I graduated college.
I got a new car.
Okay, so two things happened this last year. But next year will be better. It has to be.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year 2009
Another year gone. 2008 passed us by in a flash. A lot happened this last year.
I graduated college.
I got a new car.
Okay, so two things happened this last year. But next year will be better. It has to be.
I graduated college.
I got a new car.
Okay, so two things happened this last year. But next year will be better. It has to be.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A new blog
No, we're not moving.
The Right Wing is staying here.
However, some changes have been made.
A new blog has sprung up, here.
It's called Novel Idea, and it's where the fun happens, literarily speaking.
Please check it out.
As a side note, the regularly updated posting of Historia will now be moving to Novel Idea, as a means of better fitting the blog environment.
The Right Wing is staying here.
However, some changes have been made.
A new blog has sprung up, here.
It's called Novel Idea, and it's where the fun happens, literarily speaking.
Please check it out.
As a side note, the regularly updated posting of Historia will now be moving to Novel Idea, as a means of better fitting the blog environment.
What's Changing...
I’m a reader, and an unrepentant reader at that. I’ll read anything, and more likely than not, I’ll have some wise crack comment to make at the end of the day.
I’m also a writer, or as my friend Colin calls me, a “wordslinger.” (It’s a Dark Tower reference, I don’t expect many of you to get it.) I write mostly short fiction, but lately the stories have been growing, and I think a novel may one day appear.
So, if you read the year in review post, you’ll know that I’m changing the format of the Right Wing. I’m keeping the sports aspect, because I like writing about sports, but I’m leaving behind politics and all things political, unless I write a story about them, and I’m shifting focus to one of my true passions: Literature. The blog’s new format will feature book reviews, usually done as often as I finish a book, and for the whole month of January, as a dedication to my geekdom, I’ll review a different Star Wars book every day, for all thirty-one days.
I’ll also be posting some short fiction, and maybe even some long fiction in multiple parts, and I’ll be letting some of my friends post their own writings.
So I think I’ll ring in the New Year, and the new blog format, by explaining myself as a writer, in a very in-depth, personal interview conducted by myself.
Favorite Author?
I have many favorite authors. This is one of those questions that cannot be answered easily. J.R.R. Tolkien, Matthew Stover, James Rollins, Stephen King, Timothy Zahn, Douglas Adams… just to name a few.
Writing Inspirations?
If I had to choose the biggest inspirations to my writing, I’d say Douglas Adams and Stephen King. Adams brings a new kind of humour to books, even though most of his writing is over fifteen years old and, sadly, he passed away a few years ago. I think that a book written without any kind of humor is a sad attempt. Even the Bible has humour in it. Stephen King impressed me greatly with the Dark Tower series. I hope that one day I can be as powerful in writing as he is, and have the command of words that he does.
Favorite Genre?
Science fiction and fantasy are definitely high on the list, but I’m growing more and more interested in thriller sci-fi, like the SIGMA Force novels by James Rollins. Matthew Stover wrote a Star Wars book in the New Jedi Order series called “Traitor” and it’s a nice mixture of Star Wars saga and psychology, examining the differences between good and evil. I’m a huge “Lord of the Rings” fan, and I think “The Silmarillion” is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing available.
Writing Style?
If you mean my personal writing style, I’m a fan of a limited third person narrator. I like it when the narrator finds out stuff at the same time as the audience. Omniscient narrators bore me; they’re way too cut-and-dry, ‘absolute truth’ kind of narrators. Unreliable narrators, like the kinds found in a limited third person style, are way more fun. I truthfully don’t like writing in first person, although I’ve done it before, and depending on the situation it can be fun.
So what have you(I) written?
I’ve written some fan fiction stuff on a Legend of Zelda site, another story that might one day appear on the blog. It was written in first person and was a play off of the Ocarina of Time video game.
I’ve also written some other thing, obviously not counting academic work here. Historia is a work in progress that is already at roughly 25 pages in length. Historia is a “Picasso Literature” piece.
The Darby O’Hanlon story lives on in various incarnations, numbering from 14 pages up to 31 pages. If anything I’ve written could become a novel, I think that’s it.
And what exactly is “Picasso Literature?”
If you’ve read I, you know that the story makes sense, without making sense. The historical aspects follow no rhyme nor reason, but if you haven't studied the story really will not be as effective for you as for someone who has studied. Even in its silliness, it is educated literature. The fact that a Revolutionary War General is fighting on Pepperidge Farm while our hero makes his way through accompanied by a talking mouse is enough to drive anyone mad, until you dig into the story and see what's going on.
So what is going on?
How should I know?
I’m also a writer, or as my friend Colin calls me, a “wordslinger.” (It’s a Dark Tower reference, I don’t expect many of you to get it.) I write mostly short fiction, but lately the stories have been growing, and I think a novel may one day appear.
So, if you read the year in review post, you’ll know that I’m changing the format of the Right Wing. I’m keeping the sports aspect, because I like writing about sports, but I’m leaving behind politics and all things political, unless I write a story about them, and I’m shifting focus to one of my true passions: Literature. The blog’s new format will feature book reviews, usually done as often as I finish a book, and for the whole month of January, as a dedication to my geekdom, I’ll review a different Star Wars book every day, for all thirty-one days.
I’ll also be posting some short fiction, and maybe even some long fiction in multiple parts, and I’ll be letting some of my friends post their own writings.
So I think I’ll ring in the New Year, and the new blog format, by explaining myself as a writer, in a very in-depth, personal interview conducted by myself.
Favorite Author?
I have many favorite authors. This is one of those questions that cannot be answered easily. J.R.R. Tolkien, Matthew Stover, James Rollins, Stephen King, Timothy Zahn, Douglas Adams… just to name a few.
Writing Inspirations?
If I had to choose the biggest inspirations to my writing, I’d say Douglas Adams and Stephen King. Adams brings a new kind of humour to books, even though most of his writing is over fifteen years old and, sadly, he passed away a few years ago. I think that a book written without any kind of humor is a sad attempt. Even the Bible has humour in it. Stephen King impressed me greatly with the Dark Tower series. I hope that one day I can be as powerful in writing as he is, and have the command of words that he does.
Favorite Genre?
Science fiction and fantasy are definitely high on the list, but I’m growing more and more interested in thriller sci-fi, like the SIGMA Force novels by James Rollins. Matthew Stover wrote a Star Wars book in the New Jedi Order series called “Traitor” and it’s a nice mixture of Star Wars saga and psychology, examining the differences between good and evil. I’m a huge “Lord of the Rings” fan, and I think “The Silmarillion” is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing available.
Writing Style?
If you mean my personal writing style, I’m a fan of a limited third person narrator. I like it when the narrator finds out stuff at the same time as the audience. Omniscient narrators bore me; they’re way too cut-and-dry, ‘absolute truth’ kind of narrators. Unreliable narrators, like the kinds found in a limited third person style, are way more fun. I truthfully don’t like writing in first person, although I’ve done it before, and depending on the situation it can be fun.
So what have you(I) written?
I’ve written some fan fiction stuff on a Legend of Zelda site, another story that might one day appear on the blog. It was written in first person and was a play off of the Ocarina of Time video game.
I’ve also written some other thing, obviously not counting academic work here. Historia is a work in progress that is already at roughly 25 pages in length. Historia is a “Picasso Literature” piece.
The Darby O’Hanlon story lives on in various incarnations, numbering from 14 pages up to 31 pages. If anything I’ve written could become a novel, I think that’s it.
And what exactly is “Picasso Literature?”
If you’ve read I, you know that the story makes sense, without making sense. The historical aspects follow no rhyme nor reason, but if you haven't studied the story really will not be as effective for you as for someone who has studied. Even in its silliness, it is educated literature. The fact that a Revolutionary War General is fighting on Pepperidge Farm while our hero makes his way through accompanied by a talking mouse is enough to drive anyone mad, until you dig into the story and see what's going on.
So what is going on?
How should I know?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
'08 reviewed, '09 previewed
The year is drawing to an end. 2008. This long, drawn out year that passed by way too fast.
It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in class at North Georgia College and State University, and now I realize that I graduated nearly eight months ago. I drive around a new car, I have a seemingly different circle of friends than I did just a few months back. All those old college buddies seem to have gone their own way, and I'm back to my original group, those few who've been with me for the last eight to ten years.
I'm still single, but that's merely status quo. Some things never change, and for the last few years that's been one of them. But for a change, I'm not bitter about it. I'm actually more than okay with being single. I can't even afford living by myself, how do I think I could afford being with someone else?
So, I sit here, writing a blog post, listening to Proterra by Runrig, and now I've actually moved from one room to the other and I'm typing on another computer linked up to a TV. (Robert, this is the same TV that I was playing Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on an emulator with an X-Box controller the other day.)
I find myself thinking more and more about the differences between the me of 2007 and the me of 2008. Almost everything about me has changed, and yet everything remains exactly as it was. I still watch football, so that hasn't changed. I still watch auto racing, only the kind of racing I watch has changed.
I still write, only my writing has become rather silly, as anyone who's read Historia will tell you. My friend Ben calls it "Picasso Literature" and I'm inclined to agree. Robert talked about some novels that he's written, and, in similar fashion I have the same thing, only most of mine are the short story variety. I've dabbled with novels before, but novels are daunting to me, not because I don't think I can pull it off, but more because i think if I ever started writing a novel I wouldn't be able to stop.
I've been posting Historia on the Right Wing and also on Facebook, where I posted the Darby O'Hanlon story. One day I'll get that one on the blog.
And I'm realizing that it's tough to get a handle on this particular post. I can't really decide what direction to go in. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.
So, with that decided (the decision being that I'm not sure where this post is headed), I'll say this. January 1st will see the launch of the new Right Wing. We're keeping the sports commentary, but we're dropping politics altogether. Instead, the Right Wing will become a literary haven. Book reviews will become normal. More short fiction will appear. Heck, we may even have some guest writers (real ones this time, not the fake stuff we tried a while back).
So Enjoy the Right Wing in 2009.
Robert, we'll miss ya' buddy.
It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in class at North Georgia College and State University, and now I realize that I graduated nearly eight months ago. I drive around a new car, I have a seemingly different circle of friends than I did just a few months back. All those old college buddies seem to have gone their own way, and I'm back to my original group, those few who've been with me for the last eight to ten years.
I'm still single, but that's merely status quo. Some things never change, and for the last few years that's been one of them. But for a change, I'm not bitter about it. I'm actually more than okay with being single. I can't even afford living by myself, how do I think I could afford being with someone else?
So, I sit here, writing a blog post, listening to Proterra by Runrig, and now I've actually moved from one room to the other and I'm typing on another computer linked up to a TV. (Robert, this is the same TV that I was playing Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on an emulator with an X-Box controller the other day.)
I find myself thinking more and more about the differences between the me of 2007 and the me of 2008. Almost everything about me has changed, and yet everything remains exactly as it was. I still watch football, so that hasn't changed. I still watch auto racing, only the kind of racing I watch has changed.
I still write, only my writing has become rather silly, as anyone who's read Historia will tell you. My friend Ben calls it "Picasso Literature" and I'm inclined to agree. Robert talked about some novels that he's written, and, in similar fashion I have the same thing, only most of mine are the short story variety. I've dabbled with novels before, but novels are daunting to me, not because I don't think I can pull it off, but more because i think if I ever started writing a novel I wouldn't be able to stop.
I've been posting Historia on the Right Wing and also on Facebook, where I posted the Darby O'Hanlon story. One day I'll get that one on the blog.
And I'm realizing that it's tough to get a handle on this particular post. I can't really decide what direction to go in. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.
So, with that decided (the decision being that I'm not sure where this post is headed), I'll say this. January 1st will see the launch of the new Right Wing. We're keeping the sports commentary, but we're dropping politics altogether. Instead, the Right Wing will become a literary haven. Book reviews will become normal. More short fiction will appear. Heck, we may even have some guest writers (real ones this time, not the fake stuff we tried a while back).
So Enjoy the Right Wing in 2009.
Robert, we'll miss ya' buddy.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmastime Dawns Bleak...
Well, have you looked outside recently. This doesn't look like Christmas Eve so much as it looks like mid-June in London. It's way too warm for late December, and there certainly hasn't been enough snow to satisfy the kid that I haven't stopped being yet.
But it is Christmastime nonetheless. The presents are scattered under the tree, the lights are strung up around the house, and I sitting at work right now, because I have to be here, and I'm not sure exactly for how long I'll be here today. We have no trucks scheduled to be rented out, we have no sign orders in need of immediate attention, and by that, I mean I have no orders, and the boss's dogs aren't here today, so that little bit o' Heaven isn't happening.
But I'm cool with it. I'll survive. It's what I do.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all... well... God, I just realized how Socialist that sentence is... Dang.
Merry Christmas everyone!
But it is Christmastime nonetheless. The presents are scattered under the tree, the lights are strung up around the house, and I sitting at work right now, because I have to be here, and I'm not sure exactly for how long I'll be here today. We have no trucks scheduled to be rented out, we have no sign orders in need of immediate attention, and by that, I mean I have no orders, and the boss's dogs aren't here today, so that little bit o' Heaven isn't happening.
But I'm cool with it. I'll survive. It's what I do.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all... well... God, I just realized how Socialist that sentence is... Dang.
Merry Christmas everyone!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
medlies
So I built a Metallica intro medley on guitar.
It takes the intro piece to Welcome Home(Sanitarium), then transitions into the intro to One, then the intro to Fade to Black, and closes with various piece of Unforgiven. I'm thinking that I'll try mixing it up a lot.
If you've never done anything like this and you play a musical instrument, give it a try. You might find that you like it.
It takes the intro piece to Welcome Home(Sanitarium), then transitions into the intro to One, then the intro to Fade to Black, and closes with various piece of Unforgiven. I'm thinking that I'll try mixing it up a lot.
If you've never done anything like this and you play a musical instrument, give it a try. You might find that you like it.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Historia, Part XIII
The City of Lithe is an impossible dream. It has been flooded more times than the engine of a silly 1970s British Leyland automobile (preferably the Dolomite Sprint, 1976 version), and yet the inhabitants refuse to move. The ground is so soft that most buildings in Lithe sink on average six inches a year, and because of this the city council orders the roads and streets dug lower. The city was actually built atop a mountain, but because of this sinking and digging out process, they’ve gradually, over the course of a couple of hundred years, dug their very own valley, which directed the river even more so at them.
As the valley grew deeper, the people of Lithe came to depend more and more on the talking Beavers to dam the river and maintain the water flow. Even then, though, the water was still too much for a group of Beavers to control.
The floods came irregularly, and there was always a moments warning from watchtowers built along the north end, river facing, part of the city. Because of this warning, Clifford Jenkins survived the eighty-fifth flood to hit Lithe that year. The previous record for most flood in a year had been a paltry sixty-seven, but that had been before the Great Drought had decimated the lands around Historia and had brought ruin nigh to Lithe itself.
Now, a drenched Clifford Jenkins was busily searching through the desolation that had once been a market. Some vendors were out once again restoring their stalls. Some were talking. He was piecing together bits of news about the city without even realizing it.
“They said that the bank just sank eight inches with that flood. We’ll be digging it out soon.”
“I heard that the north wall was damaged this time. They said that the Rigger may fall.”
Clifford kept searching, but asked in the general direction of those talking, “What’s the Rigger?”
