog zu veroeffentlichen. Weil ich reich und beruehmt werden moechte, und weil man nie weiss, was fuer einen Quatsch von Blog-Post zum Renner werden wird. (Einmal schrieb ich, "Mehr ist nicht unbedingt besser, aber es ist mehr," und die Zeile schien eingen Leuten gut zu gefallen. Aber es scheint dass von dem Standpunkt des Reich-und-behuehmt-durch-Quatsch-Bloggens aus gesehen, mehr tatsaechlich auch besser ist. Hoffen wir.)
Und auch weil ich Haggi-Comics mag. Aber wie Ihr sieht, hab ich eigentlich nichts gescheites darueber zu sagen. Ich schrie ganz unverschaemt "HAGGI!" um Leser hierher zu locken, und jetzt hoffe ich dass mein Quatschen Euch lustig genug ist dass einige von Euch mir nicht uebel nehmen werdet dass ich "HAGGI!" geschriehen habe. Haggi ist nicht hier Thema sondern, wie zumeist in meinem Blog, ich. (Wie ein intelligenter Mann mir mal sagte, "Deine Posts kreisen primaer um deine Befindlichkeit." Nein, ich denke nicht, dass er das als Lob meinte. Aber ich bin was ich bin. Ich kann nicht ploetzlich der Mann werden, der mir dies sagte.)
Mam weiss nie -- nanu: ich weiss nie. Vielleicht koennen Andere es sehr genau voraussagen -- was fuer einen Blog-Post zum Renner werden wird. Wisst Ihr, welcher Post von diesem Blog dreimal soviele Pageviews hat als der zweitpopulaeste? Dieser, in welchem ich einen Author, und eine Zeitschrift die ihn veroeffentlicht hatte, grob schimpfte, weil ich hoerte, dass er ein Buch veroeffentlicht hatte, in welchem er behauptete, dass es seltsam waere, wenn Jesus existiert haette, dass 126 antike Geschichtsschreiber nichts von ihm geschrieben hatten. Den naechsten Tage sahe ich, dass mein Blog gelesen und kommentiert und gelinkt wird wie nie zuvor, dieses einen Posts wegen. Auch der naechste Tage schrieb ich einen zweiten Beitrag zum selben Thema. Ich hatte naemlich inzwischen die Liste von 126 angeblichen "Historikern" gefunden, von welchen dieser Hanswurst behauptet hatte, dass es seltsam waere, wenn es Jesus gegeben haeete, dass sie alle 126 nichts von ihn berichtete. Ich hatte die Liste gefunden, und in den zweiten Post zum Thema zerriss ich die Liste.
Wenn Du schon ein wenig von antiken Geschichte kennst, hast Du Dich vielleicht schon gefragt, ob wir ueberhaupt zur Zeit Geschriebenes von 126 antike griechischen und roemischen Geschichtsschreibern besitzen. Ich glaube, es ist weniger als 126.
Von 47 der 126 Personen auf dieser Liste besitzten wir zur Zeit gar nichts Geschriebenes. 4 aber erwaehnen Jesus tatsaechlich. Vielleicht 10 koennten irgendwie Historiker gennant werden. Usw. dies Liste ist erataeunlicher Quatsch, zumal wenn man erwaegt, dass die Zeitschrift, welche sie veroeffentlicht hat, Free Inquiry ist -- vor Jahrzehnten noch eine diskutable Zeitschrift, heute die Flagship der New Atheists. Und dieser zweiten Post ist naemlich der zweitpopulaerste Post dieses Blogs. Und hat rund 10mal soviele Pageviews wie der drittpopulaerste.
Ich selbst bin gar nicht sicher, dass es einen historischen Jesus gegeben hat. Aber mir was klar, dass dieser Mann einen ungewoehnlich glatten Wahnsinn veroeffentlicht hat, in einer nicht ganz unbekannten Zeitschrift. (Letzteres war ein grosses Teil davon, was mich rasend machte. Wenn es nichts als noch ein unsinniges Blog-Post gewesen waere, von einem Nobody verfasst, waere es ja gar nichts Ungewoehnliches gewesen.)
Diese 2 Beitraege postete ich in diesem Blog den 29. und 30. September 2014. Ich dachte in Oktober 2014, ich waere vielleicht im Begriff, reich und beruehmt zu werden. Aber nein. (Ich dachte, Free Inquiry wuerde vielleicht zugeben, dass sie Quatsch veroeffentlich haben. Auch das nicht. Im Gegenteil, sie foerderten den Beitrag von Print-Ausgabe-only zu ihrer Website. Dies ist es, was die New Atheists von uns anderen Atheisten unterscheidet: sie reden unaufhoerlich ueber historischen Themen, ohne sich einen Dreck zu scheren, ob das was sie sagen Sinn macht.)
Reich und beruehmt bin ich noch nicht, aber jetzt bin ich vor allem wegen dieser zwei Beitraegen beruehmter als bevor dem 29. September 2014. Ihr glaubt es nicht? Michael Paulkovich heiss der Esel, der diese Liste von 126 Name verfasste. Googlet mal bollinger paulkovich.
Nee, aber Haggi ist grosse Klasse. Ehrlich. Sorry.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
It Sure Would Be Nice If I Suddenly Received $18 Billion Somehow
I'm not sure exactly how to make this happen. I honestly don't know if I could do it all by myself. I think I would need help.
Maybe that sounds un-American to you. Maybe all the people who've said that there are some self-made millionaires but no self-made billionaires, and not even actually very many self-made millionaires, that we're mostly talking about rich kids here -- maybe they all sound un-American to you.
If a very beautiful, very nice and extremely wealthy woman fell madly in love with me, and I with her, and she insisted on marrying me without a pre-nup and that we share everything, and she had a net worth of $36 billion, then, bam, I think I'd be done, and it'd be all like, "Okay, now I HAVE $18 billion. Now what? What do I DO with it?!" What if I was actually too in love to even care about all those wheelbarrows and trucks full of cash -- wouldn't that be ironic?
If Larry King and Oprah and Rachel Maddow and Harold Bloom and Thomas Pynchon and Quentin Tarantino and Jennifer Lawrence and Neil deGrasse Tyson and Martin Scorsese and Adele and David Letterman and Salman Rushdie and Stephen Hawking all starting following me on Twitter and re-tweeting all my links to my blog posts and speaking and writing about how awesome my blog is, that would be awesome. That would very likely lead to some very lucrative book deals. But $18 billion worth of lucrative? I don't know. Don't get me wrong: if all of those people, plus Pamela Anderson and Conan O'Brien and Barack and Michelle Obama and Hillary and Bill Clinton and Alec Baldwin and Chris Matthews and every single living Nobel Literature laureate and Kanye West and Bob Dylan and Ringo Starr and T Bone Burnett and Sir Anthony Hopkins all started talking me up in a very big way all at once, that would be very nice. That would be a very great encouragement.
