I Hope I Got the Stupid Finger Pointing Right

Getting ready to film my own stupid scam Internet video

Old Testament? Not my Favorite

I'll admit the Old Testament is not my favorite bit of scripture to teach.

A few weeks ago, my wife got to avoid teaching this particular tale from Genesis 9:

After the whole ark business, Noah gets a bit drunk and passes out in his tent, starkers. His son Ham comes in, sees the naked dad, and he and his brothers cover Noah up.

Upon awaking, Noah learns of the thing and curses Canaan, Ham's son. Grandkid gets cursed because his dad saw grandpa's ding-dong.

Even our lesson materials has this to say:

This week, I get to avoid talking about other drunken escapades where Lot's daughters get Dad drunk and have sex so he can have, well, I don't know I guess. Descendants? Because his daughters don't count?

Our materials say this is included to show origins:

So that'll be fun. I guess it does show that you could take the daughters out of Sodom and Gomorrah, but not Sodom and Gomorrah out of the daughters.

Anyway, this is what I feel like sometimes:

 

We have state legislators who want daily Bible reading to be part of the public school curriculum. Fine. But they have to read these parts too.

Are They *Really*?

The Guardian is trying to get me upset about the loss of trade paperback books.

Their story sez:

But the era of the “pocket book” is drawing to a close. ReaderLink, the biggest book distributor in the US, announced recently that it would stop distributing mass-market paperbacks. The decision follows years of plummeting sales, from 131m units in 2004 to 21m in 2024, and marks the end of a format that once democratised reading for the working class.

Romero, who grew up in the working-class, Latino and industrial city of Hialeah, Florida, says: “I don’t remember a bookstore. I had the library in Miami Springs across the bridge but in Hialeah around us, what was in walking distance because we didn’t have a car, was the Publix [supermarket] and sometimes we would get books from Goodwill [thrift store] as well.

“They had that democratic aspect to them where you can just find them anywhere and it always felt like it was the pick ’n’ mix candy-type store where there is something here for everyone, whether it’s the Harlequin romance novel or something very pulpy like a sci-fi or horror novel that you could quickly get.”

I'll admit: I don't remember book stores either. I mean, we had Pioneer Book, sure. But I was a big borrower from the library, and sneaked books off the classroom shelves in elementary school. While I do remember buying books from a grocery store as they describe here, they were exclusively Peanuts comic strip books.

When I was serious about buying books, it was the thrift store. Deseret Industries, one of our local thrifts, occasionally ran sales when they had too many books and I could come home with ten for a dollar. Those were heady days.

I still shop a lot there for books, abut also hit up used book sellers on the Internet as well. As far as I'm concerned, there is no book shortage.

I just bought a new little pile last weekend. It's fun.

COOKIE DOUGH!

 

I know that doesn't look like much more than a mixer churning away in a garage, but to us and Troop 1010, it's a big deal.

Since 2019, the troop has made cookie dough as a fundraiser. We've made the dough in a school cafeteria and the back rooms of the scout office and a regional restaurant, but those opportunities were closed to us.

We did score this mixer from the scout office, and Keaton and his Dad got an outlet wired for it in the garage of their new home. Best yet, the mixer works. So we can make the dough. Both kinds.

Help Me Sort This Out in My Head

 

Help me sort this out:

I've been a fan of Vangelis -- and by extension, a certain amount of synthesized music -- since I first heard the music as part of Carl Sagan's "Cosmos" series.

Obviously, a lot of talent goes into synthesized music; it's not just computers doing the work. Though it is the computers helping the work to have beautiful and dangerous sounds to it.

I'm sure at the time there were people who weren't all that keen on synthesized music: "There's no skill," they'd say, as compared to learning how to make a violin sing, or dare I say it, a banjo plink."

But it's still there. Filling a niche that I'm glad synth music found.

I'm struggling with the battle against large language models and such. Though I agree there's rather a leap from creating "good prompts" that can produce prose that's actually worth reading.

But I dunno. Maybe I'm getting weak on this. Maybe in the future LLMs will find and fill a niche in writing and just be that small part of it that fills a distinct need.

I've seen writer friends experiment with LLMs and I have to wonder: Used right, they're not all that bad. There are certainly ethical concerns based on their use of electricity and their training based on plagiarized works of actual meat-spacer authors, that I won't deny. That's a big part that still keeps me from using LLMs in my own work. Maybe that's too big a leap to make.

But I'm not sure.

Still sorting things out in my head.

Moved

I didn't take any pictures -- which now seems sad -- but we successfully got Lexi and Keaton moved into their house today.

It's a big deal.

They feel like they're rattling around in the space, after leaving a 2-bedroom apartment for even smaller digs with us as they looked for a place to live locally.

But I can see the gleam in their eyes as they look past the piles of boxes and such at the possibilities of having all sorts of places to put the stuff they've got and plan for the future.

It's kind of exciting for them.

And for us, because it means we have a lot of stuff that's moved out of our house now. Last time I had to restart the router, it took ten minutes to move enough boxes to get to it.

And soon one of the two pianos we have in the house will join them. We'll get a wall back. I don't know what we'll do with it, but we'll get it back.