The man tapped him on the shoulder, “Look here, mate.” He pointed to the north wall where, framed against a graying sky stood four massive towers, “Starting from the left there’s The Garrison, The Helmstaad, The Rigger, and The Morii. The watchtowers of the city north, named for the gods of Lithe itself. No watchtower has fallen in five hundred years. Now The Rigger might.”
Clifford turned back to the fallen stalls, “Sorry to hear that.”
The other man, the one who hadn’t pointed out the watchtowers, walked up, “What are you looking for?”
Clifford continued moving things, pushing back pieces of wood, flaps of cloth, “I lost my friend in the flood.”
The man knelt down and began moving things around, mostly stuff that Clifford had already pushed aside, “The talking mouse?”
Clifford stopped, “How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just know that in all that water, in all that chaos, I saw a talking mouse. It screamed out something as it rushed past me.”
Clifford grabbed the man’s shoulders, “What did he say?”
“Go west.”
Clifford sat back, “Go west? I’ve been going west. It’s the only way to Historia.”
“You’re going to Historia?”
“Yes.”
The man offered his hand to help Clifford up, “I am as well. Jaime Conner, post-boy, although I am twenty-seven years old.”
Clifford couldn’t stop thinking about Schrodinger, “You were the one who told the people at the farm of Pepperidge that Nostalgia was a ghost town.”
Jaime looked confused, “Well, I do go to the Pepperidge farm at least once a fortnight, and the last time I was in Nostalgia it was nearly deserted. Only about fifteen left there.”
“I just left Nostalgia about...” Then Clifford realized that he had no idea how long he’d been gone. He stood there looking at Jaime rather stupidly.
“I was in Nostalgia one week ago,” Jaime said, “That’s when I found out that Nostalgia was a ghost town.”
Clifford tried to reconcile the time difference in his head and found that he was completely unable to. He’d either been gone for far longer than he thought, or his “gift” as Schrodinger called it had conjured up an entire town.
Schrodinger. Poor Schrodinger.
As the valley grew deeper, the people of Lithe came to depend more and more on the talking Beavers to dam the river and maintain the water flow. Even then, though, the water was still too much for a group of Beavers to control.
The floods came irregularly, and there was always a moments warning from watchtowers built along the north end, river facing, part of the city. Because of this warning, Clifford Jenkins survived the eighty-fifth flood to hit Lithe that year. The previous record for most flood in a year had been a paltry sixty-seven, but that had been before the Great Drought had decimated the lands around Historia and had brought ruin nigh to Lithe itself.
Now, a drenched Clifford Jenkins was busily searching through the desolation that had once been a market. Some vendors were out once again restoring their stalls. Some were talking. He was piecing together bits of news about the city without even realizing it.
“They said that the bank just sank eight inches with that flood. We’ll be digging it out soon.”
“I heard that the north wall was damaged this time. They said that the Rigger may fall.”
Clifford kept searching, but asked in the general direction of those talking, “What’s the Rigger?”
The man tapped him on the shoulder, “Look here, mate.” He pointed to the north wall where, framed against a graying sky stood four massive towers, “Starting from the left there’s The Garrison, The Helmstaad, The Rigger, and The Morii. The watchtowers of the city north, named for the gods of Lithe itself. No watchtower has fallen in five hundred years. Now The Rigger might.”
Clifford turned back to the fallen stalls, “Sorry to hear that.”
The other man, the one who hadn’t pointed out the watchtowers, walked up, “What are you looking for?”
Clifford continued moving things, pushing back pieces of wood, flaps of cloth, “I lost my friend in the flood.”
The man knelt down and began moving things around, mostly stuff that Clifford had already pushed aside, “The talking mouse?”
Clifford stopped, “How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just know that in all that water, in all that chaos, I saw a talking mouse. It screamed out something as it rushed past me.”
Clifford grabbed the man’s shoulders, “What did he say?”
“Go west.”
Clifford sat back, “Go west? I’ve been going west. It’s the only way to Historia.”
“You’re going to Historia?”
“Yes.”
The man offered his hand to help Clifford up, “I am as well. Jaime Conner, post-boy, although I am twenty-seven years old.”
Clifford couldn’t stop thinking about Schrodinger, “You were the one who told the people at the farm of Pepperidge that Nostalgia was a ghost town.”
Jaime looked confused, “Well, I do go to the Pepperidge farm at least once a fortnight, and the last time I was in Nostalgia it was nearly deserted. Only about fifteen left there.”
“I just left Nostalgia about...” Then Clifford realized that he had no idea how long he’d been gone. He stood there looking at Jaime rather stupidly.
“I was in Nostalgia one week ago,” Jaime said, “That’s when I found out that Nostalgia was a ghost town.”
Clifford tried to reconcile the time difference in his head and found that he was completely unable to. He’d either been gone for far longer than he thought, or his “gift” as Schrodinger called it had conjured up an entire town.
Schrodinger. Poor Schrodinger.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Football Future-see Bowl Edition
Bowl Season is upon us once more, and for the final Football Future-see of 2008, we bring you 10 bowl games. Hopefully we'll go 10-0 this time and finally gain the perfection we sought all year. Hopefully...
BCS Championship Game: (1) Oklahoma vs. (2) Florida
Florida won the SEC. Oklahoma won the Big XII, and in the process scored 60 points or more in their last five games, an NCAA record. The trouble for Oklahoma is simple: they've never played a tough defense. TCU was tough on the Sooners, but the Gator "D" is far and away one of the fastest and most troublesome in the country. Sam Bradford would like to win the Heisman and the National Championship in the same year, but it just isn't meant to be.
Final Score: Florida 31, Oklahoma 24
Fiesta Bowl: (10) Ohio State vs. (3) Texas
Texas really wants to make an argument that they belong in the BCS National Title game, but their argument basically states that a Big XII team can play for the Championship without winning the conference but an SEC team cannot do the same. Colt McCoy is completing nearly 8 out of every 10 passes, and the Longhorn offense is rolling. Ohio State hasn't been the same since USC crushed them in September.
Final Score: Texas 28, Ohio State 13
Sugar Bowl: (6) Utah vs. (4) Alabama
The Crimson Tide come into this game angry. They won all season until clashing with Florida. Now, much like Georgia last season, the Tide finds itself in a BCS Bowl against a Non-BCS Conference opponent, something that seems to happen a lot. It's almost as if the NCAA doesn't want the SEC playing against other BCS Conferences. Alabama will take the Utes apart thanks in large part to winning the battle along the line.
Final Score: Alabama 31, Utah 17
Rose Bowl: (5) USC vs. (8) Penn State
USC has, perhaps, the toughest defense in the country. Penn State has what they call the "Spread HD" offense. All of this means nothing. USC will dominate the game again. Joe Pa has already stated that he'll be back for his 910th season as the Nittany Lions coach. The Trojans have already stated that they'd like to be the NFL team in Los Angeles.
Final Score: USC 38, Penn State 14
Orange Bowl: (12) Cincinnati vs. (19) Virginia Tech
Virginia Tech overcame Boston College to win the ACC, and somehow, in the Big East, which can only be described using the word "cluster," Cincinnati came out on top. The Bearcats have never been to a BCS bowl, and we think that after this trip, their BCS record will be 0-1.
Final Score: Virginia Tech 38, Cincinnati 20
Capital One Bowl: (15) Georgia vs. (18) Michigan State
Two of the nations premier running backs will be on display in this game. MSU's Javon Ringer challenged Beanie Wells as the best running back in the Big Ten, and Knowshon Moreno led Georgia's ground game in all aspects, making more than a few highlight reel runs along the way. Georgia's defense has been a bit suspect lately, and the offensive line was patchwork at best all season. But this could be Moreno and UGA QB Matthew Stafford's last game as Bulldogs, so they'll make it count.
Final Score: Georgia 28, Michigan State 17
Chick-fil-A Bowl: (14) Georgia Tech vs. LSU
Georgia Tech puts up points in bunches. They rattled off 409 rushing yards against UGA, winning 45-42. LSU just couldn't seem to find the track this years, and when they did, they couldn't stay on it. Uncertainty at QB didn't help the Tigers. Georgia Tech will bring the option offense in full force.
Final Score: Georgia Tech 34, LSU 17
Cotton Bowl: (7) Texas Tech vs. (25) Ole Miss
Texas Tech has one of the most potent offenses ever assembled in college football history. That said, they really didn't play any big time defenses this year. Ole Miss, however, after playing in the SEC, played a big time defense almost every week. That's the difference between the conferences. But in the end, Graham Harrell and Michael Crabtree will be out to prove they deserved better than the Cotton Bowl.
Final Score: Texas Tech 34, Ole Miss 17
Poinsettia Bowl: (9) Boise State vs. (11) TCU
Here's a game the features two teams that deserved much better fates than this. Boise State was 12-0 and #9 in the BCS rankings, but the Fiesta Bowl passed on the Broncos in favors of 10-2 Ohio State. TCU has perhaps the most stout defense in the country. They even gave Oklahoma a scare. Boise State will likely let their emotions get the best of them, and TCU will capitalize on every mistake.
Final Score TCU 28, Boise State 20
International Bowl: Buffalo vs. Connecticut
This is the only the second time in Buffalo's 107 year history as a program that they've been invited to a bowl game. They were invited to the 1958 Tangerine Bowl in Orlando, but after being told that the 2 black athletes on the team were NOT invited, the rest of the players refused in invitation. Buffalo came out of nowhere to upset previously unbeaten Ball State in the MAC Championship Game. Now they face a fairly tough opponent in UCONN. But the joy of a first bowl trip gives the Bulls the edge.
Final Score: Buffalo 30, Connecticut 21
BCS Championship Game: (1) Oklahoma vs. (2) Florida
Florida won the SEC. Oklahoma won the Big XII, and in the process scored 60 points or more in their last five games, an NCAA record. The trouble for Oklahoma is simple: they've never played a tough defense. TCU was tough on the Sooners, but the Gator "D" is far and away one of the fastest and most troublesome in the country. Sam Bradford would like to win the Heisman and the National Championship in the same year, but it just isn't meant to be.
Final Score: Florida 31, Oklahoma 24
Fiesta Bowl: (10) Ohio State vs. (3) Texas
Texas really wants to make an argument that they belong in the BCS National Title game, but their argument basically states that a Big XII team can play for the Championship without winning the conference but an SEC team cannot do the same. Colt McCoy is completing nearly 8 out of every 10 passes, and the Longhorn offense is rolling. Ohio State hasn't been the same since USC crushed them in September.
Final Score: Texas 28, Ohio State 13
Sugar Bowl: (6) Utah vs. (4) Alabama
The Crimson Tide come into this game angry. They won all season until clashing with Florida. Now, much like Georgia last season, the Tide finds itself in a BCS Bowl against a Non-BCS Conference opponent, something that seems to happen a lot. It's almost as if the NCAA doesn't want the SEC playing against other BCS Conferences. Alabama will take the Utes apart thanks in large part to winning the battle along the line.
Final Score: Alabama 31, Utah 17
Rose Bowl: (5) USC vs. (8) Penn State
USC has, perhaps, the toughest defense in the country. Penn State has what they call the "Spread HD" offense. All of this means nothing. USC will dominate the game again. Joe Pa has already stated that he'll be back for his 910th season as the Nittany Lions coach. The Trojans have already stated that they'd like to be the NFL team in Los Angeles.
Final Score: USC 38, Penn State 14
Orange Bowl: (12) Cincinnati vs. (19) Virginia Tech
Virginia Tech overcame Boston College to win the ACC, and somehow, in the Big East, which can only be described using the word "cluster," Cincinnati came out on top. The Bearcats have never been to a BCS bowl, and we think that after this trip, their BCS record will be 0-1.
Final Score: Virginia Tech 38, Cincinnati 20
Capital One Bowl: (15) Georgia vs. (18) Michigan State
Two of the nations premier running backs will be on display in this game. MSU's Javon Ringer challenged Beanie Wells as the best running back in the Big Ten, and Knowshon Moreno led Georgia's ground game in all aspects, making more than a few highlight reel runs along the way. Georgia's defense has been a bit suspect lately, and the offensive line was patchwork at best all season. But this could be Moreno and UGA QB Matthew Stafford's last game as Bulldogs, so they'll make it count.
Final Score: Georgia 28, Michigan State 17
Chick-fil-A Bowl: (14) Georgia Tech vs. LSU
Georgia Tech puts up points in bunches. They rattled off 409 rushing yards against UGA, winning 45-42. LSU just couldn't seem to find the track this years, and when they did, they couldn't stay on it. Uncertainty at QB didn't help the Tigers. Georgia Tech will bring the option offense in full force.
Final Score: Georgia Tech 34, LSU 17
Cotton Bowl: (7) Texas Tech vs. (25) Ole Miss
Texas Tech has one of the most potent offenses ever assembled in college football history. That said, they really didn't play any big time defenses this year. Ole Miss, however, after playing in the SEC, played a big time defense almost every week. That's the difference between the conferences. But in the end, Graham Harrell and Michael Crabtree will be out to prove they deserved better than the Cotton Bowl.
Final Score: Texas Tech 34, Ole Miss 17
Poinsettia Bowl: (9) Boise State vs. (11) TCU
Here's a game the features two teams that deserved much better fates than this. Boise State was 12-0 and #9 in the BCS rankings, but the Fiesta Bowl passed on the Broncos in favors of 10-2 Ohio State. TCU has perhaps the most stout defense in the country. They even gave Oklahoma a scare. Boise State will likely let their emotions get the best of them, and TCU will capitalize on every mistake.
Final Score TCU 28, Boise State 20
International Bowl: Buffalo vs. Connecticut
This is the only the second time in Buffalo's 107 year history as a program that they've been invited to a bowl game. They were invited to the 1958 Tangerine Bowl in Orlando, but after being told that the 2 black athletes on the team were NOT invited, the rest of the players refused in invitation. Buffalo came out of nowhere to upset previously unbeaten Ball State in the MAC Championship Game. Now they face a fairly tough opponent in UCONN. But the joy of a first bowl trip gives the Bulls the edge.
Final Score: Buffalo 30, Connecticut 21
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Top Gear
It’s been a year of new experiences for me. I graduated college, I got a new car, for the first time since I was three I don’t have to go to class, I shunned NASCAR for the far superior Formula 1, I started watching the Volkswagen Jetta TDI series, and I watched some of the Petit Le Mans series on SPEED…Are you noticing a trend here? I am more into cars than I’ve ever been. I’ve always been a bit of a nerd. I have never been much of a gear head or grease monkey. About the only thing I know how to do on a car is fill the gas tank when it reaches E. I’ve changed a tyre once in my life, and that was by necessity.
But something new has happened… well, not exactly new, it’s been around for ages, only I’ve just now discovered the greatness of it, and, much like Formula 1, I’m hooked.
It’s called Top Gear. Before we go any further, Robert, stop smirking, you knew this day would come. See, Robert over at Skewed has been a fan of Top Gear for longer than I’ve known him. And when I told him the other day that I was started to like the show, he actually groaned in dismay. Apparently (and I was unaware of this fact) the BBC produces Top Gear for the sole viewing pleasure of Robert Rennie.
But Top Gear is a beautiful show. The hosts are Jeremy Clarkson, Richard “The Fridge Magnet Hamster”
Once upon a time, not so long ago, in fact, it was probably about a month ago, I couldn’t tell you anything about a car engine. Then I spent most of last night talking to my dad about the Audi RS6 Estate Car, with a 5 litre V10 engine with twin turbochargers, clocking in at 572 horsepower and a top speed governed at 155 miles per hour, but ungoverned on the Autobahn the Audi test pilots have had it over 200mph.
