Echo

And now for another installment of the popular Basement feature “Gee, Where Have I Heard That Before?” The trigger this time was Strangers With Candy—specifically, the episodes where Jerri Blank joins a cult. The members sing a song repeatedly—relentlessly, one might even say. (After her ride in the van to Safe Trap House, Jerri says, “Boy, you people sure are fond of that ditty.” And that night: “Seriously, you people really need to learn a new song.”) It’s an old spiritual called “Welcome Table” and it goes like this (in the TV show):

Repeat fifty times and go slowly insane. And what did it trigger? This:

It’s the horn call from the overture to Oberon by some guy named Weber.

Okay, that’s all. Oh, wait: here’s another version of “Welcome Table,” from a Smithsonian collection:

The melodic line is a bit more nuanced. I don’t know which version is more common.

Okay, now we’re really done. I’m gonna sit at the welcome table …

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Lost

Maybe it has happened to you—it finally happened to me. You open an attachment directly in Outlook Express, edit it, and hit Save. Not Save As…—Save. Good luck trying to find the edited document.

I thought I could find where the document was saved by clicking on the attachment again, hitting Save As…, looking at the folder name in the address bar, and clicking up through the folders to the root of the C drive, noting the path traversed in reverse order. But, try as I might, I could not find that folder in the Windows XP file system. In fact, the drill-down came to a grinding halt halfway down: a folder that was supposed to be there wasn’t (and I’ve got my system set to display hidden folders and files, including “protected operating system files”). Hmm.

I looked for the folder using the Windows search function. No dice. Very strange. I double-checked the folder name, tried again. Not found. Weird.

As a last resort, I fired up the command prompt. I have to admit, it always feels good. It’s like an old friend—still “DOS prompt,” as far as I’m concerned. I didn’t get my hopes up, though, as I started down the path I had jotted down:

C:\>
C:\>cd documents and settings
C:\Documents and Settings>cd my_login_name
C:\Documents and Settings\my_login_name>cd local settings

Okay, the next folder—I mean, directory—I need is Temporary Internet Files, but guess what? It’s not there when I run the dir command (even with the /ah switch, which includes any hidden files in the directory). I go ahead and try to change to that directory anyway …

C:\Documents and Settings\my_login_name\Local Settings>cd temporary internet files

… and it works!

C:\Documents and Settings\my_login_name\Local Settings\Temporary Internet Files

(Folders with this name exist in various places on the hard drive, but supposedly not here, even though Outlook Express said it’s here.)

Clearly, I’m getting at directories and files that are beyond “hidden.” It’s like string theory or something. So I drill down to the last two directories (again, not visible with the dir /ah command):

C:\Documents and Settings\my_login_name\Local Settings\Temporary Internet Files>cd content.ie5*
C:\Documents and Settings\my_login_name\Local Settings\Temporary Internet Files\Content.IE5>cd a1b2c3d4

(The last directory/folder is a random string of eight alphanumeric characters generated by Windows.)

Sure enough, the file I’d edited was there. Why Windows programmers in their infinite collective wisdom decided to put it there instead of some reasonable and readily accessible Temp folder is beyond me.

To sum up: using one method, I could find a file but couldn’t get at it; using another, I could get at the file but couldn’t find it; using both, I could retrieve the goddamn file.

And with this we conclude Geek Time Radio Hour, brought to you by the makers of LAMP.
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*Using the Windows file system explorer, I couldn’t see this folder, so that’s where the drill-down stopped during that phase of the research. For some reason, Temporary Internet Files—the folder just above it—was visible (it was not when I explored using the command prompt, as noted).

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Shanty

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum …

I always imagined fifteen guys stomping up and down on some poor guy’s chest. Maybe I’m the only one—I never really checked with anyone else. Well, today I came across this translation at a Russian blog: пятнадцать человек на сундук мертвеца, which back-translates nicely to “fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,” but here the chest is a wooden thing you put stuff in, not the place where you breathe in and out (while you’re alive, anyway).

