Red Meat on exobiology.
I’m advancing a new theory explaining Fermi’s Paradox based on this very observation. To wit: extraterrestrial life has not contacted us because they’ve been watching our television signals, and they’re scared to death of the Martians, too.
I’m advancing a new theory explaining Fermi’s Paradox based on this very observation. To wit: extraterrestrial life has not contacted us because they’ve been watching our television signals, and they’re scared to death of the Martians, too.
I’ve been quiet on ‘duh war on tara’ lately. It’s painful to admit, but there’s a real problem, here…
See, I like to do satire. I used to believe I had some modest talents at it, in days of yore, when I did the odd column ‘n editorial ‘n cartoon.
Ah, the innocence and hubris of youth.
What is to be done, in these latter days, with the war on a certain notoriously easily redefined noun? When the most outrageous exaggeration you can imagine is in real and constant danger of being overtaken by real events?
I’m picturing the lot of the working cartoonist in this environment. Poor schmuck is sitting there thinking: ‘I know… it’s broad, and maybe a bit unfair, but easy… but let’s have US staff at Guantanamo farming out their expertise to someone really known for nastiness in the area… Like say the Chinese. In the word balloon is: ‘Man, let’s show you how this is done…’ Not funny, exactly, but then hell, this is satire. We’ll call it black humour. Appropriate for the subject, that…’
So he picks up his sable brush, dreams of telling his editor he’s got one for this week…
Then he turns on the news, and this story comes up…
At which point he swears under his breath, throws his brush in the wastepaper basket in disgust, and starts thinking about maybe getting into an easier line of work… Like maybe the mortgage repurchase ‘n underwriting game.
Me, I’m not goin’ near that stuff. But I’m starting to suspect maybe this is part of the media strategy. Avoid being satirized by making it redundant.
See, I like to do satire. I used to believe I had some modest talents at it, in days of yore, when I did the odd column ‘n editorial ‘n cartoon.
Ah, the innocence and hubris of youth.
What is to be done, in these latter days, with the war on a certain notoriously easily redefined noun? When the most outrageous exaggeration you can imagine is in real and constant danger of being overtaken by real events?
I’m picturing the lot of the working cartoonist in this environment. Poor schmuck is sitting there thinking: ‘I know… it’s broad, and maybe a bit unfair, but easy… but let’s have US staff at Guantanamo farming out their expertise to someone really known for nastiness in the area… Like say the Chinese. In the word balloon is: ‘Man, let’s show you how this is done…’ Not funny, exactly, but then hell, this is satire. We’ll call it black humour. Appropriate for the subject, that…’
So he picks up his sable brush, dreams of telling his editor he’s got one for this week…
Then he turns on the news, and this story comes up…
At which point he swears under his breath, throws his brush in the wastepaper basket in disgust, and starts thinking about maybe getting into an easier line of work… Like maybe the mortgage repurchase ‘n underwriting game.
Me, I’m not goin’ near that stuff. But I’m starting to suspect maybe this is part of the media strategy. Avoid being satirized by making it redundant.
20/05: Where I've been
Lots of places, actually. Boston environs, for most of a week, most recently. Work’s been heating up.
Went through a brief ‘why do I blog again’ thing, through all of this. And then remembered: because I don’t have to.
So I will.
Life news: I’m working on masonry this week. Steps, walks, and a low stone garden wall out front are/were* falling apart. They’re probably just short of 60 years old. We have to landscape more drastically out there, and soon, but this year is going to be more windows and some interior stuff, so in the meanwhile, I’ll patch up the crumbling bits of hardscaping one more time.
It’s not hardship, except the squeezing in the time part. I really like working with concrete, stone, and mortar. Said to a colleague a while ago when I retire I’m going to start building things out of stone full-time…
No, not for money. And not where anyone asks me to, either. Just at random. Some unsuspecting householder in suburbia who’s never met me comes back from vacation, and bam, there’s a miniature mediaeval castle on their lawn. Complete with archery turrets, a moat, and a portcullis. No particular reason. It just looked to me like there should be one there.**
*I’ve already got to some of this, just now.
**And when he asks his neighbours how it got there, they’re all like: ‘Well, we just assumed you wanted one. We tried to get him to stop just on principle (this is suburbia, and the block committee now has a strict no mediaeval fortresses policy, drafted just lask week), but he had a building permit… We thought it was a little strange that the guy building it wore a Nixon mask the whole time, but hell, y’know, you just don’t mess with a guy wearing a Nixon mask and using a wet saw.’
Went through a brief ‘why do I blog again’ thing, through all of this. And then remembered: because I don’t have to.
So I will.
Life news: I’m working on masonry this week. Steps, walks, and a low stone garden wall out front are/were* falling apart. They’re probably just short of 60 years old. We have to landscape more drastically out there, and soon, but this year is going to be more windows and some interior stuff, so in the meanwhile, I’ll patch up the crumbling bits of hardscaping one more time.
It’s not hardship, except the squeezing in the time part. I really like working with concrete, stone, and mortar. Said to a colleague a while ago when I retire I’m going to start building things out of stone full-time…
No, not for money. And not where anyone asks me to, either. Just at random. Some unsuspecting householder in suburbia who’s never met me comes back from vacation, and bam, there’s a miniature mediaeval castle on their lawn. Complete with archery turrets, a moat, and a portcullis. No particular reason. It just looked to me like there should be one there.**
*I’ve already got to some of this, just now.
**And when he asks his neighbours how it got there, they’re all like: ‘Well, we just assumed you wanted one. We tried to get him to stop just on principle (this is suburbia, and the block committee now has a strict no mediaeval fortresses policy, drafted just lask week), but he had a building permit… We thought it was a little strange that the guy building it wore a Nixon mask the whole time, but hell, y’know, you just don’t mess with a guy wearing a Nixon mask and using a wet saw.’