Watching Clarkson fly around the track in a Ferrari Scuderia was a blast. Watching the The Stig do it, even better, because the Stig drives like a Thomas Kincaid painting, it looks better and better, no matter what light you put it in.
The boys of Top Gear have their own test track, their own tame driver (The Stig), and a seemingly endless revenue flow from the producers. Richard Hammond is the heartthrob, according to pretty much every female that watches the show. Jeremy Clarkson is the comic relief. And James May looks like he smokes a doobie before going out on stage every show.
One week the boys’ll be burning down a car wash (yes, they actually burned down a £1 million car wash), the next week they’ll take five supercars and race them against each other with only one gallon of petrol (we call that gas). One of the best moments was when they took on the challenge of proving that, in the 1970s, British Leyland actually did make a good car. All three failed in hilariously spectacular fashion.
I really enjoyed watching as they were each given 1000 quid and told to buy a used car that would serve as the new British police car. Jeremy Clarkson showed up with a Fiat Coupe, James May with a Lexus, and Richard Hammond in a salon… I mean, a Suzuki Vitara.
Clarkson put spike on his rear tyres, sticking out to puncture the tyres of a fleeing criminal, or to takes the legs off of pedestrians.
May’s moment of brilliance included putting paint guns along the back of his car to spray the windshield of a criminal. He forgot, unfortunately, about the windshield wipers.
It’s fun. It’s informative. My knowledge of cars has essentially doubled just from watching a few episodes. The “Star in a Reasonably Priced Car” bit is usually quite funny. The intros for the Stig get better each episode. Some say he’s had to give up binge drinking now that it’s up to one pound a litre. Some say that after making love he bites the head off his mate. He is… the Stig.
Top Gear just might be my new favorite show.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Semester That Wasn't...
I just realized that normally at this time of year I'd be anxiously awaiting grades after having successfully completed all my final exams.
But now that I've graduated, this time of year has been more of a "holy crap, Christmas is only ten days away!"
That's the difference between being a student and being in the real world.
Guess which one I prefer...
But now that I've graduated, this time of year has been more of a "holy crap, Christmas is only ten days away!"
That's the difference between being a student and being in the real world.
Guess which one I prefer...
Historia, Part XII
The farm of Pepperidge was now a day’s walk behind them, the King’s Valley even farther. After retrieving his belongings from Henry’s porch Clifford had started once more along the westward path to Historia. Schrodinger had scarcely shut up about Clifford’s ‘gift,’ which at this point was causing Clifford a rather significant headache.
About two hours after leaving Henry’s farm, Clifford had found an old road, which made the walking that much easier. When night had fallen he’d camped out just off the road, under the low branches of a willow tree. Upon awakening Schrodinger began ranting once more about Clifford’s ‘gift.’
“Okay,” Clifford suddenly cried, “Now, I get it. I have a gift. Big deal. How much farther is it to Historia?”
Schrodinger had started back out the stick to the bundle, “Not too far. We just have to go through the City of Lithe.”
Clifford paused for a moment, “The City of Lithe?”
The mouse was suddenly back on his shoulder, “Yeah, have you heard of it?”
Clifford was walking again, “No, I don’t think so. But I’m scared of it for some reason.”
Schrodinger went back to his bundle. It was a matter of two hours walking before Clifford saw the city of Lithe.
It was a mountain, or at least part of it was. The city started low in a valley and worked it’s way up the mountain. Some of the buildings leaned at awkward angles, some seemed to have been built upside-down. Others looked like large trees that had been hollowed out and then splattered haphazardly with windows.
Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the city, even though, as Clifford thought, it was rather warm for early winter. That is, if it was still winter, the Constellation Hendrix was in the sky the night before, so it was the winter months. Were the Historians up to something new?
Up ahead on the road Clifford could see a wooden sign, slightly dry-rotted, but still very legible. He maintained a rather leisurely pace to approach the sign, his own misgivings about going through Lithe growing stronger.
The sign read, in large, gothic print: LITHE, City of Hell
It had a skull a crossbones painted beneath it. On the ground was either a rock shaped like a skull or an actual skull.
“Schrodinger, is there any way around this town?”
The mouse spoke up, “You remember that feeling you had about the farm of Pepperidge? How that there was no way to avoid it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what this is. If you want to go to Historia, you have to pass through Lithe.”
The old road wound down the hillside toward the valley, and as Clifford could now see, toward the walls of the city of Lithe. The closer he got, the more the sense of dread began to weigh him down.
The leaves on the trees around him changed color as they walked toward the city. The gold-and-orange display that had dominated the hills around the farm of Pepperidge were replaced by dark browns and, in some cases, black leaves. The ground was harder, as well. Far to the north, though not so far as to not be heard, roared a waterfall. Clifford hazarded the guess that it was the uphill river from the King’s Valley. All things seemed to lead to Historia.
Schrodinger sat on his shoulder the whole time as the approached the city. The road narrowed as it pointed the way to the main gate of the city, a tall, barred gate with two sentries posted outside the wall and another six inside.
Clifford walked cautiously toward the wall, fearing the city (for some still unknown reason) and doing all he could to muster the courage to pass through the gate and not turn back and run away. He suddenly feared that his voice would crack when he answered the guards, and that just wouldn’t look right for a formerly sensible 40 year old man.
“Halt!” yelled the first guard, “Who are you?”
“Tell them your name,” Schrodinger said.
“Cliff... Clifford Jenkins, of Nostalgia.”
The guard looked to his fellow sentry, then back at Clifford, “And why, O Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, are you coming to the great City of Lithe?”
Clifford fought past the sudden urge to vomit, “I am seeking Historia.”
The guard flicked his hand high into the air and the massive steel gate began to swing open, “You may pass, Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, but beware! Few ever reach Historia from this point.”
Clifford maintained his poise as he walked through the gate. He even managed to turn the corner around a large building and begin walking away from the guards before he had to find an alleyway and purge his stomach.
He looked up and realized the industry of the city. What he’d thought were chimneys with fires going were actually smokestacks over factories. He walked on, looking around, and looking to the inhabitants like a tourist.
As he walked through a secondary city wall he found himself in what he could only figure to be a market. There were stalls throughout, each one selling various wares. Guns (which Clifford already had one, and no one had asked him where or how he got it, and frankly, he’d almost forgotten how he’d gotten it), knives, foods, drinks, women, men, all was for sale in the great market of the great city of Lithe.
In the middle of it all was a man wearing a small sign around his neck, crying out in a loud voice, “Repent! The end is nigh! Gods be praised, repent, ye sinners and ye saints alike!”
Clifford walked past the man and stopped at a stall selling knives. His Swedish Navy knife was getting dull and he needed a sharpening stone. He pointed to a medium sized stone, “How much?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.” The old woman working the stall said. She reminded Clifford of the ancient thing that had confronted him at Carnacabidos.
Clifford picked up a smaller stone, “And this one?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”
Clifford leaned forward, “You realize that’s the same price right? How much is everything on the table?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”
Clifford moved on, and it took him a moment to realize that he still had the small sharpening stone in his hand. He turned to give it back and the stall was gone. He was fast growing weary of this land. But thankfully his sense of dread over the city of Lithe was diminished by the ambience of the market.
“Flood!” Someone shouted, “The river’s overfilled. Get to a high place, quick!”
Clifford went to move, but he was knocked back and forth by scurrying patrons. He reached for the central pole, which looked rather well founded, and began to climb. He could now hear the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember which direction the waterfall was in.
It was at the moment that a wall of water crested the nearest building, slightly behind him and to the right, and slammed hared into Clifford, pressing him against the pole. He clutched tightly, riding out the torrent. Then it was over. The flood had lasted a mere moment. It was devastating to the market. Stalls were overturned, patrons were digging themselves out from under rubble and flotsam.
“Well, that as something, wasn’t it, Schrodinger?”
No answer.
“Schrodinger?”
About two hours after leaving Henry’s farm, Clifford had found an old road, which made the walking that much easier. When night had fallen he’d camped out just off the road, under the low branches of a willow tree. Upon awakening Schrodinger began ranting once more about Clifford’s ‘gift.’
“Okay,” Clifford suddenly cried, “Now, I get it. I have a gift. Big deal. How much farther is it to Historia?”
Schrodinger had started back out the stick to the bundle, “Not too far. We just have to go through the City of Lithe.”
Clifford paused for a moment, “The City of Lithe?”
The mouse was suddenly back on his shoulder, “Yeah, have you heard of it?”
Clifford was walking again, “No, I don’t think so. But I’m scared of it for some reason.”
Schrodinger went back to his bundle. It was a matter of two hours walking before Clifford saw the city of Lithe.
It was a mountain, or at least part of it was. The city started low in a valley and worked it’s way up the mountain. Some of the buildings leaned at awkward angles, some seemed to have been built upside-down. Others looked like large trees that had been hollowed out and then splattered haphazardly with windows.
Smoke rose from chimneys all throughout the city, even though, as Clifford thought, it was rather warm for early winter. That is, if it was still winter, the Constellation Hendrix was in the sky the night before, so it was the winter months. Were the Historians up to something new?
Up ahead on the road Clifford could see a wooden sign, slightly dry-rotted, but still very legible. He maintained a rather leisurely pace to approach the sign, his own misgivings about going through Lithe growing stronger.
The sign read, in large, gothic print: LITHE, City of Hell
It had a skull a crossbones painted beneath it. On the ground was either a rock shaped like a skull or an actual skull.
“Schrodinger, is there any way around this town?”
The mouse spoke up, “You remember that feeling you had about the farm of Pepperidge? How that there was no way to avoid it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what this is. If you want to go to Historia, you have to pass through Lithe.”
The old road wound down the hillside toward the valley, and as Clifford could now see, toward the walls of the city of Lithe. The closer he got, the more the sense of dread began to weigh him down.
The leaves on the trees around him changed color as they walked toward the city. The gold-and-orange display that had dominated the hills around the farm of Pepperidge were replaced by dark browns and, in some cases, black leaves. The ground was harder, as well. Far to the north, though not so far as to not be heard, roared a waterfall. Clifford hazarded the guess that it was the uphill river from the King’s Valley. All things seemed to lead to Historia.
Schrodinger sat on his shoulder the whole time as the approached the city. The road narrowed as it pointed the way to the main gate of the city, a tall, barred gate with two sentries posted outside the wall and another six inside.
Clifford walked cautiously toward the wall, fearing the city (for some still unknown reason) and doing all he could to muster the courage to pass through the gate and not turn back and run away. He suddenly feared that his voice would crack when he answered the guards, and that just wouldn’t look right for a formerly sensible 40 year old man.
“Halt!” yelled the first guard, “Who are you?”
“Tell them your name,” Schrodinger said.
“Cliff... Clifford Jenkins, of Nostalgia.”
The guard looked to his fellow sentry, then back at Clifford, “And why, O Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, are you coming to the great City of Lithe?”
Clifford fought past the sudden urge to vomit, “I am seeking Historia.”
The guard flicked his hand high into the air and the massive steel gate began to swing open, “You may pass, Clifford Jenkins of Nostalgia, but beware! Few ever reach Historia from this point.”
Clifford maintained his poise as he walked through the gate. He even managed to turn the corner around a large building and begin walking away from the guards before he had to find an alleyway and purge his stomach.
He looked up and realized the industry of the city. What he’d thought were chimneys with fires going were actually smokestacks over factories. He walked on, looking around, and looking to the inhabitants like a tourist.
As he walked through a secondary city wall he found himself in what he could only figure to be a market. There were stalls throughout, each one selling various wares. Guns (which Clifford already had one, and no one had asked him where or how he got it, and frankly, he’d almost forgotten how he’d gotten it), knives, foods, drinks, women, men, all was for sale in the great market of the great city of Lithe.
In the middle of it all was a man wearing a small sign around his neck, crying out in a loud voice, “Repent! The end is nigh! Gods be praised, repent, ye sinners and ye saints alike!”
Clifford walked past the man and stopped at a stall selling knives. His Swedish Navy knife was getting dull and he needed a sharpening stone. He pointed to a medium sized stone, “How much?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.” The old woman working the stall said. She reminded Clifford of the ancient thing that had confronted him at Carnacabidos.
Clifford picked up a smaller stone, “And this one?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”
Clifford leaned forward, “You realize that’s the same price right? How much is everything on the table?”
“Forty-five, no less. But I’ll haggle if you must.”
Clifford moved on, and it took him a moment to realize that he still had the small sharpening stone in his hand. He turned to give it back and the stall was gone. He was fast growing weary of this land. But thankfully his sense of dread over the city of Lithe was diminished by the ambience of the market.
“Flood!” Someone shouted, “The river’s overfilled. Get to a high place, quick!”
Clifford went to move, but he was knocked back and forth by scurrying patrons. He reached for the central pole, which looked rather well founded, and began to climb. He could now hear the rushing water, but he couldn’t remember which direction the waterfall was in.
It was at the moment that a wall of water crested the nearest building, slightly behind him and to the right, and slammed hared into Clifford, pressing him against the pole. He clutched tightly, riding out the torrent. Then it was over. The flood had lasted a mere moment. It was devastating to the market. Stalls were overturned, patrons were digging themselves out from under rubble and flotsam.
“Well, that as something, wasn’t it, Schrodinger?”
No answer.
“Schrodinger?”
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Divide et Impera
"Posterity, you will never know how much it cost the present generation to preserve your freedom. I hope you will make good use of it. If you do not, I shall repent in heaven that ever I took half the pains to preserve it." - John Adams
"Even mighty states and kingdoms are not exempted. If we look into history, we shall find some nations rising from contemptible beginnings and spreading their influence, until the whole globe is subjected to their ways. When they have reached the summit of grandeur, some minute and unsuspected cause commonly affects their ruin, and the empire of the world is transferred to some other place. Immortal Rome was at first but an insignificant village, inhabited only by a few abandoned ruffians, but by degrees it rose to a stupendous height, and excelled in arts and arms all the nations that preceded it. But the demolition of Carthage (what one should think should have established it in supreme dominion) by removing all danger, suffered it to sink into debauchery, and made it at length an easy prey to Barbarians.
England immediately upon this began to increase (the particular and minute cause of which I am not historian enough to trace) in power and magnificence, and is now the greatest nation upon the globe.
Soon after the Reformation a few people came over into the new world for conscience sake. Perhaps this (apparently) trivial incident may transfer the great seat of empire into America. It looks likely to me. For if we can remove the turbulent Gallics, our people according to exactest computations, will in another century, become more numerous than England itself. Should this be the case, since we have (I may say) all the naval stores of the nation in our hands, it will be easy to obtain the mastery of the seas, and then the united force of all Europe, will not be able to subdue us. The only way to keep us from setting up for ourselves is to disunite us. Divide et impera. Keep us in distinct colonies, and then, some great men in each colony, desiring the monarchy of the whole, they will destroy each others' influence and keep the country in equilibrio.
Be not surprised that I am turned politician. The whole town is immersed in politics."
-David McCullough, quoting a letter John Adams wrote to Nathan Webb, Dated Oct. 12, 1755
I'm currently reading David McCullough's masterpiece biography on John Adams, the second President of the United States, and I came across this passage on pages 39 and 40 of the edition I was given. I've bolded certain passages because, the more I study this book, and the more I look at our current situation, the more this makes sense to me.