That certainly makes more sense. Still a tight fit, but more reasonable than fifteen pirates standing cheek-to-jowl on any person, prone or upright, living or dead. So, is that the correct interpretation?

Google to the rescue once again. Using the entire phrase as input, I found this:

Dead Man’s Chest is a tiny island that forms part of the British Virgin Islands in the Caribbean Sea. Pirate legends of the Caribbean claim that the notorious pirate Edward Teach (Blackbeard) marooned 15 of his pirate crew on “Dead Man’s Chest” as a punishment for their mutiny and desertion.

Can I trust this source? Let’s Google “virgin islands” + “dead man’s chest” … voilà: a nice Wikipedia article about Dead Chest Island. Apparently the name got shortened in the intervening years. At any rate, if you look at the photo of the island, you might imagine the thoracic cavity of a dead man floating in the water—if you have a particularly morbid turn of mind. So it would seem I was right all along. It’s just that the chest was metaphorical, and a whole lot bigger.

But wait! There’s an island south of Puerto Rico called Isla de Caja de Muertos—Caja de Muertos for short, which can be rendered in English as “Coffin of Dead Men” or “Dead Men’s Chest.” A wooden thing again! And really—why do I think I see an anatomical chest in the Virgin Islands and not a treasure chest (or chest of drawers, for that matter)? Round and round we go—maybe the Russian translator got it right.

I really thought the blogger had cleared up a problem I never even knew I had. Но, увы …

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Plagiarism

The recent news coverage of Barack Obama’s supposed “plagiarism” stirred up once again the confused pot of ideas I have or seem to have about originality and the overselling of same in the form of “intellectual property rights.”

Due to the unprecedented way my cortical convolutions took shape in the latter stages of my embryonic life, the thought occurred that Obama might be using a passage he had delivered in the past (whether he personally wrote it or not) that his friend Patrick Duval had borrowed and used during his campaign in Massachusetts. So Obama might actually be “plagiarizing himself.”

I’m not saying that’s what happened. In fact, that probably did not happen. I’m just saying it can happen, and certainly has happened.

Richard A. Posner, in his informative and entertaining Little Book of Plagiarism, offers several amusing instances of “self-plagiarism.” Anyone who has read Tristram Shandy cannot fail to be impressed by the range of its author’s scholarship—until you learn that Laurence Sterne lifted most of the recondite passages virtually intact from secondary sources. So he was a bit of a copyist, to say the least. But did he go too far when he “sent letters to his mistress that he had copied years earlier from letters he’d written to his wife”? As Posner notes, “His plagiarism could do no harm to anybody; only the discovery of it could.” [pp. 41–42] Just as with modern American politicians.

The Roman poet Martial makes note of a cockeyed version of self-plagiarism. According to Posner, in the first century A.D. “[a] plagarius was someone who either stole someone else’s slave or enslaved a free person.” In one of his epigrams, “Martial applied the term metaphorically to another poet, whom Martial accused of having claimed authorship of verses Martial had written,” Posner says. “It is unclear, however, whether he meant that the other poet had passed off Martial’s verses as his own or had claimed sole ownership (the verses were his slaves), precluding Martial’s claiming authorship.” [p. 50]

In our theoretical modern example of Martial’s dilemma, Obama would be censured for stealing Patrick’s words, when in fact he was the author. Again, this was almost certainly not the case. Probably what made me think of this possibility was the not-at-all-theoretical problem faced by Ambrose Bierce when he collected his sarcastic definitions, written over many years and printed in the periodical press, and published them in book form as The Devil’s Dictionary. As Bierce writes in the preface to his book:

The Devil’s Dictionary was begun in a weekly paper in 1881, and was continued in a desultory way and at long intervals until 1906. In that year a large part of it was published in covers with the title The Cynic’s Word Book, a name which the author had not the power to reject nor the happiness to approve. To quote the publishers of the present work:

“This more reverent title had previously been forced upon him by the religious scruples of the last newspaper in which a part of the work had appeared, with the natural consequence that when it came out in covers the country already had been flooded by its imitators with a score of ‘cynic’ books—The Cynic’s This, The Cynic’s That, and The Cynic’s t’Other. Most of these books were merely stupid, though some of them added the distinction of silliness. Among them, the brought the word ‘cynic’ into disfavor so deep that any book bearing it was discredited in advance of publication.”