How big of a gold nugget would I have to find in order for it to be worth $18 billion? About 500 tons, if I'm figuring accurately. How big is the biggest gold nugget ever found so far? A little over 150 pounds, it seems, if you measure only the gold content.
Hmm. How about the biggest platinum nugget? Seems that platinum nuggets as large as 1/4 ounce are extremely rare. On the other hand, it's often found alloyed with other valuable metals, and that is nice.
On the other hand, I don't own a mine of any kind.
This isn't exactly easy!
On the subject of gold and platinum: as far as I know, the heaviest wristwatch made is the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore, 18k gold case and band, just about exactly one pound. Platinum is heavier than gold, but that 18k Audemars Piguet is the heaviest wristwatch I've been able to find. The heaviest watch of any kind I've ever heard of -- and believe me, I've done a bit of web-surfing on the subject -- is the Patek Philippe Calibre 89, released in 1989, an enormous pocket watch, 89 millimeters in diameter (it's been described as hockey-puck-sized) made in both gold and platinum, which weighs 1100 grams, around 2 1/2 pounds. But they only made 4 of them, and I'm not surely that any of those 4 is what you'd call for sale. Maybe for around $6 million. Or maybe not. (A newer pocket watch, the Vacheron Constantin Reference 57260, has surpassed the Calibre 89 as the world's most complicated watch, but it barely breaks the 2-pound mark. Pheh!)
In conclusion: no man is an island.
Maybe that sounds un-American to you. Maybe all the people who've said that there are some self-made millionaires but no self-made billionaires, and not even actually very many self-made millionaires, that we're mostly talking about rich kids here -- maybe they all sound un-American to you.
If a very beautiful, very nice and extremely wealthy woman fell madly in love with me, and I with her, and she insisted on marrying me without a pre-nup and that we share everything, and she had a net worth of $36 billion, then, bam, I think I'd be done, and it'd be all like, "Okay, now I HAVE $18 billion. Now what? What do I DO with it?!" What if I was actually too in love to even care about all those wheelbarrows and trucks full of cash -- wouldn't that be ironic?
If Larry King and Oprah and Rachel Maddow and Harold Bloom and Thomas Pynchon and Quentin Tarantino and Jennifer Lawrence and Neil deGrasse Tyson and Martin Scorsese and Adele and David Letterman and Salman Rushdie and Stephen Hawking all starting following me on Twitter and re-tweeting all my links to my blog posts and speaking and writing about how awesome my blog is, that would be awesome. That would very likely lead to some very lucrative book deals. But $18 billion worth of lucrative? I don't know. Don't get me wrong: if all of those people, plus Pamela Anderson and Conan O'Brien and Barack and Michelle Obama and Hillary and Bill Clinton and Alec Baldwin and Chris Matthews and every single living Nobel Literature laureate and Kanye West and Bob Dylan and Ringo Starr and T Bone Burnett and Sir Anthony Hopkins all started talking me up in a very big way all at once, that would be very nice. That would be a very great encouragement.
How big of a gold nugget would I have to find in order for it to be worth $18 billion? About 500 tons, if I'm figuring accurately. How big is the biggest gold nugget ever found so far? A little over 150 pounds, it seems, if you measure only the gold content.
Hmm. How about the biggest platinum nugget? Seems that platinum nuggets as large as 1/4 ounce are extremely rare. On the other hand, it's often found alloyed with other valuable metals, and that is nice.
On the other hand, I don't own a mine of any kind.
This isn't exactly easy!
On the subject of gold and platinum: as far as I know, the heaviest wristwatch made is the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore, 18k gold case and band, just about exactly one pound. Platinum is heavier than gold, but that 18k Audemars Piguet is the heaviest wristwatch I've been able to find. The heaviest watch of any kind I've ever heard of -- and believe me, I've done a bit of web-surfing on the subject -- is the Patek Philippe Calibre 89, released in 1989, an enormous pocket watch, 89 millimeters in diameter (it's been described as hockey-puck-sized) made in both gold and platinum, which weighs 1100 grams, around 2 1/2 pounds. But they only made 4 of them, and I'm not surely that any of those 4 is what you'd call for sale. Maybe for around $6 million. Or maybe not. (A newer pocket watch, the Vacheron Constantin Reference 57260, has surpassed the Calibre 89 as the world's most complicated watch, but it barely breaks the 2-pound mark. Pheh!)
In conclusion: no man is an island.
Monday, March 21, 2016
How I Can Tell Whether I'll Like A Book
CAUTION! Just because I like a book doesn't mean you'll like it too. Although if you like my writing, there may be a greater chance that you'll share some of my reading tastes than if you find my blog ill-written -- in which case I sincerely hope you find reading material which pleases you better, and recommend Stephen King and John Grisham, reckoning strictly from statistics.
The only way to know for sure, of course, is to read some of it. But there are so many books. How do I decide which ones to try? Here are some of the ways.
-- If a book is written in Latin and I haven't heard of it, I will be intrigued. (If I have heard of, there's a chance I already either have a copy or have decided I'm not interested. Life is to short for Cicero and Seneca.) Being intrigued at first glance is not always the same, of course, as eventually liking a book. But I've got this thing about Latin, seeing as how it's been in use in our civilization for thousands of years and was used by Caesar and Columbus and Milton and Spinoza, besides all of those kings and queens and Popes.
-- If a book is written by a Nobel laureate in literature, the chances are over 85% that I will like it very much. Other prizes aren't nearly so strong an indicator for me, but the Nobel folks and I seem to be on a similar wavelength. Except that they've given it to too many Scandinavian writers. Astonishingly, they managed to avoid giving it either to Ibsen or Strindberg, and still gave it to way way too many Scandinavians. Aside from 85% or so of the Nobel Literature laureates, authors whom I like generally are good guides to other authors I will like.
One notable exception is Thomas Pynchon's rave for Tom Robbins, nota bene, that's Tom Robbins, the novelist, not Tim Robbins, the tall, thin actor who supports the Democratic Party and used to be married to Susan Sarandon. I'm not saying Robbins is a bad writer, he's just -- well, for me personally, he's not nearly in the same class as Pynchon. Your mileage may vary, as Germans say. (They say that in English, about books or movies or whatever. It's weird.)