Adams, in writing this passage is, in a way, lamenting the "empire" structure of the world, while at the same time trying to show the United States how to avoid such a downfall. Now, 253 years later, the United States stands as the lone superpower on the world stage, but China and India are trying to gain ground, and Putin is doing all he can to return Russia to their former glory.
Russia sought imperial dominion by uniting under a single leader, or by having the tyranny of a singular governmental head thrust upon them. As John Adams points out, this flaw is a vital cog in the machine that tears down nations. As he writes, "The only way to keep us from setting up for ourselves is to disunite us. Divide et impera. Keep us in distinct colonies, and then, some great men in each colony, desiring the monarchy of the whole, they will destroy each others' influence and keep the country in equilibrio."
By maintaining individual colonies (they would later become states), Adams claimed that the balance of power would remain and no single individual would rise to such a lofty, prominent position that it would endanger the nation as a whole. Sadly, the current form of the United States Government no longer reflects what Adams had in mind, and it all stems from a single Constitutional amendment.
The 17th Amendment, which passed through the Senate on June 12, 1911, essentially repealed part of Article I, Section 3 of the Constitution and provided for the common, popular election of Senators, something that was once done by the state legislative bodies, giving both the people and the state governments a voice in the federal system. By eliminating the voice of the state governments, the people were, for all intents and purposes, brought under the singular head of the federal government.
John Adams wrote that, and this is paraphrased, the nation would fall if we united. I know that it sounds completely contradictory, and that we've always heard the saying "United we stand, divided we fall." According to Adams, at least where politics is concerned, the truth is the antithesis of that cliche. If we unite under a single banner, we are more likely to fall, because the likelihood of powerful politic figures offsetting each other becomes an outside possibility. Under the old system, pre-1911, the nation stood as a true collective of states.
When the 17th Amendment was ratified, the power of the State governments, in comparison to the strength of the federal government, was greatly diminished. With the state governments having lost their voice in Washington, it seems, at least at the federal level, that the concept of states is merely a formality.
If you haven't read John Adams by David McCullough, or at least seen the HBO miniseries presentation, then do so as soon as possible. And also, I implore you, consider what is happening in this country. John Adams was no prophet, but he was far ahead of his time when it came to political thinking. In fact, reading his early writings, I have to say that he may very well be my hero. Robert once told me that his political ideals came about from watching archive footage of FDR. I think I'm finally finding my political hero in John Adams. He was brilliant, and though he passed on long ago, his knowledge is something that all politicians would do well to institute in their own lives today.
"Even mighty states and kingdoms are not exempted. If we look into history, we shall find some nations rising from contemptible beginnings and spreading their influence, until the whole globe is subjected to their ways. When they have reached the summit of grandeur, some minute and unsuspected cause commonly affects their ruin, and the empire of the world is transferred to some other place. Immortal Rome was at first but an insignificant village, inhabited only by a few abandoned ruffians, but by degrees it rose to a stupendous height, and excelled in arts and arms all the nations that preceded it. But the demolition of Carthage (what one should think should have established it in supreme dominion) by removing all danger, suffered it to sink into debauchery, and made it at length an easy prey to Barbarians.
England immediately upon this began to increase (the particular and minute cause of which I am not historian enough to trace) in power and magnificence, and is now the greatest nation upon the globe.
Soon after the Reformation a few people came over into the new world for conscience sake. Perhaps this (apparently) trivial incident may transfer the great seat of empire into America. It looks likely to me. For if we can remove the turbulent Gallics, our people according to exactest computations, will in another century, become more numerous than England itself. Should this be the case, since we have (I may say) all the naval stores of the nation in our hands, it will be easy to obtain the mastery of the seas, and then the united force of all Europe, will not be able to subdue us. The only way to keep us from setting up for ourselves is to disunite us. Divide et impera. Keep us in distinct colonies, and then, some great men in each colony, desiring the monarchy of the whole, they will destroy each others' influence and keep the country in equilibrio.
Be not surprised that I am turned politician. The whole town is immersed in politics."
-David McCullough, quoting a letter John Adams wrote to Nathan Webb, Dated Oct. 12, 1755
I'm currently reading David McCullough's masterpiece biography on John Adams, the second President of the United States, and I came across this passage on pages 39 and 40 of the edition I was given. I've bolded certain passages because, the more I study this book, and the more I look at our current situation, the more this makes sense to me.
Adams, in writing this passage is, in a way, lamenting the "empire" structure of the world, while at the same time trying to show the United States how to avoid such a downfall. Now, 253 years later, the United States stands as the lone superpower on the world stage, but China and India are trying to gain ground, and Putin is doing all he can to return Russia to their former glory.
Russia sought imperial dominion by uniting under a single leader, or by having the tyranny of a singular governmental head thrust upon them. As John Adams points out, this flaw is a vital cog in the machine that tears down nations. As he writes, "The only way to keep us from setting up for ourselves is to disunite us. Divide et impera. Keep us in distinct colonies, and then, some great men in each colony, desiring the monarchy of the whole, they will destroy each others' influence and keep the country in equilibrio."
By maintaining individual colonies (they would later become states), Adams claimed that the balance of power would remain and no single individual would rise to such a lofty, prominent position that it would endanger the nation as a whole. Sadly, the current form of the United States Government no longer reflects what Adams had in mind, and it all stems from a single Constitutional amendment.
The 17th Amendment, which passed through the Senate on June 12, 1911, essentially repealed part of Article I, Section 3 of the Constitution and provided for the common, popular election of Senators, something that was once done by the state legislative bodies, giving both the people and the state governments a voice in the federal system. By eliminating the voice of the state governments, the people were, for all intents and purposes, brought under the singular head of the federal government.
John Adams wrote that, and this is paraphrased, the nation would fall if we united. I know that it sounds completely contradictory, and that we've always heard the saying "United we stand, divided we fall." According to Adams, at least where politics is concerned, the truth is the antithesis of that cliche. If we unite under a single banner, we are more likely to fall, because the likelihood of powerful politic figures offsetting each other becomes an outside possibility. Under the old system, pre-1911, the nation stood as a true collective of states.
When the 17th Amendment was ratified, the power of the State governments, in comparison to the strength of the federal government, was greatly diminished. With the state governments having lost their voice in Washington, it seems, at least at the federal level, that the concept of states is merely a formality.
If you haven't read John Adams by David McCullough, or at least seen the HBO miniseries presentation, then do so as soon as possible. And also, I implore you, consider what is happening in this country. John Adams was no prophet, but he was far ahead of his time when it came to political thinking. In fact, reading his early writings, I have to say that he may very well be my hero. Robert once told me that his political ideals came about from watching archive footage of FDR. I think I'm finally finding my political hero in John Adams. He was brilliant, and though he passed on long ago, his knowledge is something that all politicians would do well to institute in their own lives today.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Historia, Part XI
The largest cat, a light-brown-dark-brown furred feline, stood on the hitch of a wagon, looking out over the other seventeen cats, “The Council is called to order. I am Slagthor the Great, hereby starting the meeting.”
Henry pushed open the barn door, “Mittens. Come here, Mittens.”
The cat on the hitch winced (not nearly as funny as a sighing mouse) and jumped down from the hitch, “I’ve told you, Mittens is my human name.”
Henry picked up the cat and stroked his back, unleashing a rather fierce purr, “Yeah, I know. But I called you Mittens before you talked, and I’ll call you Mittens till the day one of us dies.”
Mittens finally noticed Schrodinger sitting on Clifford’s shoulder, “You brought us a mouse, eh?”
Clifford spoke, “Actually, he’s with me, and no, you can’t have him.”
The cat glared at him, “I think you’ll find that we cats get what we want.”
Clifford shook his head, “I don’t think so.”
Mittens purred, “Okay, fine. He’s with you. Hear that, cats, no touching the mouse, no matter how delicious he looks.”
Henry motioned Clifford back to the barn door, sitting down Mittens, “They like to have ‘council’ meetings in here. I let ‘em, figure it can’t hurt.”
As they closed the door Schrodinger spoke up, “Actually, cats are rather devious. You might want to watch over them.”
Henry took up his cane and they started walking back to the house, “I’ll remember that, little mouse.”
They made their way back to the farm house just as Margaret was walking onto the porch to call them to dinner. The table spread was fantastic, by far the best food Clifford had seen since leaving Nostalgia, and probably better than most he’d had living in Nostalgia. Ham and Turkey, buttered rolls, carrots, peas, corn, and chocolate cake for dessert. After eating Clifford and Henry went back out onto the porch.
Clifford picked up his guitar and began playing “Old Man River” and singing “Yellow Submarine.” Henry was notably impressed.
As Clifford went to put his guitar down a gunshot rang out over the farmstead. Both men looked up immediately in the direction of the King’s Valley. Moments after hearing the first shot, a second shot rang out. Mere seconds after that Brigadier General Israel Putnam came running out of the forest and down the hill, followed shortly by his men.
“Hide! The King’s Valley charged us and we couldn’t hold them back! Hide!” Putnam yelled.
Henry was already up and moving toward the door. He walked past it, suddenly not needing his cane, but moving rather sprightly. Clifford remained seated, in awe of Henry’s change. Henry reached back, grabbed his cane, and then tapped it three times on the loose board on the porch, right at the base of the wall.
The wall parted, revealing a stash of guns and ammunition, “I’ve been waitin’ on this day,” he said, turning and tossing a gun to Clifford. “Margaret! Get out here! War’s a-coming!”
Margaret rushed onto the porch, tying a strip of cloth around her head to keep her hair back. Clifford looked at his gun, unsure of how to use it.
“Just point and pull that little trigger, the gun’ll do the rest.” Margaret said, tipping over one of the small tables that lined the porch and kneeling behind it, “Oh, and find some cover. You’ll need it.”
Clifford dove to the porch, and as he did an arrow pierced the wall where he was sitting. He tipped over his own table and leaned around, looking for the enemy. It luckily wasn’t dark enough yet to conceal the barbarians of the King’s Valley.
He heard gunfire erupt from the far end of the porch, and looking down, he saw Henry crouched behind a tipped table and blasting away at the oncoming enemy.
Israel Putnam reached the porch and began directing his men to take up positions around the farm, all guns pointed back toward the enemy. The men did as directed, and the hill west of the farmstead became a killing field.
Schrodinger reappeared on Clifford’s shoulder, “We shouldn’t be here.”
Clifford snorted, “You think I don’t realize that?”
“No,” the mouse said emphatically, “We really need to go. Bad things are about to happen here. I feel sorry for the cats.”
At the precise moment the barn door burst open and all eighteen cats charged out, Mittens, or as he called himself, Slagthor the Great, at their head, “Go, Cats! For the glory of Kittendom, our time has come.”
Clifford was mesmerized as the kitten brigade crashed into the oncoming enemy. Some cats were cut down almost immediately. Another arrow hit the table behind which Clifford knelt. He raised the gun and popped off three quick shots.
From what he could tell, Putnam’s men were holding back the charge, rather amiably. He moved as quickly as possible toward Henry, “What do we do?”
Henry pointed to the door, “Go inside, upstairs, and use one of the doghouses as cover. Try and take out as many as you can. They’ve never charged like this.”
Clifford did as he was told. He pushed open the upstairs window and looked out as the battlefield. Putnam was pinned down behind a water-trough, his men scattered across the field. The cats were down from eighteen to just five, Slagthor still leading them, directing them.
Schrodinger sniffled, “I feel sorry for them. This isn’t their war, and yet they’re dying.”
Clifford raised his gun, “I’m trying to keep us from dying.”
Schrodinger jumped down onto the windowsill, “I’m only going to say this once, Clifford. Don’t think about the enemy. Think about anything else, but not them.”
Clifford was so puzzled by Schrodinger that when he looked up it took him a moment to realize that the enemy was gone, as was Israel Putnam, “What happened?”
Schrodinger shrugged, “You’ve a gift, Clifford Jenkins. You never saw the enemy in the King’s Valley, and now, the moment your mind is taken off of them, they disappear. Interesting, eh?”
Clifford slumped down against the wall, “But what about the dead cats, the dead men? Are they still dead?”
Schodinger looked out the window, “From the looks of it, when you stopped thinking about them, everything went back to where it was before they charged, probably even before we got here. Meaning that Margaret and Henry don’t know we’re in their house.”
Clifford stood up and walked to the door, “So how do we get out?”
Schrodinger was ignoring him, “This could be a problem, you know? This gift you have.”
Clifford pointed to the closed door behind him, “Do you hear that? Footsteps. Someone’s coming.”
The mouse leapt out the window, “C’mon!”
Clifford followed him, diving out the window and stepping quickly around the doghouse to hide from view. Henry’s head appeared out the window, “Anyone there?”
When Clifford didn’t answer, Henry closed the window and walked out. Schrodinger climbed back onto Clifford’s shoulder, “There’s a haystack over that way,” he said, point to the south end of the house. “You’re stuff should still be on the porch. We can grab it and run. Oh, and you still have the gun. Good thing. We might need it.”
Henry pushed open the barn door, “Mittens. Come here, Mittens.”
The cat on the hitch winced (not nearly as funny as a sighing mouse) and jumped down from the hitch, “I’ve told you, Mittens is my human name.”
Henry picked up the cat and stroked his back, unleashing a rather fierce purr, “Yeah, I know. But I called you Mittens before you talked, and I’ll call you Mittens till the day one of us dies.”
Mittens finally noticed Schrodinger sitting on Clifford’s shoulder, “You brought us a mouse, eh?”
Clifford spoke, “Actually, he’s with me, and no, you can’t have him.”
The cat glared at him, “I think you’ll find that we cats get what we want.”
Clifford shook his head, “I don’t think so.”
Mittens purred, “Okay, fine. He’s with you. Hear that, cats, no touching the mouse, no matter how delicious he looks.”
Henry motioned Clifford back to the barn door, sitting down Mittens, “They like to have ‘council’ meetings in here. I let ‘em, figure it can’t hurt.”
As they closed the door Schrodinger spoke up, “Actually, cats are rather devious. You might want to watch over them.”
Henry took up his cane and they started walking back to the house, “I’ll remember that, little mouse.”
They made their way back to the farm house just as Margaret was walking onto the porch to call them to dinner. The table spread was fantastic, by far the best food Clifford had seen since leaving Nostalgia, and probably better than most he’d had living in Nostalgia. Ham and Turkey, buttered rolls, carrots, peas, corn, and chocolate cake for dessert. After eating Clifford and Henry went back out onto the porch.
Clifford picked up his guitar and began playing “Old Man River” and singing “Yellow Submarine.” Henry was notably impressed.
As Clifford went to put his guitar down a gunshot rang out over the farmstead. Both men looked up immediately in the direction of the King’s Valley. Moments after hearing the first shot, a second shot rang out. Mere seconds after that Brigadier General Israel Putnam came running out of the forest and down the hill, followed shortly by his men.
“Hide! The King’s Valley charged us and we couldn’t hold them back! Hide!” Putnam yelled.
Henry was already up and moving toward the door. He walked past it, suddenly not needing his cane, but moving rather sprightly. Clifford remained seated, in awe of Henry’s change. Henry reached back, grabbed his cane, and then tapped it three times on the loose board on the porch, right at the base of the wall.
The wall parted, revealing a stash of guns and ammunition, “I’ve been waitin’ on this day,” he said, turning and tossing a gun to Clifford. “Margaret! Get out here! War’s a-coming!”