Meantime, too, some of the enterprising humorists of the country had helped themselves to such parts of the work as served their needs, and many of its definitions, anecdotes, phrases, and so forth, had become more or less current in popular speech. This explanation is made, not with any pride of priority in trifles, but in simple denial of possible charges of plagiarism, which is no trifle. In merely resuming his own the author hopes to be held guiltless by those to whom the work is addressed—enlightened souls who prefer dry wines to sweet, sense to sentiment, wit to humour and clean English to slang.

Continue reading

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Terser

Okay, I’ve got a thing about verbal economy, but maybe this is too damn parsimonious.

A while back the online magazine Smith presented a six-word “story” by Ernest Hemingway:

For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

A remarkably concise tale indeed—pathos concretized pithily. Smith invited its readers to go mano-a-mano with Papa, and six-word memoirs from its readers came pouring in. The best were culled, and a book was born: Not Quite What I Was Planning, now available from your neighborhood bookseller.

Here are a few examples from the Amazon blurb:

  • Found true love, married someone else.
  • After Harvard, had baby with crackhead.

A few more from the Smith site:

  • This place is getting borderline crowded.
  • Married with children (and second thoughts).
  • Brush with Death; Comb with Life.
  • Interrupted invisible burnings always bright beneath.
  • I grew into an abusive child.

I’m trying hard to like these things. Some are clever, but something is bugging me. Maybe it’s the preponderance of abstract words. Or maybe it’s the syntax—too many words need to be supplied by the reader. Is that what makes them start to sound like snippets from the personal ads, or telegrams? Maybe six words is six words too few. Maybe twelve is really the lower limit for a reasonable intellectual or emotional payoff. Even then, what we get might be more like an aphorism or witticism than a “memoir” or “story.”

I think Hemingway’s sixer was pretty darn good (even though it, too, reads like a classified ad). I don’t know if I’ll seek out more.

Addendum 2008.03.02: Last week Salon got into the act. The results to date are not encouraging.

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Hillary

I voted for Hillary Clinton today in the DC Democratic primary.

Why? Let me put it this way. The Homer Simpsons and Montgomery Burnses and Mayor Quimbys and Kent Brockmans have been in charge forever and have managed to make a pretty good mess of things. It’s long past time for Lisa Simpson to have a chance to run the show.

Do you find Lisa Simpson insufferable? A bit of a know-it-all? Sure, we all do. Do you prefer Bart’s high jinks and dirty tricks? Homer’s lovable incompetence and intellectual laziness? Mayor Quimby’s comfortable if predictable blasts of hot air? Can’t help admiring the undeniable cleverness and longevity of Mr. Burns? Can’t get enough BS “news” out of your TV screen? Stick with the guys, then. They’re totally screwed up—in a sometimes entertaining, sometimes destructive way.

No, I didn’t vote for Clinton just because she’s a woman. But it sure didn’t hurt.

Links for the incurably curious:

  • eriposte at The Left Coaster on preferring Clinton (quite a lot of detail I wouldn’t have had the patience to compile)
  • Stanley Fish categorizes the responses to his blog entry on “Hillary hatred” (not just from the right, mind you)
  • The castration fears of Chris Matthews (speaking for his cohort)
  • Paul Krugman on the “Clinton rules” (and boy did some of his erstwhile admirers turn on him)

As Jimmy Durante used to say, “I got a million of ’em!”