-- Lots of books have many blurbs on their covers. Sometimes these blurbs are attributed to a publication. For example, "Brilliant and deft." -- The New York Times Book Review. or "A pulse-pounding page-turner." -- Publishers Weekly. By and large, these anonymous blurbs mean less to me than ones attributed to specific people. Especially if they're attributed to Nobel Literature laureates or other writers I like. If King or Grisham recommends it, it's probably not for me. There are some exceptions to this: I cannot recall seeing a single blurb attributed to an individual rather than to a publication on the cover or first pages of any volume by Gore Vidal, although plenty of writers of whom I thought highly, thought highly of Gore. Strange. Perhaps when a writer produces big blockbusting bestsellers, and Vidal certainly did, publishers prefer anonymous blurbs. I don't know.
Nietzsche's reactions to authors are amazingly predictive of mine. The 1st half of p 65 of the insel taschenbuch-edition of Goetzen-Daemmerung (ISBN 3-458-34380-6) could almost have been written by me. Nietzsche compares Carlyle to puke -- nailed it. I hadn't read read any Carlyle before I read Goetzen-Daemmerung -- why didn't I listen about Carlyle? Well, anyway, I found for myself that I too find him absolutely disgusting, and now here I am warning you. Sorry to bring up something so unpleasant as puke, but, assuming my advice is as accurate for you as Nietzsche's is for me, I'm warning you.
-- If I've really liked one book by an author, I'm very rarely disappointed in others of his or her books. I'm not counting unfinished books which have been published posthumously, because, duh, they're unfinished. The biggest exception to my rule about non-posthumous books is the novel Ravelstein by Saul Bellow. That one had me shaking my head all the way through and muttering curses at Allan Bloom, neocon monster, Bellow's close friend, the author of The Closing of the American Mind and clearly the real-life inspiration for the title figure Ravelstein.
-- Different publishers go about their business in different ways. A book published by Oxford or Farrar, Straus and Giroux is more likely to be my kind of book than one published by Simon & Schuster, although here again, there may be exceptions published by Simon & Schuster or other lowest-common-denominator, their-books-are-in-grocery-stores-and-Wal-Mart's publisher. Those exceptions, those glorious exceptions are those few authors like Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer and John Cheever who are both popular and good.
The only way to know for sure, of course, is to read some of it. But there are so many books. How do I decide which ones to try? Here are some of the ways.
-- If a book is written in Latin and I haven't heard of it, I will be intrigued. (If I have heard of, there's a chance I already either have a copy or have decided I'm not interested. Life is to short for Cicero and Seneca.) Being intrigued at first glance is not always the same, of course, as eventually liking a book. But I've got this thing about Latin, seeing as how it's been in use in our civilization for thousands of years and was used by Caesar and Columbus and Milton and Spinoza, besides all of those kings and queens and Popes.
-- If a book is written by a Nobel laureate in literature, the chances are over 85% that I will like it very much. Other prizes aren't nearly so strong an indicator for me, but the Nobel folks and I seem to be on a similar wavelength. Except that they've given it to too many Scandinavian writers. Astonishingly, they managed to avoid giving it either to Ibsen or Strindberg, and still gave it to way way too many Scandinavians. Aside from 85% or so of the Nobel Literature laureates, authors whom I like generally are good guides to other authors I will like.
One notable exception is Thomas Pynchon's rave for Tom Robbins, nota bene, that's Tom Robbins, the novelist, not Tim Robbins, the tall, thin actor who supports the Democratic Party and used to be married to Susan Sarandon. I'm not saying Robbins is a bad writer, he's just -- well, for me personally, he's not nearly in the same class as Pynchon. Your mileage may vary, as Germans say. (They say that in English, about books or movies or whatever. It's weird.)
-- Lots of books have many blurbs on their covers. Sometimes these blurbs are attributed to a publication. For example, "Brilliant and deft." -- The New York Times Book Review. or "A pulse-pounding page-turner." -- Publishers Weekly. By and large, these anonymous blurbs mean less to me than ones attributed to specific people. Especially if they're attributed to Nobel Literature laureates or other writers I like. If King or Grisham recommends it, it's probably not for me. There are some exceptions to this: I cannot recall seeing a single blurb attributed to an individual rather than to a publication on the cover or first pages of any volume by Gore Vidal, although plenty of writers of whom I thought highly, thought highly of Gore. Strange. Perhaps when a writer produces big blockbusting bestsellers, and Vidal certainly did, publishers prefer anonymous blurbs. I don't know.
Nietzsche's reactions to authors are amazingly predictive of mine. The 1st half of p 65 of the insel taschenbuch-edition of Goetzen-Daemmerung (ISBN 3-458-34380-6) could almost have been written by me. Nietzsche compares Carlyle to puke -- nailed it. I hadn't read read any Carlyle before I read Goetzen-Daemmerung -- why didn't I listen about Carlyle? Well, anyway, I found for myself that I too find him absolutely disgusting, and now here I am warning you. Sorry to bring up something so unpleasant as puke, but, assuming my advice is as accurate for you as Nietzsche's is for me, I'm warning you.
-- If I've really liked one book by an author, I'm very rarely disappointed in others of his or her books. I'm not counting unfinished books which have been published posthumously, because, duh, they're unfinished. The biggest exception to my rule about non-posthumous books is the novel Ravelstein by Saul Bellow. That one had me shaking my head all the way through and muttering curses at Allan Bloom, neocon monster, Bellow's close friend, the author of The Closing of the American Mind and clearly the real-life inspiration for the title figure Ravelstein.
-- Different publishers go about their business in different ways. A book published by Oxford or Farrar, Straus and Giroux is more likely to be my kind of book than one published by Simon & Schuster, although here again, there may be exceptions published by Simon & Schuster or other lowest-common-denominator, their-books-are-in-grocery-stores-and-Wal-Mart's publisher. Those exceptions, those glorious exceptions are those few authors like Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer and John Cheever who are both popular and good.
Monday, February 8, 2016
None Of This Has Happened Yet
But of course it could start happening at any moment: I might notice that I have a flurry of new e-mails. Each one of them might inform me of one of a flurry of donations to my blog. I might look at the blog statistics and see a huge number of them for today and wonder Hmm, I wonder how that happened?