Margaret rushed onto the porch, tying a strip of cloth around her head to keep her hair back. Clifford looked at his gun, unsure of how to use it.
“Just point and pull that little trigger, the gun’ll do the rest.” Margaret said, tipping over one of the small tables that lined the porch and kneeling behind it, “Oh, and find some cover. You’ll need it.”
Clifford dove to the porch, and as he did an arrow pierced the wall where he was sitting. He tipped over his own table and leaned around, looking for the enemy. It luckily wasn’t dark enough yet to conceal the barbarians of the King’s Valley.
He heard gunfire erupt from the far end of the porch, and looking down, he saw Henry crouched behind a tipped table and blasting away at the oncoming enemy.
Israel Putnam reached the porch and began directing his men to take up positions around the farm, all guns pointed back toward the enemy. The men did as directed, and the hill west of the farmstead became a killing field.
Schrodinger reappeared on Clifford’s shoulder, “We shouldn’t be here.”
Clifford snorted, “You think I don’t realize that?”
“No,” the mouse said emphatically, “We really need to go. Bad things are about to happen here. I feel sorry for the cats.”
At the precise moment the barn door burst open and all eighteen cats charged out, Mittens, or as he called himself, Slagthor the Great, at their head, “Go, Cats! For the glory of Kittendom, our time has come.”
Clifford was mesmerized as the kitten brigade crashed into the oncoming enemy. Some cats were cut down almost immediately. Another arrow hit the table behind which Clifford knelt. He raised the gun and popped off three quick shots.
From what he could tell, Putnam’s men were holding back the charge, rather amiably. He moved as quickly as possible toward Henry, “What do we do?”
Henry pointed to the door, “Go inside, upstairs, and use one of the doghouses as cover. Try and take out as many as you can. They’ve never charged like this.”
Clifford did as he was told. He pushed open the upstairs window and looked out as the battlefield. Putnam was pinned down behind a water-trough, his men scattered across the field. The cats were down from eighteen to just five, Slagthor still leading them, directing them.
Schrodinger sniffled, “I feel sorry for them. This isn’t their war, and yet they’re dying.”
Clifford raised his gun, “I’m trying to keep us from dying.”
Schrodinger jumped down onto the windowsill, “I’m only going to say this once, Clifford. Don’t think about the enemy. Think about anything else, but not them.”
Clifford was so puzzled by Schrodinger that when he looked up it took him a moment to realize that the enemy was gone, as was Israel Putnam, “What happened?”
Schrodinger shrugged, “You’ve a gift, Clifford Jenkins. You never saw the enemy in the King’s Valley, and now, the moment your mind is taken off of them, they disappear. Interesting, eh?”
Clifford slumped down against the wall, “But what about the dead cats, the dead men? Are they still dead?”
Schodinger looked out the window, “From the looks of it, when you stopped thinking about them, everything went back to where it was before they charged, probably even before we got here. Meaning that Margaret and Henry don’t know we’re in their house.”
Clifford stood up and walked to the door, “So how do we get out?”
Schrodinger was ignoring him, “This could be a problem, you know? This gift you have.”
Clifford pointed to the closed door behind him, “Do you hear that? Footsteps. Someone’s coming.”
The mouse leapt out the window, “C’mon!”
Clifford followed him, diving out the window and stepping quickly around the doghouse to hide from view. Henry’s head appeared out the window, “Anyone there?”
When Clifford didn’t answer, Henry closed the window and walked out. Schrodinger climbed back onto Clifford’s shoulder, “There’s a haystack over that way,” he said, point to the south end of the house. “You’re stuff should still be on the porch. We can grab it and run. Oh, and you still have the gun. Good thing. We might need it.”
Fraying (In)Sanities...
Robert recently went on a bit of a rant about how his past is catching up to him, and how things sometimes seem to be in a constant transition from bad to worse. Well, I can safely say that I feel the same. No, I don’t have a past that’s catching me. I have a future that seems to be doing it’s best to elude me.
I really want to go to
I’m beginning to feel as though I have nothing left to give. My job search has been less that fruitless, my sanity is fraying in a very obscenely slow manner, my bank account is dwindling, and I’m realizing that there just aren’t enough smart people around me. I’m not being pushed anymore. I’m in the real world, and the mental competition is essentially over. At least in college I was being continually pushed by those around me to strive to do better. Not anymore.
In short, I need to be somewhere else.
Currently, my sights are set on Appalachian State, in beautiful, scenic,
I want to teach, preferably at the collegiate level, and I want to teach History. Yes, I graduated with a degree in English, so what? I minored in History and let’s face it, which sounds more fun: a) this a verb or b) so let’s talk about what cause World War II?
There’s only one problem. I have no money. I can’t find a job. It’s getting ridiculous. Over the last two weeks I’ve been to fifteen different places, and each place told me, rather resoundingly, that they’re not looking for help. I’ve even been to places that I was told was looking for help, only to be told by said place that they were currently overstaffed.
The problem continues to get worse. I’m down to 20 hours a week where I work. If you figure in car payments, car insurance payments, health insurance payments, and cell phone bills, along with the other various payouts you have to make to survive, well, I’m nearing the point of negative gain. If my math is right, I’ll run out of money sometime around January 24th.
And it will remain that way unless I can get a job, or at least find some other way to make money. Let’s see, you only need one kidney to live. You can make it through life with half a liver. I don’t use my left arm all that much. You can technically get by with only one eye. Hmmm… What do you think, angry baby?
Truth be told, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. From this point on, there is no middle ground; the resolution of this problem will be epic. You got it! I’m poised for either epic win or epic fail. I’m either going to pass Timo Glock and regain P5 and the World Championship, or I’m going to set a bowl of corn flakes on fire. One way or the other, there will be a resolution.
So that’s where I stand. I have nothing left to give… except a kidney, half a liver, an eye and my left arm.
Football Future-see Week 15 Recap
Record
Week 1 .... 6-1
Week 2 .... 4-1
Week 3 .... 3-2
Week 4 .... 4-1
Week 5 .... 3-3
Week 6 .... 3-2
Week 7 .... 4-2
Week 8 .... 4-1
Week 9 .... 4-1
Week 10 ... 4-1
Week 11 ... 4-1
Week 12 ... 4-1
Week 13 ... 4-1
Week 14 ... 3-2
Week 15 ... 3-2
Overall .... 57-22
So, we failed. Yeah, 57-22 for the year is great, but we never had a perfect week. I would've taken 0-5, just so long as I could get perfection one way or the other. But alas, we are continually denied prediction perfection.
Bowl Predictions:
BCS Championship Game: (1) Oklahoma vs. (2) Florida
Fiesta Bowl: (10) Ohio State vs. (3) Texas
Sugar Bowl: (6) Utah vs. (4) Alabama
Rose Bowl: (5) USC vs. (8) Penn State
Orange Bowl: (12) Cincinnati vs. (19) Virginia Tech
Capital One Bowl: (15) Georgia vs. (18) Michigan State
Chick-fil-A Bowl: (14) Georgia Tech vs. LSU
Cotton Bowl: (7) Texas Tech vs. (25) Ole Miss
Poinsettia Bowl: (9) Boise State vs. (11) TCU
International Bowl: Buffalo vs. Connecticut
That's right, the next Football Future-see Edition will feature 10 Bowl Games: the National Championship Game, all 4 BCS games, and 5 additional games, selected in a completely biased manner. Enjoy.
Week 1 .... 6-1
Week 2 .... 4-1
Week 3 .... 3-2
Week 4 .... 4-1
Week 5 .... 3-3
Week 6 .... 3-2
Week 7 .... 4-2
Week 8 .... 4-1
Week 9 .... 4-1
Week 10 ... 4-1
Week 11 ... 4-1
Week 12 ... 4-1
Week 13 ... 4-1
Week 14 ... 3-2
Week 15 ... 3-2
Overall .... 57-22
So, we failed. Yeah, 57-22 for the year is great, but we never had a perfect week. I would've taken 0-5, just so long as I could get perfection one way or the other. But alas, we are continually denied prediction perfection.
Bowl Predictions:
BCS Championship Game: (1) Oklahoma vs. (2) Florida
Fiesta Bowl: (10) Ohio State vs. (3) Texas
Sugar Bowl: (6) Utah vs. (4) Alabama
Rose Bowl: (5) USC vs. (8) Penn State
Orange Bowl: (12) Cincinnati vs. (19) Virginia Tech
Capital One Bowl: (15) Georgia vs. (18) Michigan State
Chick-fil-A Bowl: (14) Georgia Tech vs. LSU
Cotton Bowl: (7) Texas Tech vs. (25) Ole Miss
Poinsettia Bowl: (9) Boise State vs. (11) TCU
International Bowl: Buffalo vs. Connecticut
That's right, the next Football Future-see Edition will feature 10 Bowl Games: the National Championship Game, all 4 BCS games, and 5 additional games, selected in a completely biased manner. Enjoy.
Friday, December 05, 2008
College Playoffs? Why Not?
Every year in college football there is talk of a playoff system, how to make it work, why it will never work, and why the detractors of the broken BCS system should just shut up, because this is how it is, and this is how it always will be. Every other sport has a playoff system. Even NASCAR has a playoff system. Division II college football has a playoff system, but Division I cannot ever have a playoff system, because the Rose Bowl would disapprove.
Well, I think I may have come up with a system that works, keeps the major bowls in place, granted without their conference affiliations, but they remain in place nonetheless.
In the NFL, each conference sends 6 teams to the playoffs. The top two teams, by record, get first round byes. Then the remaining 4 teams play each other, the two division winners getting home games.
The proposal for college is simple:
Take the 6 BCS conference champions and rank them 1-6 in the playoff format, using their current BCS ranking as their position in the playoff bracket. The top four conference champions receive first round byes, thereby making the regular season mean something. I don’t understand why people think that a playoff in college football would make the regular season meaningless. Is it meaningless in college basketball? What about the NFL? No? But in college it would be.
So the BCS conference winners get in. Then you take the top 6 teams in the BCS after the champions are taken out, and put them into the brackets. The teams with byes would play their first match in the Quarterfinals, at one of the four BCS Bowl sites. The first round games would be played at the home stadium of the highest ranked team in the match-up (ex. 10.
Let’s use the final BCS standings from the 2007 season as an example.
1. LSU
2. USC
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9. Virginia Tech
10.
11.
12.
Conference Champions: LSU, USC,
Under my proposed playoff system, LSU, USC,
Bracket 1
1. LSU – bye
4.
12.
9.
Bracket 2
2. USC –bye
3.
11.
10.
After the first round, the Quarterfinal Games are set. I’m using a hypothetical here, so don’t get mad. Remember, these are the standing from last season.
Bracket 1
9.
5.
Bracket 2
2. USC vs. 11.
3.
These games would be played at the current BCS Bowl sites, as indicated. As the Quarterfinals were played, and the Semifinals determined, the Semifinal games would be played at neutral sites, as determined on a rotation basis.
Bracket 1
1. LSU vs. 4.
Bracket 2
2. USC vs. 7.
The National Championship Game would be played at one of the BCS Bowl sites, two weeks after the Quarterfinals. Under my system, and remember, it is my system, so I get to make the rules in this little example, Georgia would face LSU for the National Title.
And Georgia would win.
Now,
For some screaming Injustice time.
It's looking more and more like 2-loss Ohio State (10-2) is going to a BCS Bowl, but that 12-0 Boise State, ranked one spot ahead of Ohio State in the latest BCS Poll, will be lucky to get a berth in the Humanitarian Bowl, played at their own home field. It's just not right.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Good Tidings of Great Joy?
I need Academia.
I never thought I would say those words, but it rings more and more true everyday. I need to be in an Academic setting. It’s where I thrive. This real world stuff just isn’t cutting it.
I did learn a bit of good news, however. Appalachian State has a hope-giving device on their website. Appalachian State is very high on my list of Grad Schools. They have a good History Department, according to Dr. Jespersen, and that means a lot to me. So, back to this hope-giving device…
It’s a mathematical equation. (Don’t fret, Robert, I think we’re both safe.)
It looks like this:
UGPA(x100) + GRE V + GRE Q + GRE W(x100) = 1550
If you multiply your Undergraduate GPA by 100, and multiply your GRE Writing score by 100, then add your actual GRE score to that, so long as it equals a minimum of 1550, you will be considered for admission into the Appalachian State Graduate Program.
For me that equations looks like this:
279+570+570+350=1769
That’s 219 points better. That makes me rather happy. It gives me hope.
Now, if only the money would work itself out.
Football Future-see Week 15
This is it. Our last chance to go 5-0. Let's be honest here, 54-20 on the year is not bad. Some of the guys at ESPN would probably love a record like that. But we strive for perfection here, so we're giving it one last go before bowl season. Oh, and tacked on to the end of this post is our final attempt at Bowl Projections.
(12) Ball State vs. Buffalo - MAC Championship
Buffalo (7-5) is in the MAC Championship Game, something that never happens. The Bulls typically dwell in the NCAA cellar. They've been invited to one bowl game in the 107 year history, and they refused to go, because the Tangerine Bowl, played in Orlando, refused to let the team bring along the two black players they had. Everyone else but those two were invited. Ball State is undefeated and would really like a BCS Bowl, but it doesn't look like that will happen (the BCS would rather have two-loss Ohio State).
Final Score: Ball State 35, Buffalo 14
(1) Alabama vs. (4) Florida - SEC Championship
The Big Game in the SEC. This game will determine one half of the National Championship Game. Florida brings one of the most potent offenses to ever take the field to the Georgia Dome to clash with Alabama's stout defense. I know the old saying is defense wins championships, but I think Florida is too strong for Alabama. Tim Tebow would like to add a second Heisman, but it doesn't look like that will happen, as the Heisman voters are basically enthralled with the Big XII.
Final Score: Florida 28, Alabama 21
(17) Boston College vs (25) Virginia Tech - ACC Championship
The ACC Championship game features two teams outside the top 15, something that rarely happens for a BCS Conference. The Hokies would like another shot at a BCS game after their last trip resulted in a loss to Kansas. Boston College would like to prove that they can win a conference title without Wonderboy Matt Ryan. NOt a high scoring game, as the ACC Title game usually isn't.
Final Score: Boston College 17, Virginia Tech 14
(20) Missouri vs. (2) Oklahoma - Big XII Championship
For the second straight year Oklahoma and Missouri face off for the Big XII Championship. This game is swirling with controversy. Oklahoma jumped Texas in the last BCS rankings, putting the Sooners at No. 2 and the Longhorns at No. 3. They have indentical records, and Texas actually beat Oklahoma by 10 points on a neutral field. Yet Oklahoma, by virtue of the "what-have-you-done-for-me-lately" clause that the voters have in place, jumped Texas and landed in the Big XII Championship Game. This means that Sooners will once again go to a BCS Bowl, and we all know that Bob Stoops, loving nicknamed Spongebob Bowlflop, will lead them to another disappointing loss.
Final Score: Oklahoma 38, Missouri 17
(5) USC at UCLA
This game is for all the marbles in the PAC-10, and it really shouldn't be. Oregon State, by virtue of losing to Oregon, opened the door to the Rose Bowl wide for USC. All the Trojans have to do is beat UCLA and they'll go to Pasadena, at worse. The nightmare scenario is still in place that would put USC in the National Title Game, possibly against Texas. I know, it's crap. UCLA is all that stands between USC and another BCS game.