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Newsbits

A day in the life …

Today it was announced that the legendary British band Deep Purple will perform in the Kremlin this month as part of the 25th anniversary celebration for Gazprom, the biggest extractor of natural gas in the world. Attendance will be by invitation only. Possible attendees include Russian President Vladimir Putin and Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev. The latter is also president of the Board of Directors of Gazprom, not to mention the beneficiary of Putin’s nod to succeed him. It turns out Deep Purple is Medvedev’s favorite group, and “Smoke on the Water” his favorite song.

Meanwhile, the head of the Moscow Guild of Markets and Street Fairs, Yevgeny Chivilikhin, was gunned down in an apparent contract killing. He escaped an earlier attempt on his life at the same spot in the summer of 2006 when he stepped inside No. 4 Leningrad Prospect seconds before a bomb went off. Chivilikhin was also codirector of the trade group Timiryazevsky.

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Biding

This is absolutely pathetic, and I don’t recommend it to my younger readers out there, but I’m creating an utterly meaningless blog entry just so that the month of January 2008 appears in the archive list.

I’m not going to make excuses. That would be as boring for me to write as for you to read. I’m not going to point at some other blogs that have been relatively quiet, as if to say, “Hey, that’s what winter is all about. Fields lie fallow. We sleep a lot, perchance to dream.” And so on.

Now, it is true that I’ve read several interesting books and would like to write something pithy and interesting about them to prove to myself that I understood and retained just a bit of them. It strikes me that February would be a good month to do that. So hold your breath, count to 10 to the tenth, and maybe find a pretty book review or two in the Basement.

I’m also overdue for a comment or two about Russia. Lots of stuff keeps happening there, for some reason.

In the meantime, go visit the new blog created by a colleague, Energy For Us All. It’s devoted to renewable energy, and I think it shows great potential.

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Triples

I learned something new today. (Did I learn something new yesterday? Hmm …) It’s New Year’s Eve, and I bought a beer I’d never tried—Bell’s Sparkling Ale. I’d tried several Bell’s brews and found them all excellent. Well, here’s how they tempt you on the back label of the tipple at hand: “Fill your glass and toast your friends with this special brew. Our take on the ‘glass of the bubbly,’ Sparkling Ale is an American Triple—light in color with a subtle fruit body.” I understood the “glass of the bubbly” part, but what the heck is a triple, American or otherwise? I know what a triple is in baseball, and I vaguely recall encountering it in my days editing a physics and math journal. But a triple ale?

Turns out it’s a beer with a higher-than-normal alcohol content. Some set the bar at 9%, and Bell’s Sparkling Ale is advertised at just that.

So now you enter 2008 knowing that, too, whether you care or not. Happy New Year!

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Space

Sunday was Show Us Your Blog Space Day. I found out about it (belatedly) over at the Newsrack Blog, whose proprietor was invited to participate. I figure my invitation was lost in the mail or something (this being the busy holiday season for the good old US Postal Service).

I hadn’t realized there was a pent-up demand for peeking at other people’s “work spaces,” or whatever you want to call them. But I guess it’s human nature, еspecially in these virtual times we live in, to be curious about how other people structure their personal space—their actual physical living place; or let it be structured, if we might assume the existence of a countervailing nonhuman structuring force that bugs the control freaks but provides such a cozy world for the inspired, the distracted, the … slobs.

Be that as it may,* as a semiconscientious blogger who may have a devoted reader, I feel it’s my duty to satisfy the curiosity that, left unfed, would eat away at the innards and, in a colossal ripple effect, like the butterfly in the Amazon, destroy Western Civilization, or at the very least, cause the cancellation of the Super Bowl. Or the banning of commas.

So here it is—my hallowed “blog space”:

Blogging in the Basement

The wine is Dr. Loosen, a nice little white from the sunny slopes of Germany. The wallpaper is the cover of a Soviet children’s book from the 1930s, Вчера и сегодня (Yesterday and Today), written by the great Samuil Marshak and illustrated by V. Lebedev, about whom I know nothing—sorry, V.! The bronze Taco valve serves the first and second stories; the green-blue one (with the blue-green corrosion at the joint) serves the basement.
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*Isn’t that a lovely phrase? I would use it all the time, if I could. [back]

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