And then I see that my name is among a list of trending topics somewhere. Curious, I click on it and see that a distinguished member of the literati has discovered my blog, loved it and given it a rave review under the headline "YES HE KAN HAZ NOBEL!!!" The emails start pouring in, notifying me of more donations, but also emails from people who know me, but also some emails from people who don't know me, how did they get my email address? Suddenly many many comments are awaiting moderation on my blog, some of them from literary agents who want to be my agent. Some of the emails from people who don't know me yet are also from agents. The New Yorker wants to publish a lot of my blog posts. Book publishers want to publish collections of my posts, they're not waiting until I have an agent to get in touch, and now they've also started to hear that I've completed 2 novels and started some more and they're definitely interested in all of those.
I turn on the TV and see still photographs of my big ugly mug on CNN and MSNBC. And speaking of the news, here they come, there are several TV-news vans parked right outside. It's a narrow street and the news vans are starting to block it. I go outside and plead with the journalists to have some compassion for my neighbors who ordinarily drive on a regular basis. The news vans don't budge. Then I have the idea to give 10-minute exclusives to 1 reporter at a time, if the reporters promise to go away right after the exclusive and stay away for a week. So now there are interviews with me all over TV and the Internet -- and it works, after a little while my neighbors can actually drive past my house again.
A week later I'm no longer living at the same place, but at a hotel which very kindly offers to keep the press out for me, though it snarls their traffic now.
A week after that I'm living in an apartment in lower Manhattan, and in NYC they're used to celebs so I'm not being mobbed as much.
This could all start happening at any time. Any moment now...
And then I see that my name is among a list of trending topics somewhere. Curious, I click on it and see that a distinguished member of the literati has discovered my blog, loved it and given it a rave review under the headline "YES HE KAN HAZ NOBEL!!!" The emails start pouring in, notifying me of more donations, but also emails from people who know me, but also some emails from people who don't know me, how did they get my email address? Suddenly many many comments are awaiting moderation on my blog, some of them from literary agents who want to be my agent. Some of the emails from people who don't know me yet are also from agents. The New Yorker wants to publish a lot of my blog posts. Book publishers want to publish collections of my posts, they're not waiting until I have an agent to get in touch, and now they've also started to hear that I've completed 2 novels and started some more and they're definitely interested in all of those.
I turn on the TV and see still photographs of my big ugly mug on CNN and MSNBC. And speaking of the news, here they come, there are several TV-news vans parked right outside. It's a narrow street and the news vans are starting to block it. I go outside and plead with the journalists to have some compassion for my neighbors who ordinarily drive on a regular basis. The news vans don't budge. Then I have the idea to give 10-minute exclusives to 1 reporter at a time, if the reporters promise to go away right after the exclusive and stay away for a week. So now there are interviews with me all over TV and the Internet -- and it works, after a little while my neighbors can actually drive past my house again.
A week later I'm no longer living at the same place, but at a hotel which very kindly offers to keep the press out for me, though it snarls their traffic now.
A week after that I'm living in an apartment in lower Manhattan, and in NYC they're used to celebs so I'm not being mobbed as much.
This could all start happening at any time. Any moment now...
Friday, January 15, 2016
The Only Answer, And The Truth
"The only answer is true hair gel." "The only answer is true vegan diets." "The only answer is true Islam." "The only answer is true Christianity." "The only answer is true pilates." "The only answer is true atheism." "The only answer is true hemp -- not weed, not the stuff potheads smoke, but hemp, the kind George Washington make rope out of. It's a miracle plant and only it can save the planet." "The only answer is true switchgrass." "The only answer is true love." "The only answer is true heart change." "The only answer is a true heart transplant." "The only answer is true pacifism." "The only answer is true equality." "The only answer is true education." "The only answer is true two way communication." "The only answer is True Detective." "The only answer is true survivalist stockpiling diversity." "The only answer is true sexuality." "The only answer is true chastity." "The only answer is true Parmigiano Reggiano -- not that junk they sell at the supermarket." "The only answer is true peanut butter -- not that junk they sell at the supermarket." "The only answer is true heroin -- not that junk they sell at the supermarket." "The only answer is true high-powered hollow-point ammunition -- not that junk they sell at the supermarket." "The only answer is true change in Washington." "The only answer is true marital fidelity." "The only answer is true commitment to polygamy." "The only answer is true innovation." "The only answer is true preservation of tradition." "The only answer is true yoga -- not that junk they sell at the supermarket."
Perhaps you've begun to suspect that I don't actually believe that there is only one true answer.
But you're wrong.
am the only true answer! I must become extremely rich and famous, extremely soon -- for the good of the entire planet! Surely you can see that! Some might claim that I'm being greedy and selfish, but no, when you think about it, it's actually quite a noble sacrifice on my part. It's civic-mindedness by a conscientious citizen of Earth. It sort of brings tears to your eyes.
And time's a wastin'. I'm still not sure exactly how the nomination procedure for the Nobel Prize in Literature works, but I read something somewhere about each country sending names of candidates to the Nobel committee in February, which is right around the corner, and I still haven't been published in the New Yorker once!
The word must go forth at last! From billboards, bumperstickers, TV and Internet and print ads, on T-shirts and on the seats of snug sweatpants won by especially attractive people. The topic must trend, it must be on all lips and in all minds:
The only true answer is The Wrong Monkey!
Perhaps you've begun to suspect that I don't actually believe that there is only one true answer.
But you're wrong.
I
am the only true answer! I must become extremely rich and famous, extremely soon -- for the good of the entire planet! Surely you can see that! Some might claim that I'm being greedy and selfish, but no, when you think about it, it's actually quite a noble sacrifice on my part. It's civic-mindedness by a conscientious citizen of Earth. It sort of brings tears to your eyes.
And time's a wastin'. I'm still not sure exactly how the nomination procedure for the Nobel Prize in Literature works, but I read something somewhere about each country sending names of candidates to the Nobel committee in February, which is right around the corner, and I still haven't been published in the New Yorker once!
The word must go forth at last! From billboards, bumperstickers, TV and Internet and print ads, on T-shirts and on the seats of snug sweatpants won by especially attractive people. The topic must trend, it must be on all lips and in all minds:
The only true answer is The Wrong Monkey!