Final Score: USC 45, UCLA 17
Bowl Projections (We Stand By These)
BCS National Championship Game: Florida vs. Oklahoma
Rose Bowl: USC vs. Penn State
Sugar Bowl: Alabama vs. Utah
Fiesta Bowl: Texas vs. Ohio State
Orange Bowl: Boston College vs. Cincinnati
Capital One Bowl: Georgia vs. Michigan State
Gator Bowl: Nebraska vs. Virginia Tech
Outback Bowl: LSU vs. Iowa
Cotton Bowl: Mississippi vs. Texas Tech
Chick-fil-A Bowl: Georgia Tech vs. South Carolina
The Nightmare Scenario:
A Poem in Non-Rhyming Verse
If Alabama falls to Florida in a very close game,
anything within three points,
and Missouri beats Oklahoma to claim the Big XII title,
then USC, if they beat UCLA soundly,
and Texas, because they're no. 3,
will jump them all and play each other,
and the fans of the SEC will rise as one, and slay the BCS,
because last year they told Georgia that,
even though you're ranked ahead of both teams,
that can play for your conference title,
you cannot play for the National Title,
and the BCS continued by saying,
I know we let Oklahoma play for it one year after losing 35-7,
to a Kansas State team in the conference title game,
and we let Nebraska play for the National Title once,
even though they didn't reach the conference title game,
but they are Big XII, and therefore we like them better as a whole,
and the SEC fans will slay them,
because the winner of the SEC Title should play for the national title,
because they will have only one loss,
and one loss in the SEC is the same as undefeated in any other conference,
for the winner of the SEC should play in the National Title Game,
It will make the Lord grin,
Amen.
(12) Ball State vs. Buffalo - MAC Championship
Buffalo (7-5) is in the MAC Championship Game, something that never happens. The Bulls typically dwell in the NCAA cellar. They've been invited to one bowl game in the 107 year history, and they refused to go, because the Tangerine Bowl, played in Orlando, refused to let the team bring along the two black players they had. Everyone else but those two were invited. Ball State is undefeated and would really like a BCS Bowl, but it doesn't look like that will happen (the BCS would rather have two-loss Ohio State).
Final Score: Ball State 35, Buffalo 14
(1) Alabama vs. (4) Florida - SEC Championship
The Big Game in the SEC. This game will determine one half of the National Championship Game. Florida brings one of the most potent offenses to ever take the field to the Georgia Dome to clash with Alabama's stout defense. I know the old saying is defense wins championships, but I think Florida is too strong for Alabama. Tim Tebow would like to add a second Heisman, but it doesn't look like that will happen, as the Heisman voters are basically enthralled with the Big XII.
Final Score: Florida 28, Alabama 21
(17) Boston College vs (25) Virginia Tech - ACC Championship
The ACC Championship game features two teams outside the top 15, something that rarely happens for a BCS Conference. The Hokies would like another shot at a BCS game after their last trip resulted in a loss to Kansas. Boston College would like to prove that they can win a conference title without Wonderboy Matt Ryan. NOt a high scoring game, as the ACC Title game usually isn't.
Final Score: Boston College 17, Virginia Tech 14
(20) Missouri vs. (2) Oklahoma - Big XII Championship
For the second straight year Oklahoma and Missouri face off for the Big XII Championship. This game is swirling with controversy. Oklahoma jumped Texas in the last BCS rankings, putting the Sooners at No. 2 and the Longhorns at No. 3. They have indentical records, and Texas actually beat Oklahoma by 10 points on a neutral field. Yet Oklahoma, by virtue of the "what-have-you-done-for-me-lately" clause that the voters have in place, jumped Texas and landed in the Big XII Championship Game. This means that Sooners will once again go to a BCS Bowl, and we all know that Bob Stoops, loving nicknamed Spongebob Bowlflop, will lead them to another disappointing loss.
Final Score: Oklahoma 38, Missouri 17
(5) USC at UCLA
This game is for all the marbles in the PAC-10, and it really shouldn't be. Oregon State, by virtue of losing to Oregon, opened the door to the Rose Bowl wide for USC. All the Trojans have to do is beat UCLA and they'll go to Pasadena, at worse. The nightmare scenario is still in place that would put USC in the National Title Game, possibly against Texas. I know, it's crap. UCLA is all that stands between USC and another BCS game.
Final Score: USC 45, UCLA 17
Bowl Projections (We Stand By These)
BCS National Championship Game: Florida vs. Oklahoma
Rose Bowl: USC vs. Penn State
Sugar Bowl: Alabama vs. Utah
Fiesta Bowl: Texas vs. Ohio State
Orange Bowl: Boston College vs. Cincinnati
Capital One Bowl: Georgia vs. Michigan State
Gator Bowl: Nebraska vs. Virginia Tech
Outback Bowl: LSU vs. Iowa
Cotton Bowl: Mississippi vs. Texas Tech
Chick-fil-A Bowl: Georgia Tech vs. South Carolina
The Nightmare Scenario:
A Poem in Non-Rhyming Verse
If Alabama falls to Florida in a very close game,
anything within three points,
and Missouri beats Oklahoma to claim the Big XII title,
then USC, if they beat UCLA soundly,
and Texas, because they're no. 3,
will jump them all and play each other,
and the fans of the SEC will rise as one, and slay the BCS,
because last year they told Georgia that,
even though you're ranked ahead of both teams,
that can play for your conference title,
you cannot play for the National Title,
and the BCS continued by saying,
I know we let Oklahoma play for it one year after losing 35-7,
to a Kansas State team in the conference title game,
and we let Nebraska play for the National Title once,
even though they didn't reach the conference title game,
but they are Big XII, and therefore we like them better as a whole,
and the SEC fans will slay them,
because the winner of the SEC Title should play for the national title,
because they will have only one loss,
and one loss in the SEC is the same as undefeated in any other conference,
for the winner of the SEC should play in the National Title Game,
It will make the Lord grin,
Amen.
It's Finally Over...
Thankfully, the 2008 campaign season in Georgia came to an end last night, with Incumbent Senator Saxby Chambliss staving off Democratic challenger Jim Martin in a run-off election. Chambliss had 57.4% of the vote with 99% of precincts reporting as of this morning. To me, this shows the value of the Libertarian Party in Georgia. Because there was no Libertarian candidate on the ballot in the run-off, most Libertarians (I say most, not all) likely switched their vote to Chambliss, as the Republicans are the closest ideologically to the Libertarians. In the General Election in November, Chambliss netted just under 50% of the vote. Considering that he came close to 4 million votes then, the nearly 8% more he gained this time out just shows the growing popularity of the Libertarian cause.
But that's not what this post is about. Your intrepid Right Wing reporter went out and obtained transcripts of two commercials, one from each candidate, that never hit the air waves.
The first commercial, from the Jim Martin campaign, reveals the depths of depravity these candidates were willing to go to in an effort to gain power. (Trust me, Chambliss doesn't fair any better.)
Saxby Chambliss doesn't have the best interests of Georgians at heart. He voted eighteen times to destroy the ocean. He supported George W. Bush's attempt at drilling for oil in space. He even voted to colonize Pluto, saying that a colony on a Disney character was alright with him. So please, on December 2nd, tell Saxby Chambliss that we don't need his stupidity in Washington. I'm Jim Martin and I approve this message.
Now, from the Chambliss campaign:
Jim Martin's record proves that he is wrong for Georgia. He voted to give himself a $35 million dollar per year pay raise, and he wanted to raise taxes on Middle Class Georgians by over $27 Gajillion dollars. Jim Martin has even gone on record saying that he doesn't believe it's wrong to beat kittens with sticks. And what's with his hair? Honestly, it looks like a squirrel died on his head. I'm Saxby Chambliss and I approve this message.
I gotta tell you, after seeing those transcripts, I'm glad we're not having another run-off.
But that's not what this post is about. Your intrepid Right Wing reporter went out and obtained transcripts of two commercials, one from each candidate, that never hit the air waves.
The first commercial, from the Jim Martin campaign, reveals the depths of depravity these candidates were willing to go to in an effort to gain power. (Trust me, Chambliss doesn't fair any better.)
Saxby Chambliss doesn't have the best interests of Georgians at heart. He voted eighteen times to destroy the ocean. He supported George W. Bush's attempt at drilling for oil in space. He even voted to colonize Pluto, saying that a colony on a Disney character was alright with him. So please, on December 2nd, tell Saxby Chambliss that we don't need his stupidity in Washington. I'm Jim Martin and I approve this message.
Now, from the Chambliss campaign:
Jim Martin's record proves that he is wrong for Georgia. He voted to give himself a $35 million dollar per year pay raise, and he wanted to raise taxes on Middle Class Georgians by over $27 Gajillion dollars. Jim Martin has even gone on record saying that he doesn't believe it's wrong to beat kittens with sticks. And what's with his hair? Honestly, it looks like a squirrel died on his head. I'm Saxby Chambliss and I approve this message.
I gotta tell you, after seeing those transcripts, I'm glad we're not having another run-off.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Joking...
Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
Because it was dead.
But why did the second monkey fall out of the tree?
Because it was stapled to the first monkey.
So why did the third monkey fall out of the tree?
Peer pressure.
A little boy goes up to his daddy and says "Daddy, is God a man or a woman?"
"God is both," the dad replies.
"Is God black or white?"
"God is both," the dad replies again.
"Is God Michael Jackson?"
Did you hear about the guy who got the entire left half of his body cut off?
Yeah, but he's all right now.
I wish to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather, not panicking, like his passengers.
How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?
Fish.
How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?
One, but the light bulb has to want to change.
Two fish are in a tank and one fish says to the other, "Do you know how to drive this thing?"
What is the difference between a writer and a park bench?
A park bench can support a family.
Because it was dead.
But why did the second monkey fall out of the tree?
Because it was stapled to the first monkey.
So why did the third monkey fall out of the tree?
Peer pressure.
A little boy goes up to his daddy and says "Daddy, is God a man or a woman?"
"God is both," the dad replies.
"Is God black or white?"
"God is both," the dad replies again.
"Is God Michael Jackson?"
Did you hear about the guy who got the entire left half of his body cut off?
Yeah, but he's all right now.
I wish to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather, not panicking, like his passengers.
How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?
Fish.
How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?
One, but the light bulb has to want to change.
Two fish are in a tank and one fish says to the other, "Do you know how to drive this thing?"
What is the difference between a writer and a park bench?
A park bench can support a family.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Historia, Part X
Clifford walked for three hours before deciding to stop for the night. According to the moon, there was about four hours of darkness left. He dug into his old travel bag and found a think blanket. Nestling against a fallen tree, he covered himself up and went to sleep. Schrodinger sat up as a watch against whatever animal or man might try to interfere in Clifford’s slumber.
Clifford stirred at first light. He brought out some of the remaining turkey meat he had, and ate that cold with some cheese, drinking water from the uphill-flowing river. He gathered his things, the guitar, old travel bag, and, with bundle shouldered, he started walking again. Schrodinger slept most of the time in the bundle.
Clifford walked, leaving Brigadier General Israel Putnam and the mysterious King’s Valley far behind. The land he traveled through gradually changed. The semi-desert-forest he’d encountered when he’d met Putnam (felt like days ago, was only the night before) gave way to a full-fledged forest. The Forest, after only an hour’s walk, became sparse and Clifford Jenkins, no longer sure if he was anywhere near as sensible as any man of 40 years, found himself in a meadow.
He crossed it at a brisk pace, wanting to reach Historia as soon as possible. Glancing behind him, toward the Mountains of Antiquity, he saw the snow-capped peaks rising above the forest. Somewhere back there was his family, wondering where he’d gone. Luckily he’d never married. Just never felt like it. He could see the sun glistening off the icy white tops of the mountains, and he was glad he’d come the way he had. The King’s Valley was infinitely easier to cross than the mountain pass would ever have been.
It was midday when Clifford tapped the bundle-stick and caused the mouse to scamper out, “What?”
“Look.”
They stood atop a high hill, and below them, in the dale, was a large farm, windmill turning slowly in the breeze, green grass turning to brown before their eyes. Schrodinger gasped. Clifford glanced at him, and then looked back at the farm.
The mouse jumped off the stick and onto Clifford’s shoulder, “This must be the farm of Pepperidge.”
Clifford unshouldered the bundle, dropped his old travel bag, and sat down in the grass, ready to play guitar for a bit and break the monotony of his journey, “You know, this land keeps getting stranger and stranger.”
Schrodinger settled onto his haunches next to Clifford and grinned (I know, I’ve told you that a sighing mouse is hilarious, a grinning mouse, though, is quite possibly the most serious thing ever seen. It’s anti-hilarity.) The mouse ran a fore-paw through his whiskers, “So what’re you going to play? Know anything Celtic?”
Clifford blinked, searching his own mind, “What’s Celtic?”
Schrodinger waved him off, “Nevermind. Play, my boy. Play.”
Clifford strummed once, a D-minor, and then began singing softly,
“Fill to me the parting glass,
And drink to health, what may befall,
Then gently rise, and softly call,
goodnight and joy be to you all.”
Schrodinger sat in silence until Clifford’s chorus was over, “You know that’s Celtic, right?”
Clifford leveled the guitar in his lap, “I know that it’s how we say goodbye to those we lose in Nostalgia. Tradition, I guess.”
Schrodinger laughed, “I think we should get going, Clifford. We can probably get some food at Pepperidge. Historia isn’t much farther.”
Clifford stood up, got up his things, and started walking again. His path took him to the farm, just as he knew it would. Somehow, he knew deep in his mind, he couldn’t avoid the farm. He could walk all the way around it, and over the next hill, and there the farm would be, waiting for him. Strange land.
On the porch of the farmhouse sat an older white man, “You need somethin’, boy?”
Clifford frowned, “Why does everyone keep calling me boy, I’m forty years old.”
The old man stood, grabbed a cane, and hobbled to him, “I’m Henry, but you can call me Hank if you want to. Some do, some don’t.”
“Clifford Jenkins, from Nostalgia.”
The old man grinned brightly, “Nostalgia, huh? Margaret, did you hear that? Nostalgia!”
A woman who looked to be in her late sixties came out on the porch, “You’re from Nostalgia? You have to eat with us tonight and tell us about it? Last I heard Nostalgia was a ghost town. That’s what Jamie said, and he’s a mail-boy from Historia, he wouldn’t lie.”
Clifford sat his travel bag on the porch, “The town isn’t deserted, trust me. I won’t say your mail-boy lied to you, though. He may have been told wrong.”
Henry looked at Margaret (Clifford assumed they were married) and said, “Go on and fix supper. I’m gonna show the boy around, then we’ll eat. Make some cookies too.”
She retreated back into the house. Clifford stepped back, leaving his travel bag and bundle on the porch, but keeping his guitar on his back. He looked up at the house, a two-story white building with little doghouses on the roof. Henry stepped off the porch and took Clifford by the elbow, “You didn’t run into Old Put, did you?”
“Who is Old Put?” Clifford, asked, realizing halfway through his question that Henry was referring to Israel Putnam, “Oh yes, I did.”
Henry stepped forward heavily, his cane sinking into the think grass, “He tried to recruit you for his war against the Valley, didn’t he? Took two of my boys out there. Said Historia needed them to fight back the outside, whatever that means.”
Clifford nodded, “We passed through the King’s Valley, and got no trouble while we were there.”
“Who’s we?” Henry asked.
Clifford suddenly thought of the bundle, and was about to move for it, when Schrodinger moved, revealing himself to be on Clifford’s shoulder. Clifford pointed up, “This is Schrodinger, the mouse.”
Henry offered a polite wave, then pointed to the guitar, “You play that thing, Cliff?”
Clifford nodded, “Yup. Been playing since I was nine.”
Henry smiled, “Great. That’s our after-supper music, then. Now, let me show you the rest of the farm. Oh, and you’re mouse may want to hide when we reach the barn. I got eighteen barn-cats would love him for dinner.”
Clifford chuckled and looked over at Schrodinger, who wore a horrified expression. Clifford lifted a finger and lightly poked the mouse on the side, “What’s wrong, Schrodinger? Cat got your tongue?”
Schrodinger’s expression went from horrified to downright offended, “That’s a horrible thing to say, Clifford Jenkins. A cat actually got my uncle’s tongue. It’s not a pretty sight. He can’t talk now.”
Henry was tapping his cane on the ground, “Did your mouse just talk?”
“He’s not exactly mine, if you take my meaning,” Clifford said, “And yeah, I was shocked when I found out. Turns out he’s pretty smart.”
Henry pointed to the barn, “Don’t I know it? All eighteen of my cats can talk.”
Clifford stirred at first light. He brought out some of the remaining turkey meat he had, and ate that cold with some cheese, drinking water from the uphill-flowing river. He gathered his things, the guitar, old travel bag, and, with bundle shouldered, he started walking again. Schrodinger slept most of the time in the bundle.
Clifford walked, leaving Brigadier General Israel Putnam and the mysterious King’s Valley far behind. The land he traveled through gradually changed. The semi-desert-forest he’d encountered when he’d met Putnam (felt like days ago, was only the night before) gave way to a full-fledged forest. The Forest, after only an hour’s walk, became sparse and Clifford Jenkins, no longer sure if he was anywhere near as sensible as any man of 40 years, found himself in a meadow.
He crossed it at a brisk pace, wanting to reach Historia as soon as possible. Glancing behind him, toward the Mountains of Antiquity, he saw the snow-capped peaks rising above the forest. Somewhere back there was his family, wondering where he’d gone. Luckily he’d never married. Just never felt like it. He could see the sun glistening off the icy white tops of the mountains, and he was glad he’d come the way he had. The King’s Valley was infinitely easier to cross than the mountain pass would ever have been.
It was midday when Clifford tapped the bundle-stick and caused the mouse to scamper out, “What?”
“Look.”
They stood atop a high hill, and below them, in the dale, was a large farm, windmill turning slowly in the breeze, green grass turning to brown before their eyes. Schrodinger gasped. Clifford glanced at him, and then looked back at the farm.
The mouse jumped off the stick and onto Clifford’s shoulder, “This must be the farm of Pepperidge.”
Clifford unshouldered the bundle, dropped his old travel bag, and sat down in the grass, ready to play guitar for a bit and break the monotony of his journey, “You know, this land keeps getting stranger and stranger.”
Schrodinger settled onto his haunches next to Clifford and grinned (I know, I’ve told you that a sighing mouse is hilarious, a grinning mouse, though, is quite possibly the most serious thing ever seen. It’s anti-hilarity.) The mouse ran a fore-paw through his whiskers, “So what’re you going to play? Know anything Celtic?”
Clifford blinked, searching his own mind, “What’s Celtic?”
Schrodinger waved him off, “Nevermind. Play, my boy. Play.”
Clifford strummed once, a D-minor, and then began singing softly,
“Fill to me the parting glass,
And drink to health, what may befall,
Then gently rise, and softly call,
goodnight and joy be to you all.”
Schrodinger sat in silence until Clifford’s chorus was over, “You know that’s Celtic, right?”
Clifford leveled the guitar in his lap, “I know that it’s how we say goodbye to those we lose in Nostalgia. Tradition, I guess.”
Schrodinger laughed, “I think we should get going, Clifford. We can probably get some food at Pepperidge. Historia isn’t much farther.”
Clifford stood up, got up his things, and started walking again. His path took him to the farm, just as he knew it would. Somehow, he knew deep in his mind, he couldn’t avoid the farm. He could walk all the way around it, and over the next hill, and there the farm would be, waiting for him. Strange land.
On the porch of the farmhouse sat an older white man, “You need somethin’, boy?”
Clifford frowned, “Why does everyone keep calling me boy, I’m forty years old.”
The old man stood, grabbed a cane, and hobbled to him, “I’m Henry, but you can call me Hank if you want to. Some do, some don’t.”
“Clifford Jenkins, from Nostalgia.”
The old man grinned brightly, “Nostalgia, huh? Margaret, did you hear that? Nostalgia!”
A woman who looked to be in her late sixties came out on the porch, “You’re from Nostalgia? You have to eat with us tonight and tell us about it? Last I heard Nostalgia was a ghost town. That’s what Jamie said, and he’s a mail-boy from Historia, he wouldn’t lie.”
Clifford sat his travel bag on the porch, “The town isn’t deserted, trust me. I won’t say your mail-boy lied to you, though. He may have been told wrong.”
Henry looked at Margaret (Clifford assumed they were married) and said, “Go on and fix supper. I’m gonna show the boy around, then we’ll eat. Make some cookies too.”
She retreated back into the house. Clifford stepped back, leaving his travel bag and bundle on the porch, but keeping his guitar on his back. He looked up at the house, a two-story white building with little doghouses on the roof. Henry stepped off the porch and took Clifford by the elbow, “You didn’t run into Old Put, did you?”
“Who is Old Put?” Clifford, asked, realizing halfway through his question that Henry was referring to Israel Putnam, “Oh yes, I did.”
Henry stepped forward heavily, his cane sinking into the think grass, “He tried to recruit you for his war against the Valley, didn’t he? Took two of my boys out there. Said Historia needed them to fight back the outside, whatever that means.”
Clifford nodded, “We passed through the King’s Valley, and got no trouble while we were there.”
“Who’s we?” Henry asked.
Clifford suddenly thought of the bundle, and was about to move for it, when Schrodinger moved, revealing himself to be on Clifford’s shoulder. Clifford pointed up, “This is Schrodinger, the mouse.”
Henry offered a polite wave, then pointed to the guitar, “You play that thing, Cliff?”
Clifford nodded, “Yup. Been playing since I was nine.”
Henry smiled, “Great. That’s our after-supper music, then. Now, let me show you the rest of the farm. Oh, and you’re mouse may want to hide when we reach the barn. I got eighteen barn-cats would love him for dinner.”
Clifford chuckled and looked over at Schrodinger, who wore a horrified expression. Clifford lifted a finger and lightly poked the mouse on the side, “What’s wrong, Schrodinger? Cat got your tongue?”
Schrodinger’s expression went from horrified to downright offended, “That’s a horrible thing to say, Clifford Jenkins. A cat actually got my uncle’s tongue. It’s not a pretty sight. He can’t talk now.”
Henry was tapping his cane on the ground, “Did your mouse just talk?”
“He’s not exactly mine, if you take my meaning,” Clifford said, “And yeah, I was shocked when I found out. Turns out he’s pretty smart.”
Henry pointed to the barn, “Don’t I know it? All eighteen of my cats can talk.”
Sunday, November 30, 2008
37 Posts in November
It's certainly been a banner month here at the Right Wing. We've clocked out at a whopping 37 blog posts for the month. That's including the one you're reading now.
37.
That's a lot. It far and away breaks any heretofore records we held for blogging proficiency. Robert over at Skewed came in at 32, I think. Either way, we kind of pushed each other along on this wild and wacky month of blogging. I churned out 5 posts on nothing but Formula 1, something I had never blogged about before this year. That's roughly one out of every sevens posts. Not even Robert has ever written so much about Formula 1.
And of course we had the unmitigated disaster of failing to go 5-0 on the Football Future-see for the entire month, nay, the entire season. One more week to get it right.
So, 37 posts. You'll probably never see this much writing on this blog ever again. I hope you enjoyed it.
Robert, I'm basically talking to you, I think you're my only reader at this point.
37.
That's a lot. It far and away breaks any heretofore records we held for blogging proficiency. Robert over at Skewed came in at 32, I think. Either way, we kind of pushed each other along on this wild and wacky month of blogging. I churned out 5 posts on nothing but Formula 1, something I had never blogged about before this year. That's roughly one out of every sevens posts. Not even Robert has ever written so much about Formula 1.
And of course we had the unmitigated disaster of failing to go 5-0 on the Football Future-see for the entire month, nay, the entire season. One more week to get it right.
So, 37 posts. You'll probably never see this much writing on this blog ever again. I hope you enjoyed it.
Robert, I'm basically talking to you, I think you're my only reader at this point.
Historia, Part IX
The fact that he hadn’t heard an explosion since leaving Carnacabidos didn’t cross Clifford’s mind until an explosion went off about five hundred feet to his left. He was nearly to the high rock wall that marked the western end of the King’s Valley. (It also never crossed his mind that he had followed the river then entire way and had yet to come across any of the buildings he’d seen upon entering the Valley. He would remember this one afternoon sitting on a park bench in Historia, facing a thirty foot section of railroad track that was in the middle of a grassy field, unconnected to any other track.)
He rushed for the wall and found cover under it as another explosion went off near where he’d been standing moments before. Schrodinger scampered out of the bundle, “Was that more explosions?”
Clifford glanced sideways at the mouse, “I thought you said that humans couldn’t blow stuff up anymore?”
The mouse looked to be in deep thought for a brief moment, “Well, obviously I was wrong.”
Clifford waited for the explosions to stop, and then began looking for a way to climb the rock wall. He found what looked like rough-hewn steps leading in a haphazard way up the cliff face and a bit on an angle. The climb didn’t take as long as Clifford had figured it would, and he credited that to the Historians, whatever the crap they were doing.
At the top he found himself confronted by four men carrying guns. At least, Clifford thought they were guns. He’d seen pictures at the University of guns from different time periods, but these were either older or newer, Clifford couldn’t tell which.
“Stop! Who are you?”
Clifford looked at the man who spoke. His uniform differed a bit from the others. (I forgot to mention, they’re all in uniforms. We would instantly recognize them as the ragtag uniforms of soldiers in General Washington’s Continental Army, but Clifford didn’t know what the Continental Army was, or who General Washington was.)
“I’m Clifford Jenkins, and I’m going to Historia. Who are you?”
The man drew himself up into a regality that Clifford knew he did not possess, but was merely able to replicate by imitation, “I am Brigadier General Israel Putnam. I am tasked with war.”
Clifford pulled himself the rest of the way up off the stairs, hands raised to show he was not a threat. He took a quick inventory of his situation. It was suddenly night, when three feet below him it was bright as mid-afternoon. He looked at the tired-looking, rugged soldiers of Putnam’s camp. “And who are you at war with?”
Putnam looked indignant, “That Valley, obviously.”
“Well, I’d say you’re winning. The sand won’t put up much of a fight.”
A tiny voice sounded in Clifford’s ear, and he realized that Schrodinger was once again on his shoulder, “Um, Clifford, look behind you.”
Clifford turned and saw that the Valley below was lined with encampments. The soldier below wielded clubs, spears and swords, and were dressed in simple skirts and what looked like elaborate headdresses.
“Oh,” Clifford muttered, “That’s who you’re fighting.” He maintained his gaze at the valley, but spoke only loud enough for Schrodinger to hear him, “How did we not see any of that?”
The mouse replied, “I wish I could tell you.”
As Clifford turned around, he heard Brigadier General Putnam begin to bellow orders, “Alright boys! Load up another IckBem, let’s give those sandies what they deserve!”
Clifford watched as a cylinder was loaded onto a catapult. Along the side, in bright blue letters, was written ICBM. The catapult released and flung the cylinder far out into the Valley. When it struck the ground a plume of dust and sand shot up, but nothing else happened.
“Crap!” Putnam screamed, “Another dud.”
Then the explosion hit. The IckBem went off with terrifying brightness. Bodies flew into the air and sand went in all directions. Clifford even noticed the Evergreen tree he’d been sitting under earlier eating the turkey fly off into the night.
Schrodinger spoke, “I think we need to leave, Clifford. This is not a place we need to be.”
“I agree.”
Putnam spun on his heels, “You agree with who, Jenkins? Don’t think you’re leaving. You’re not a sandie, that means you fight with us.”
Clifford shook his head, “Oh, no! I’m not a sandie, but I’m not one of you either. I’m from Nostalgia, on the eastern side of the King’s Valley, unaffiliated with any but their own.”
Putnam picked up a gun and shoved it into Clifford’s hands, “I’d like to believe you, Jenkins, I really would. But we can’t let those sandies get out of the Valley.”
Clifford deftly avoided the gun, “But they can just leave out of the Eastern side, can’t they?”
Brigadier General Israel Putnam paused for a moment, “By golly, you’re right. We’ll need to form an expeditionary force to go to the east side and give those sandies the whuppin’ they deserve.”
Clifford blinked, “What did they do to deserve such a beating?”
The General laughed, “You don’t know? They walk funny, son. They walk funny.”
Clifford turned and walked away. The General’s face turned bright red, “Hey! No one walks away from Brigadier General Israel Putnam! No one!”
Clifford offered a genteel wave, which further incensed the General.
Putnam screamed, “I’ll see you again, Jenkins!”
Clifford kept walking, “And when you do I’ll be the one with the talking mouse.”
Putnam turned back to his battle, “Talking mouse? Gall-dang, that is one stupid boy.”
He rushed for the wall and found cover under it as another explosion went off near where he’d been standing moments before. Schrodinger scampered out of the bundle, “Was that more explosions?”
Clifford glanced sideways at the mouse, “I thought you said that humans couldn’t blow stuff up anymore?”
The mouse looked to be in deep thought for a brief moment, “Well, obviously I was wrong.”
Clifford waited for the explosions to stop, and then began looking for a way to climb the rock wall. He found what looked like rough-hewn steps leading in a haphazard way up the cliff face and a bit on an angle. The climb didn’t take as long as Clifford had figured it would, and he credited that to the Historians, whatever the crap they were doing.
At the top he found himself confronted by four men carrying guns. At least, Clifford thought they were guns. He’d seen pictures at the University of guns from different time periods, but these were either older or newer, Clifford couldn’t tell which.
“Stop! Who are you?”
Clifford looked at the man who spoke. His uniform differed a bit from the others. (I forgot to mention, they’re all in uniforms. We would instantly recognize them as the ragtag uniforms of soldiers in General Washington’s Continental Army, but Clifford didn’t know what the Continental Army was, or who General Washington was.)
“I’m Clifford Jenkins, and I’m going to Historia. Who are you?”
The man drew himself up into a regality that Clifford knew he did not possess, but was merely able to replicate by imitation, “I am Brigadier General Israel Putnam. I am tasked with war.”
Clifford pulled himself the rest of the way up off the stairs, hands raised to show he was not a threat. He took a quick inventory of his situation. It was suddenly night, when three feet below him it was bright as mid-afternoon. He looked at the tired-looking, rugged soldiers of Putnam’s camp. “And who are you at war with?”
Putnam looked indignant, “That Valley, obviously.”
“Well, I’d say you’re winning. The sand won’t put up much of a fight.”
A tiny voice sounded in Clifford’s ear, and he realized that Schrodinger was once again on his shoulder, “Um, Clifford, look behind you.”