Monday, November 23, 2015
Dream Log: Steven Saul Bollinger Berenson Of The Wrong Homeland Monkey
I dreamed that I, Steven Bollinger, also known as The Wrong Monkey, author of this blog and perenniel contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature, was also, to a certain extent, the fictional Saul Berenson, big CIA muckety-muck portrayed by Mandy Patinkin on the TV series "Homeland." I wrote this blog and was myself, but I also had a huge magnificent beard like Saul's, and I worked at CIA headquarters in Langley. Working on this blog was my job at the CIA. No-one seemed to have any doubt that success on the blog, high readership and my professional success as a writer, equaled a good job done for the CIA and better security for the US.
However, at the moment my methods were unpopular. I was working on a computer program which, I was convinced, would bring more traffic to the blog and greater safety to the world. However, my colleagues -- young punks, most of them -- had very little if any confidence in my abilities as a programmer. It seemed clear to me that my program was working, but mysteriously, no one else seemed to notice that traffic on my blog had sharply increased.
A man who resembled Dar Adal, the fictional colleague of the fictional Berenson on "Homeland," came to invite me to have some waffles for brunch with him. I'd recently started jogging and didn't feel the need for all of that syrup and butter, but Dar was very insistent.
Everything seemed connected: the blog, espionage, jogging, waffles -- it all seemed like one seamless thing.
Walking to the restaurant which Dar had recently discovered to get our waffle brunch, the topic of conversation gradually turned from Dar raving about the waffles at this place, which Dar assured me would blow my mind, to Dar complaining about Carrie Mathison (the fictional character portrayed by Claire Danes on "Homeland," Saul's protégé and friend). Carrie was convinced that some vital intelligence was being passed at dog shows, and was spending a lot of time among the people who showed dogs, despite the CIA director threatening her with suspension or worse if she didn't stop this line of inquiry. Carrie herself had gotten a dog for the first time in her life and was bonding with it. As usual, many people seemed to think that Carrie had finally gone permanently insane, and very few people besides me/Saul could see that she was continuing to function at genius level.
The neighborhood we were walking through on our way to the restaurant was beautiful: full of high-end shops, with broad sidewalks which had recently been paved with tiles in dark earth-tones. Many trees lined both sides of the street, it was a pleasantly brisk autumn morning, there were a few leafs in various bright colors on the sidewalks, the laughter of schoolchildren on recess was faintly aubible. The whole area was like an embodiment of the very principles of prosperity, calm, good health and other good things.
But before we reached the restaurant, the dispute about Carrie had become so heated that Dar began to grab and push me in anger, and I turned around and headed back to the office rather than risk getting into an actual fistfight with Dar, who was also a friend as well as a colleague.
Everything seemed connected in my mind: the blog, the CIA, computer programs, jogging and eating healthy, waffles, the beautiful neighborhood, the laughter of children, dogs -- everything. As I walked back to the office I felt very frustrated, because I thought that Carrie could understand such connections much more clearly than I. I wanted to talk to her and ask her to explain the connectedness, or at least try to make it more comprehensible to me. But at the moment she was undercover with the show-dog people, and very hard to reach.
At the office I checked the stats for the traffic on my blog, and it seemed as clear as could be that my programming had increased the traffic tremendously.
Then it occurred to me that no-one else had looked at the stats on the terminal in my office. The blog stats were classified and encrypted and tightly controlled, I couldn't access them on a phone, and neither could anyone else, unless they were an excellent hacker, or had some kind of clearance which I didn't know for sure that anyone had.
Otherwise, the blog stats were only accessible on the terminals at Langley and a few other CIA offices around the world. I had assumed that my snot-nosed young colleagues, who had remained so strangely unimpressed by my program and its effect on the blog's traffic, had been looking at the same data as I -- but now it occurred to me that perhaps an enemy hacker had separated my terminal from the others, so that either I was looking at falsified stats about the blog, or everyone else was, or maybe even both.
Then I woke up.
However, at the moment my methods were unpopular. I was working on a computer program which, I was convinced, would bring more traffic to the blog and greater safety to the world. However, my colleagues -- young punks, most of them -- had very little if any confidence in my abilities as a programmer. It seemed clear to me that my program was working, but mysteriously, no one else seemed to notice that traffic on my blog had sharply increased.
A man who resembled Dar Adal, the fictional colleague of the fictional Berenson on "Homeland," came to invite me to have some waffles for brunch with him. I'd recently started jogging and didn't feel the need for all of that syrup and butter, but Dar was very insistent.
Everything seemed connected: the blog, espionage, jogging, waffles -- it all seemed like one seamless thing.
Walking to the restaurant which Dar had recently discovered to get our waffle brunch, the topic of conversation gradually turned from Dar raving about the waffles at this place, which Dar assured me would blow my mind, to Dar complaining about Carrie Mathison (the fictional character portrayed by Claire Danes on "Homeland," Saul's protégé and friend). Carrie was convinced that some vital intelligence was being passed at dog shows, and was spending a lot of time among the people who showed dogs, despite the CIA director threatening her with suspension or worse if she didn't stop this line of inquiry. Carrie herself had gotten a dog for the first time in her life and was bonding with it. As usual, many people seemed to think that Carrie had finally gone permanently insane, and very few people besides me/Saul could see that she was continuing to function at genius level.
The neighborhood we were walking through on our way to the restaurant was beautiful: full of high-end shops, with broad sidewalks which had recently been paved with tiles in dark earth-tones. Many trees lined both sides of the street, it was a pleasantly brisk autumn morning, there were a few leafs in various bright colors on the sidewalks, the laughter of schoolchildren on recess was faintly aubible. The whole area was like an embodiment of the very principles of prosperity, calm, good health and other good things.
But before we reached the restaurant, the dispute about Carrie had become so heated that Dar began to grab and push me in anger, and I turned around and headed back to the office rather than risk getting into an actual fistfight with Dar, who was also a friend as well as a colleague.
Everything seemed connected in my mind: the blog, the CIA, computer programs, jogging and eating healthy, waffles, the beautiful neighborhood, the laughter of children, dogs -- everything. As I walked back to the office I felt very frustrated, because I thought that Carrie could understand such connections much more clearly than I. I wanted to talk to her and ask her to explain the connectedness, or at least try to make it more comprehensible to me. But at the moment she was undercover with the show-dog people, and very hard to reach.
At the office I checked the stats for the traffic on my blog, and it seemed as clear as could be that my programming had increased the traffic tremendously.
Then it occurred to me that no-one else had looked at the stats on the terminal in my office. The blog stats were classified and encrypted and tightly controlled, I couldn't access them on a phone, and neither could anyone else, unless they were an excellent hacker, or had some kind of clearance which I didn't know for sure that anyone had.