Clifford turned and saw that the Valley below was lined with encampments. The soldier below wielded clubs, spears and swords, and were dressed in simple skirts and what looked like elaborate headdresses.
“Oh,” Clifford muttered, “That’s who you’re fighting.” He maintained his gaze at the valley, but spoke only loud enough for Schrodinger to hear him, “How did we not see any of that?”
The mouse replied, “I wish I could tell you.”
As Clifford turned around, he heard Brigadier General Putnam begin to bellow orders, “Alright boys! Load up another IckBem, let’s give those sandies what they deserve!”
Clifford watched as a cylinder was loaded onto a catapult. Along the side, in bright blue letters, was written ICBM. The catapult released and flung the cylinder far out into the Valley. When it struck the ground a plume of dust and sand shot up, but nothing else happened.
“Crap!” Putnam screamed, “Another dud.”
Then the explosion hit. The IckBem went off with terrifying brightness. Bodies flew into the air and sand went in all directions. Clifford even noticed the Evergreen tree he’d been sitting under earlier eating the turkey fly off into the night.
Schrodinger spoke, “I think we need to leave, Clifford. This is not a place we need to be.”
“I agree.”
Putnam spun on his heels, “You agree with who, Jenkins? Don’t think you’re leaving. You’re not a sandie, that means you fight with us.”
Clifford shook his head, “Oh, no! I’m not a sandie, but I’m not one of you either. I’m from Nostalgia, on the eastern side of the King’s Valley, unaffiliated with any but their own.”
Putnam picked up a gun and shoved it into Clifford’s hands, “I’d like to believe you, Jenkins, I really would. But we can’t let those sandies get out of the Valley.”
Clifford deftly avoided the gun, “But they can just leave out of the Eastern side, can’t they?”
Brigadier General Israel Putnam paused for a moment, “By golly, you’re right. We’ll need to form an expeditionary force to go to the east side and give those sandies the whuppin’ they deserve.”
Clifford blinked, “What did they do to deserve such a beating?”
The General laughed, “You don’t know? They walk funny, son. They walk funny.”
Clifford turned and walked away. The General’s face turned bright red, “Hey! No one walks away from Brigadier General Israel Putnam! No one!”
Clifford offered a genteel wave, which further incensed the General.
Putnam screamed, “I’ll see you again, Jenkins!”
Clifford kept walking, “And when you do I’ll be the one with the talking mouse.”
Putnam turned back to his battle, “Talking mouse? Gall-dang, that is one stupid boy.”
Football Future-see Week 14 Recap
Record
Week 1 .... 6-1
Week 2 .... 4-1
Week 3 .... 3-2
Week 4 .... 4-1
Week 5 .... 3-3
Week 6 .... 3-2
Week 7 .... 4-2
Week 8 .... 4-1
Week 9 .... 4-1
Week 10 ... 4-1
Week 11 ... 4-1
Week 12 ... 4-1
Week 13 ... 4-1
Week 14 ... 3-2
Overall .... 54-20
We just can't do it. We cannot have a perfect week. We feel even farther this time around, dropping two games instead of just one. After watching this last week, I'm beginning to wonder about a few things:
1. Apparently, no one besides Alabama wanted to play defense last week.
2. Can anyone tell me how Georgia Tech lost three games this year? Their offense is one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. They threw the ball three times, and racked up 45 points on Georgia.
3. I'm losing faith in the PAC-10.
4. I never had faith in the Big East.
5. If USC makes the National Title game over the SEC Champion of the Big XII Champion, I'll probably stop watching college football.
Week 15 Games
(12) Ball State vs. Buffalo - MAC Championship
(1) Alabama vs. (4) Florida - SEC Championship
(17) Boston College vs (25) Virginia Tech - ACC Championship
(20) Missouri vs. (2) Oklahoma - Big XII Championship
(5) USC at UCLA
Week 1 .... 6-1
Week 2 .... 4-1
Week 3 .... 3-2
Week 4 .... 4-1
Week 5 .... 3-3
Week 6 .... 3-2
Week 7 .... 4-2
Week 8 .... 4-1
Week 9 .... 4-1
Week 10 ... 4-1
Week 11 ... 4-1
Week 12 ... 4-1
Week 13 ... 4-1
Week 14 ... 3-2
Overall .... 54-20
We just can't do it. We cannot have a perfect week. We feel even farther this time around, dropping two games instead of just one. After watching this last week, I'm beginning to wonder about a few things:
1. Apparently, no one besides Alabama wanted to play defense last week.
2. Can anyone tell me how Georgia Tech lost three games this year? Their offense is one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. They threw the ball three times, and racked up 45 points on Georgia.
3. I'm losing faith in the PAC-10.
4. I never had faith in the Big East.
5. If USC makes the National Title game over the SEC Champion of the Big XII Champion, I'll probably stop watching college football.
Week 15 Games
(12) Ball State vs. Buffalo - MAC Championship
(1) Alabama vs. (4) Florida - SEC Championship
(17) Boston College vs (25) Virginia Tech - ACC Championship
(20) Missouri vs. (2) Oklahoma - Big XII Championship
(5) USC at UCLA
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Historia, Part VIII
Clifford gathered his things, hoisted the guitar and strapped it to his back, and then shouldered the bundle, complete with Schrodinger inside. As they started once again walking toward Historia, Schrodinger scurried down the bundle-stick and landed on Clifford’s shoulder, near his ear.
“What now?” Clifford asked, a trifle annoyed.
“I just want you to think about something that just happened.”
“What? The old guy... er, woman... crone... thing? The fireplace? The sandstorm?”
Schrodinger gave an exasperated sigh (I’m telling you, a mouse sighing, funniest thing on the planet), “You asked the person how they knew your name before they had said it.”
Clifford paused, then kept walking, “What about it?”
Schrodinger tapped on his shoulder with a rapidly moving paw, and for a moment Clifford couldn’t tell if the mouse was annoyed or it was scratching, “Clifford, how could he or she have known your name? And how could you know that they knew your name?”
Clifford Jenkins, probably a little less sensible now than most men of 40 years, tapped a finger on the bundle-stick, “I’m more concerned with you, my friend. Why was that person so afraid?”
Schrodinger started back up the bundle-stick and toward his makeshift home, “Stop under the tree over this next sand dune. We’ll talk in the shade.”
Clifford shook his head and began the climb up the fairly imposing sand dune. As he crested it, he saw the tree Schrodinger was referring to, a monstrous Evergreen, the sand around it littered with pine cones and needles.
He sat his belongings down and made his way to the river. He gathered some water in a canteen he’d brought along. Looking slightly up river (or is it down river... river’s aren’t supposed to run uphill, how the crap is one supposed to know where to go?) Clifford saw a bird drinking water. Clifford’s first thought was a brief thanks to whatever god or gods had seen fit to put a bird in his path.
It took a moment for him to catch the bird, which he realized was a turkey. (Let me say here that if you’ve never seen a 40-year-old man wrestle a turkey to the death, well, it’s on par funny with a sighing mouse.) It took him the better part of two hours to de-feather and clean the bird, before using the dried pine-needles to start a fire. He took the feathers and entrails (I know, ick!) and tossed them in the river, where they flowed downhill while the water continued flowing uphill. He thought this odd for only a second until his hunger got the better of his curiosity. He cooked the turkey and, using the block of cheese and the dried meat jerky he’d brought, prepared himself a small feast.
“What?” Schrodinger said, scampering from the bundle, “You’re not going to share?”
Clifford cocked his head to the side, more puzzled than ever, “If I know anything, I know that mice don’t eat meat.”
“And I can talk, something else mice can’t do. What does that tell you about me?”
Clifford nodded and slid some of the cooked meat over to his mousy friend, “So let’s talk?”
Schrodinger swallowed a bite of the turkey meat and rested back on his haunches, “Look around you, Clifford Jenkins. You are from the town of Nostalgia, which is in a mountainous area, trees like this, right? So how is it that a desert valley is less than a day’s walk away from you? How is a pine tree in the desert? How does a river run uphill?”
Clifford had stopped eating when Schrodinger started talking, “I don’t know. I mean, I’m trying to figure out what the gall-dang crap I’m doing out here. One night I’m sitting in Timey’s bar, playing guitar like usual, the next morning I’ve decided that I have to reach Historia come Hell or high water. I packed a bunch of crap that’ll run out in about two days.”
Schrodinger laughed (again, hilarious), “Have you not also noticed that this is still the same day as when you entered the King’s Valley? We’ve traveled probably eighty miles, three days walking, carrying the amount you’re carrying, and yet it’s only taken us a day and a half. We entered the King’s Valley only three hours ago, as the Sun reckons.”
Clifford looked up for the first time since entering the Valley and saw rain clouds overhead, “It feels like we’ve been here for days.”
Schrodinger quickly swallowed another bite of turkey meat, “Historia is in chaos. The parts of the city are rebelling against themselves. The Vikings keep pushing Guevara’s guerillas even farther back, the Inquisition has actually reached the Smithsonian, and the Vatican has been turned into a giant gift shop. Father Time is ill, he’ll probably die soon.”
Clifford finally broke from his thoughtful reverie (he didn’t know who the Vikings or the Guevara’s gorilla’s were, nor did he have any idea about an Inquisition, a Smith’s On Yan, or the Vat-a-Can, but he did know what a gift shop was) and grabbed another bite of the turkey before Schrodinger ate it all, “And that has what to do with me?”
Schrodinger popped another bit of cheese into his mouth, and after seconds of chewing, spoke around the bits still in his mouth, “Clifford, I have no idea. But if I had my guess, I’d say you’re not the only one making a journey to Historia for no apparent reason.”
Clifford leaned back against the tree and instantly regretted it, the sap momentarily gluing him to the trunk, “So let’s get back to you. What are you?”
Schrodinger had already started withdrawing to the bundle, “Me? I’m a mouse. Just a mouse. Oh, and I can talk. Big whoop. Let’s go. We’ll be out of the King’s Valley soon. Don’t be surprised if time goes all wibbly-wobbly on you.”
Clifford took the pseudo-warning in stride and began cleaning up his temporary campsite. The rainclouds finally broke into a torrential downpour that made walking along the sandy valley floor even harder. Clifford stopped at a rocky outcropping and rummaged through his old travel bag for a moment. He pulled out a hat with the letters NY on it, something his granpappy had given him years ago. Another talisman.
He trudged on through the mud. After hours of walking, he finally saw the high rock wall that made up the west end of the King’s Valley.
“What now?” Clifford asked, a trifle annoyed.
“I just want you to think about something that just happened.”
“What? The old guy... er, woman... crone... thing? The fireplace? The sandstorm?”
Schrodinger gave an exasperated sigh (I’m telling you, a mouse sighing, funniest thing on the planet), “You asked the person how they knew your name before they had said it.”
Clifford paused, then kept walking, “What about it?”
Schrodinger tapped on his shoulder with a rapidly moving paw, and for a moment Clifford couldn’t tell if the mouse was annoyed or it was scratching, “Clifford, how could he or she have known your name? And how could you know that they knew your name?”
Clifford Jenkins, probably a little less sensible now than most men of 40 years, tapped a finger on the bundle-stick, “I’m more concerned with you, my friend. Why was that person so afraid?”
Schrodinger started back up the bundle-stick and toward his makeshift home, “Stop under the tree over this next sand dune. We’ll talk in the shade.”
Clifford shook his head and began the climb up the fairly imposing sand dune. As he crested it, he saw the tree Schrodinger was referring to, a monstrous Evergreen, the sand around it littered with pine cones and needles.
He sat his belongings down and made his way to the river. He gathered some water in a canteen he’d brought along. Looking slightly up river (or is it down river... river’s aren’t supposed to run uphill, how the crap is one supposed to know where to go?) Clifford saw a bird drinking water. Clifford’s first thought was a brief thanks to whatever god or gods had seen fit to put a bird in his path.
It took a moment for him to catch the bird, which he realized was a turkey. (Let me say here that if you’ve never seen a 40-year-old man wrestle a turkey to the death, well, it’s on par funny with a sighing mouse.) It took him the better part of two hours to de-feather and clean the bird, before using the dried pine-needles to start a fire. He took the feathers and entrails (I know, ick!) and tossed them in the river, where they flowed downhill while the water continued flowing uphill. He thought this odd for only a second until his hunger got the better of his curiosity. He cooked the turkey and, using the block of cheese and the dried meat jerky he’d brought, prepared himself a small feast.
“What?” Schrodinger said, scampering from the bundle, “You’re not going to share?”
Clifford cocked his head to the side, more puzzled than ever, “If I know anything, I know that mice don’t eat meat.”
“And I can talk, something else mice can’t do. What does that tell you about me?”
Clifford nodded and slid some of the cooked meat over to his mousy friend, “So let’s talk?”
Schrodinger swallowed a bite of the turkey meat and rested back on his haunches, “Look around you, Clifford Jenkins. You are from the town of Nostalgia, which is in a mountainous area, trees like this, right? So how is it that a desert valley is less than a day’s walk away from you? How is a pine tree in the desert? How does a river run uphill?”
Clifford had stopped eating when Schrodinger started talking, “I don’t know. I mean, I’m trying to figure out what the gall-dang crap I’m doing out here. One night I’m sitting in Timey’s bar, playing guitar like usual, the next morning I’ve decided that I have to reach Historia come Hell or high water. I packed a bunch of crap that’ll run out in about two days.”
Schrodinger laughed (again, hilarious), “Have you not also noticed that this is still the same day as when you entered the King’s Valley? We’ve traveled probably eighty miles, three days walking, carrying the amount you’re carrying, and yet it’s only taken us a day and a half. We entered the King’s Valley only three hours ago, as the Sun reckons.”
Clifford looked up for the first time since entering the Valley and saw rain clouds overhead, “It feels like we’ve been here for days.”
Schrodinger quickly swallowed another bite of turkey meat, “Historia is in chaos. The parts of the city are rebelling against themselves. The Vikings keep pushing Guevara’s guerillas even farther back, the Inquisition has actually reached the Smithsonian, and the Vatican has been turned into a giant gift shop. Father Time is ill, he’ll probably die soon.”
Clifford finally broke from his thoughtful reverie (he didn’t know who the Vikings or the Guevara’s gorilla’s were, nor did he have any idea about an Inquisition, a Smith’s On Yan, or the Vat-a-Can, but he did know what a gift shop was) and grabbed another bite of the turkey before Schrodinger ate it all, “And that has what to do with me?”
Schrodinger popped another bit of cheese into his mouth, and after seconds of chewing, spoke around the bits still in his mouth, “Clifford, I have no idea. But if I had my guess, I’d say you’re not the only one making a journey to Historia for no apparent reason.”
Clifford leaned back against the tree and instantly regretted it, the sap momentarily gluing him to the trunk, “So let’s get back to you. What are you?”
Schrodinger had already started withdrawing to the bundle, “Me? I’m a mouse. Just a mouse. Oh, and I can talk. Big whoop. Let’s go. We’ll be out of the King’s Valley soon. Don’t be surprised if time goes all wibbly-wobbly on you.”
Clifford took the pseudo-warning in stride and began cleaning up his temporary campsite. The rainclouds finally broke into a torrential downpour that made walking along the sandy valley floor even harder. Clifford stopped at a rocky outcropping and rummaged through his old travel bag for a moment. He pulled out a hat with the letters NY on it, something his granpappy had given him years ago. Another talisman.
He trudged on through the mud. After hours of walking, he finally saw the high rock wall that made up the west end of the King’s Valley.
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