Otherwise, the blog stats were only accessible on the terminals at Langley and a few other CIA offices around the world. I had assumed that my snot-nosed young colleagues, who had remained so strangely unimpressed by my program and its effect on the blog's traffic, had been looking at the same data as I -- but now it occurred to me that perhaps an enemy hacker had separated my terminal from the others, so that either I was looking at falsified stats about the blog, or everyone else was, or maybe even both.
Then I woke up.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Comment To Support A Petition To Award Me The Nobel Prize In Literature!
Just comment saying "Yes!" in order to support the petition.
Or, if you feel strongly enough that I must NOT be given the Nobel, comment and say "No!"
Feel free to include your reasons for or against in your comment.
Many thanks to the douchebags who started the petition to get Phil Collins to stop recording music, for giving me the idea. And for making me laugh and laugh and laugh, at the thought that they think they can do anything to Collins. And also, yesterday, when I found out about those douchebags and their petition, I researched "Take Me Home," a record I always liked, although I never had a clue what the lyrics were about -- and I found out that "Take Me Home" is a protest song, protesting the incarceration of people in mental institutions. So now I like it even more. I like it so much now that it makes me cry.
So thanks for that too, douchebags!
Or, if you feel strongly enough that I must NOT be given the Nobel, comment and say "No!"
Feel free to include your reasons for or against in your comment.
Many thanks to the douchebags who started the petition to get Phil Collins to stop recording music, for giving me the idea. And for making me laugh and laugh and laugh, at the thought that they think they can do anything to Collins. And also, yesterday, when I found out about those douchebags and their petition, I researched "Take Me Home," a record I always liked, although I never had a clue what the lyrics were about -- and I found out that "Take Me Home" is a protest song, protesting the incarceration of people in mental institutions. So now I like it even more. I like it so much now that it makes me cry.
So thanks for that too, douchebags!
Sacrifice: James George Frazer Explains It All For You
In case anyone hasn't already read James George Frazer's The Golden Bough: thousands of years ago most or all religions were based around human sacrifice. How many thousands of years depends on which culture we're talking about. The Aztecs and the Mayas still sacrificed humans 500 years ago. Human sacrifice came from people's observations of plants and from the beginnings of agriculture: a plant died, but then parts of the plants, the seeds, came back to life as more plants. Animal sacrifice was a step away from human sacrifice in the direction of not being religious at all. The ancient Greeks, Romans and Hebrews all practiced animal sacrifice. The animal sacrifices began as a quite conscious substitute for the human ones. Then as time passed the human sacrifices were pushed down deep into the subconscious, that place where things can be extremely dangerous if they're not dug up, dusted off and examined. Actually, the title The Golden Bough refers to human sacrifices performed by Romans not so long before Classical (ca 100 BC -- AD 100) Rome, the memory of which made the Classical Romans very uncomfortable. A case for the Truth Hurts Department.
The story of Abraham and Isaac comes from the time of the transition from human to animal sacrifice. The concept of Jesus as Savior is a huge step back, mentally, toward the time of human sacrifice.
It's all pretty clear, simple and straightforward once you've grasped it. And wise people write great books to help us grasp things.
So give me a Nobel Prize, you ungrateful turds!
Sorry. (But SHEESH! What have I got to do?!)
As always, I recommend the 12-volume unabridged version of The Golden Bough. But the 1922 1-volume abridgment is better than nothing, *sigh, sneer*, I suppose. The abridgment does away with all footnotes, and for reasons which I no longer even want to understand, many of you out there in the general public just hate footnotes. Heaven forbid you should ever read a footnote and understand an author's justification for what he or she writes.
Many people have objected to Frazer because he referred to "savages" and "civilized" people. I don't want to argue about this. If you want to argue about it, you should have no problem finding people who will either attack or defend Frazer for the use of such words, whichever side you're not on.
It seems to me that Frazer was not racist, and used words like "savage" and "civilized" because those were the words which people around him in Oxford used when they referred to people around the world. Certainly, plenty of Frazer's contemporaries in Europe were racist, in quite horrible ways. Frazer's big fan TS Eliot, for example, was quite nastily racist. But it seems to me that Frazer used similar terms, but in different ways, not judging people according to their ethnicity, and not claiming that "civilized" people were superior to "savages." (And, by the way, also not claiming that "savages" were superior to the "civilized," as did Rousseau -- although Rousseau actuallly never used the phrase "noble savage.") Again, I'm not interested in debating this. You think I'm wrong? Fine, I'm wrong. Plenty of people will be eager to agree with you, and many others will be eager to dispute what you say. Have fun, and give 'em all a great big kiss from me.
Now about that Nobel...
The story of Abraham and Isaac comes from the time of the transition from human to animal sacrifice. The concept of Jesus as Savior is a huge step back, mentally, toward the time of human sacrifice.
It's all pretty clear, simple and straightforward once you've grasped it. And wise people write great books to help us grasp things.
So give me a Nobel Prize, you ungrateful turds!
Sorry. (But SHEESH! What have I got to do?!)
As always, I recommend the 12-volume unabridged version of The Golden Bough. But the 1922 1-volume abridgment is better than nothing, *sigh, sneer*, I suppose. The abridgment does away with all footnotes, and for reasons which I no longer even want to understand, many of you out there in the general public just hate footnotes. Heaven forbid you should ever read a footnote and understand an author's justification for what he or she writes.
Many people have objected to Frazer because he referred to "savages" and "civilized" people. I don't want to argue about this. If you want to argue about it, you should have no problem finding people who will either attack or defend Frazer for the use of such words, whichever side you're not on.
It seems to me that Frazer was not racist, and used words like "savage" and "civilized" because those were the words which people around him in Oxford used when they referred to people around the world. Certainly, plenty of Frazer's contemporaries in Europe were racist, in quite horrible ways. Frazer's big fan TS Eliot, for example, was quite nastily racist. But it seems to me that Frazer used similar terms, but in different ways, not judging people according to their ethnicity, and not claiming that "civilized" people were superior to "savages." (And, by the way, also not claiming that "savages" were superior to the "civilized," as did Rousseau -- although Rousseau actuallly never used the phrase "noble savage.") Again, I'm not interested in debating this. You think I'm wrong? Fine, I'm wrong. Plenty of people will be eager to agree with you, and many others will be eager to dispute what you say. Have fun, and give 'em all a great big kiss from me.
Now about that Nobel...
Friday, October 16, 2015
Nur ein Beispiel: VDS
An die Leute in Deutschland:
Was ist ein VDS? Ich suchte bei der deutschen Wiki, das ergab Unmengen von "Vereinen deutscher S____". Es ist ueberhaupt schwierig (fuer mich), vom Ausland her Nachrichten zur deutschen Politik zu verfolgen: "--FGR kommt noch! --JKL-Schwaetzer! --Biste wohl WTY-Mitglied und unterstuezt NBL im Auftrag des QZX! --Lieber WTY als SCB mit UIJ und CSK-6!" Usw ohne Ende. So klingt es mir. Ich weiss gar nicht wie Ihr die Akronyme alle in die Koepfe erstmal kriegt. Und erst recht nicht weiss ich wo -- wenn ueberhaupt -- man die Akryonyme erklaert bekommt, die Ihr alle irgendwie schon auswendig kennt.
"Vorratsdatenspeicherung" also! Danke, Katharina! *vorratsdatenspeicherung googeln* (Oh my, that's a lot of very long words.)
Keine Sorge, ich waehle also (was Deutschland angeht, aus Notwendigkeit) den unpolitischen-Kuenstler Modell! Meine Nerven sind zu sensibel fuer derart lange rechtswissenschaftliche Woerter. Das heisst: ich bin ein eingebildeter Einfaltspinsel. Mindestens was deutschem politischem and und rechtlichem Jargon angeht. Offenbar. Wirklich, mein armer einfaetiger Kopf schmerzt schon beim Anblick von Beschreibungen der VDS. Aber es ist wirklich nicht so, als koennte mir etwas gleichgueltig sein, wenn es Euch wichtig ist. Ich hoffe dass Ihr trotz diesen peinlichen Zwischenfalls noch wir vor emsig herumsprechen werdet, dass ich den Lit-Nobel bekommen sollte meines hervorrangenden multispraechigen Genies wegen. Ich liebe doch alle! ¡No pasarán! ¡Nosotros pasaremos! veni vidi vici. Able was I ere I was Elba, usw usf.
»Die Betrachtungen waren also eine Kampfschrift, aber doch zugleich schon ein leidenschaftliches Stück Arbeit der Selbsterforschung und der Revision meiner Grundlagen... Aber Selbsterforschung ist meist schon der erste Schritt zur Wandlung, und ich erfuhr, daß niemand ganz der bleibt, der er war, indem er sich erkennt.« -- Thomas Mann
Was ist ein VDS? Ich suchte bei der deutschen Wiki, das ergab Unmengen von "Vereinen deutscher S____". Es ist ueberhaupt schwierig (fuer mich), vom Ausland her Nachrichten zur deutschen Politik zu verfolgen: "--FGR kommt noch! --JKL-Schwaetzer! --Biste wohl WTY-Mitglied und unterstuezt NBL im Auftrag des QZX! --Lieber WTY als SCB mit UIJ und CSK-6!" Usw ohne Ende. So klingt es mir. Ich weiss gar nicht wie Ihr die Akronyme alle in die Koepfe erstmal kriegt. Und erst recht nicht weiss ich wo -- wenn ueberhaupt -- man die Akryonyme erklaert bekommt, die Ihr alle irgendwie schon auswendig kennt.
"Vorratsdatenspeicherung" also! Danke, Katharina! *vorratsdatenspeicherung googeln* (Oh my, that's a lot of very long words.)
Keine Sorge, ich waehle also (was Deutschland angeht, aus Notwendigkeit) den unpolitischen-Kuenstler Modell! Meine Nerven sind zu sensibel fuer derart lange rechtswissenschaftliche Woerter. Das heisst: ich bin ein eingebildeter Einfaltspinsel. Mindestens was deutschem politischem and und rechtlichem Jargon angeht. Offenbar. Wirklich, mein armer einfaetiger Kopf schmerzt schon beim Anblick von Beschreibungen der VDS. Aber es ist wirklich nicht so, als koennte mir etwas gleichgueltig sein, wenn es Euch wichtig ist. Ich hoffe dass Ihr trotz diesen peinlichen Zwischenfalls noch wir vor emsig herumsprechen werdet, dass ich den Lit-Nobel bekommen sollte meines hervorrangenden multispraechigen Genies wegen. Ich liebe doch alle! ¡No pasarán! ¡Nosotros pasaremos! veni vidi vici. Able was I ere I was Elba, usw usf.
»Die Betrachtungen waren also eine Kampfschrift, aber doch zugleich schon ein leidenschaftliches Stück Arbeit der Selbsterforschung und der Revision meiner Grundlagen... Aber Selbsterforschung ist meist schon der erste Schritt zur Wandlung, und ich erfuhr, daß niemand ganz der bleibt, der er war, indem er sich erkennt.« -- Thomas Mann
Thursday, October 15, 2015
If You Tell Just 1 Person That I Deserve The Nobel Prize In Literature --
-- and that person tells just 1 more person, and that person tells another person, and so forth and so on: together, we can build a better world.
Here: look at this kitty:
-- you feel better already, dontcha? Yeah. Have a great day, everybody! And tommorrow -- have another one!
(PS: Of course, if you were to tell lots and lots of people instead of just one, that'd be even better. Or if you happen to have a cash surplus and you said it on a billboard or in a TV commercial. But if you only say it to 1 other person, that's great also. I mean it.)
Here: look at this kitty:
-- you feel better already, dontcha? Yeah. Have a great day, everybody! And tommorrow -- have another one!
(PS: Of course, if you were to tell lots and lots of people instead of just one, that'd be even better. Or if you happen to have a cash surplus and you said it on a billboard or in a TV commercial. But if you only say it to 1 other person, that's great also. I mean it.)
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Studien Belegen: Soziologe Sind Doof
Schwarzer Kaffee, Radieschen, Gin Tonic – wer diesen Nahrungsmitteln zugetan ist, hat häufiger psychopathische und sadistische Züge, zeigt eine aktuelle österreichische Studie. Wie entsteht dieser Zusammenhang?
Schwatzen Sie unaufhoerlich Quatsch? Dann sind Sie womoeglich Soziologe, zeigen Studien, die seit mehr als einem Jahrhunderte unternommen werden.
Steven Bollinger, Author des renommierten amerikanischen Blog The Wrong Monkey, erklaert die Zusammenhaenge:
"Soziologe sind doof."
Schon als kleines Kind ist dies dem Nobelverdaechtigen Blogger aufgefallen, und dass ein grosses Teil des Popblems davon haengt, dass Soziologe schwach in Math sind und in ihren nimmerendenwolldenden Studien Dateien sammeln, welche sie nicht in der Lage sind, richtig zu interpretieren.
"Nicht, dass in allen Faellen ueberhaupt nutzbare Dateien erst mal gesammelt werden,"
fuegt Bollinger hinzu.
"Es ist zum Heulen."
Schwatzen Sie unaufhoerlich Quatsch? Dann sind Sie womoeglich Soziologe, zeigen Studien, die seit mehr als einem Jahrhunderte unternommen werden.
Steven Bollinger, Author des renommierten amerikanischen Blog The Wrong Monkey, erklaert die Zusammenhaenge:
"Soziologe sind doof."
Schon als kleines Kind ist dies dem Nobelverdaechtigen Blogger aufgefallen, und dass ein grosses Teil des Popblems davon haengt, dass Soziologe schwach in Math sind und in ihren nimmerendenwolldenden Studien Dateien sammeln, welche sie nicht in der Lage sind, richtig zu interpretieren.
"Nicht, dass in allen Faellen ueberhaupt nutzbare Dateien erst mal gesammelt werden,"
fuegt Bollinger hinzu.
"Es ist zum Heulen."
Friday, October 9, 2015
No Nobel For These Guys
In this post I already mentioned Joyce and Wittgenstein and Doeblin and Musil and Ginsberg and Pound and Strindberg and Ibsen. Let us not forget:
Brecht.
Tolstoy. Hello.
Borges. (Yes: this is making me feel better.)
Nabokov.
Proust. (PROUST!!!!)
Mark For Crying Out Loud Twain Ladies And Gentlemen.
I apologize that it took me this long to mention: Gertrude Stein. Has the Nobel Committee ever apologized about her? I don't think so.
Zola. (ZOLA!!!!!)
Chekhov!
If I didn't mention your favorite writer who didn't win -- James, Woolf, Burgess, whomever -- that probably means that I'm okay with their not having won, and not that I forgot to mention them. Especially Burgess. I'm actually GLAD Burgess didn't win. Abridge Finnegan's Wake, pfffff... And that's not the only reason. Burgess also said and wrote other things which made one think he was the kind of simp who'd abridge Finnegan's Wake.
Brecht.
Tolstoy. Hello.
Borges. (Yes: this is making me feel better.)
Nabokov.
Proust. (PROUST!!!!)
Mark For Crying Out Loud Twain Ladies And Gentlemen.
I apologize that it took me this long to mention: Gertrude Stein. Has the Nobel Committee ever apologized about her? I don't think so.
Zola. (ZOLA!!!!!)
Chekhov!
If I didn't mention your favorite writer who didn't win -- James, Woolf, Burgess, whomever -- that probably means that I'm okay with their not having won, and not that I forgot to mention them. Especially Burgess. I'm actually GLAD Burgess didn't win. Abridge Finnegan's Wake, pfffff... And that's not the only reason. Burgess also said and wrote other things which made one think he was the kind of simp who'd abridge Finnegan's Wake.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
What Do I Have In Common With James Joyce And Ludwig Wittgenstein?
Well, first of all, obviously, they could write their asses off, like I can. They were autistic, I'm autistic. Joyce (1882 -1941) and Wittgenstein (1889-1951) didn't win the Nobel Prize in Literature (and it's not awarded posthumously), and I haven't won it yet. I'm not dead, but I'm freakin 54. Dead, no, grumpy, yes.
Doeblin, Musil, Allen Ginsberg, Ezra Pound, -- didn't win Nobels. All those Scandanavian writers nobody's ever heard of who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, you know who didn't? August Strindberg and Henrik Ibsen.
Today they announced the 2015 Literature Nobel, and as you can see, I'm not taking it well. They awarded it to some Belorussian lady, I'm sure she's a wonderful person and very deserving, yada yada, and that her books are magnificent, blah blah blah.
So. Maybe I'll have a great year between now and next October, a huge year, become rich and famous. If I do, of course, it will greatly increase my odds of winning a Nobel ("for his hilarious, poignant and profound blog posts about why he deserves it"), and of course, because of the Tom Petty Ab-So-Lute-Ly Backwards Law of Microeconomics, it will also mean that I will no longer NEED one.
James Joyce really could've used one, that guy dedicated himself to his art, and his art didn't sell during his lifetime. Vincent Van Gogh all over again except that Joyce handled the commercial failure and lack of fame much better. (And better than I am at the moment, yeah, yeah.) I don't know whether Wittgenstein really needed a Nobel, he had a day job as a Cambridge professor.
But it still woulda been nice.
Still. Most Nobel laureates have been magnificent writers, that's why I feel I'm not going out on a limb to say that Svetlana Alexievich probably is too. Who knows, maybe she's so magnificent, and the prize will give her enough recognition, that it will be she who finally turns human life away from its nightmarish aspects, and then I won't need a Nobel even if I don't make a huge splash.
Whatever.
Doeblin, Musil, Allen Ginsberg, Ezra Pound, -- didn't win Nobels. All those Scandanavian writers nobody's ever heard of who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, you know who didn't? August Strindberg and Henrik Ibsen.
Today they announced the 2015 Literature Nobel, and as you can see, I'm not taking it well. They awarded it to some Belorussian lady, I'm sure she's a wonderful person and very deserving, yada yada, and that her books are magnificent, blah blah blah.
So. Maybe I'll have a great year between now and next October, a huge year, become rich and famous. If I do, of course, it will greatly increase my odds of winning a Nobel ("for his hilarious, poignant and profound blog posts about why he deserves it"), and of course, because of the Tom Petty Ab-So-Lute-Ly Backwards Law of Microeconomics, it will also mean that I will no longer NEED one.
James Joyce really could've used one, that guy dedicated himself to his art, and his art didn't sell during his lifetime. Vincent Van Gogh all over again except that Joyce handled the commercial failure and lack of fame much better. (And better than I am at the moment, yeah, yeah.) I don't know whether Wittgenstein really needed a Nobel, he had a day job as a Cambridge professor.
But it still woulda been nice.
Still. Most Nobel laureates have been magnificent writers, that's why I feel I'm not going out on a limb to say that Svetlana Alexievich probably is too. Who knows, maybe she's so magnificent, and the prize will give her enough recognition, that it will be she who finally turns human life away from its nightmarish aspects, and then I won't need a Nobel even if I don't make a huge splash.
Whatever.
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