Honda Mileage - Another Missed Milestone

I've been watching the odometer in my 2005 Honda Pilot for this particular set of zeros to come around.

Not that there's anything significant about 260,000 miles other than the fact that I missed seeing 250,000 miles roll in.

So, of course, today this happened:

At least it got warmer.

Summer in Liverpool, 1992

 

We buy a lot of used books. Part of the fun is finding annotations, abandoned bookmarks, and in the case of this copy of "The Complete Ripping Yarns," an inscription on the inside front cover.

I can't make out the signatures, but the text says:

To Lillian,

A bit of very British humour from a very funny T.V. series written by two of the Monty Python team.

Hope you enjoy it!

Happy Birthday.

Summer in Liverpool 1992

With love from (illegible names)

All of this for only $7.

A Dog for All Seasons: A Reflection

Note: This is less of a review, more of a personal reflection.

“Oh. That book,” my wife said when she saw me holding our copy of “A Dog for All Seasons” by Patti Sherlock. “You do know the dog dies at the end?”

Sorry for the spoiler. But as it’s a book about a dog, we all pretty much know how it ends. Because that’s pretty much how every book about a dog – or any animal – ends. Sure, not “Rascal,” by Sterling North. But damn few else.

And, in the end, we all know Rascal died too.

Thus is the nature of living, whether with animals or humans. Life passes. And we’re rarely prepared for the end of it. Dogs, who live in the moment, maybe have the better point of view, at least in the realm of mortality.

Once immortal, maybe we can learn things from each other.

Our own dog Dottie, now sixteen years old herself, gave us a scare last week, tumbling down a flight of stairs to end up in a shaking, crying heap at the bottom.

I’m not sure I liked how I reacted, yelling chastisement at the dog for not waiting for me to pick her up before she went pell-mell down the stairs, because picking her up is just what we do now when any amount of stairs are involved. She won’t ascend the four wooden steps on the back porch and balks usually at going down them, so I have no idea why the fourteen carpeted steps to the basement were so appealing that day.

So I was mad. Surely she didn’t understand the words, but knew the tone, and that is not what she needed. Chastisement in the moment rarely helps when all we really need is comfort.

Madder still it happened after hours, when no vets were open to see her. Madder still she woke crying during the night and I sacrificed sleep to hold her in my arms as we both fitfully tried to get some rest, waiting for the sun to crawl over the horizon.

Our vet was booked, so we took her to a vet we’d used previously until our emergency backup dog, Daisy, quailed at the ride there, knowing each time she was riding to her doom. We picked a vet closer to home so the anxiety of the trip was as short as the several-block trip.

The vet gave Dottie some pain meds and a cautious bill of health, and for the most part she’s been fine since. But I still don’t like that I yelled.

It didn’t help that at the bottom of the stairs Dasy was too fixated on getting her nightly rawhide to bother with her injured sister, and that I hurled the treat bag at our oldest, asking for help in a less-than-nice voice.

So when George kicked Duncan, the dog in Sherlock’s book, I felt a wince of regret. Never mind I’d stayed up that night cradling that little idiot dog in my arms after the fall. I’d hollered at her. Not what she nor our oldest needed at the time.

But that’s what pets do. They bring joy and laughter, sadness and pain. It’s what all creatures do. I can imagine God wanting to pick up our shaking forms at the bottom of a metaphorical staircase we’ve just tumbled down, irritated that the help that was forthcoming was ignored or the counsel given was forgotten, even momentarily.

“For those of us who have been loved by a great dog, who have, in turn, loved the dog back, we can say, and this is not too large a statement, we have known Glory in our lives,” Sherlock writes at the conclusion of her story.

Glory, indeed.

And maybe, when inevitably the dog passes and is with us no longer, a little bit of grace as well.

The Last Battle

It's been a while since I read a good World War II history, and when I saw this title by Cornelius Ryan on the shelf, I knew I had to have it. I really enjoyed his "A Bridge Too Far," and expected this book would be in a similar vein, with looks from both on high and on the ground for the battle of Berlin.

It did not disappoint.

I'm stunned at the amount of access he appeared to have to documents, photos, and people from all sorts of walks of life and alliances as he complied this book. I suppose that's a great sign of an excellent journalist and researcher.

Some of it was hard reading. Not because of the prose, but because of the subject matter. I appreciate this is war and that ugliness happens, but damn some of what he wrote about was terrible stuff. He did concentrate the worst of it into one section of the book, which made it easier to bleep over when things got too nasty.

Ring Out, Our Savior's Love

We sang this hymn as an opener at church today, and I love it. The message and the tune are so sweet and simple. Though I enjoy a challenging song, it's often very nice to slip into a hymn that fits as nice as the cream-colored sweater I've had for years and have to be pried out of it almost every Sunday.

But today I learned -- and I love learning about the writers and tunesmiths used in the hymnal -- that "Our Savior's Love," the tune, was composed by Crawford Gates, the same guy responsible for the LDS tune to "Ring Out Wild Bells," which at best incites a lot of controversy in the church and at worst is loathed by many members to the point they simply don't sing it.

Now for me, I love the tune to "Ring Out, Wild Bells" to the same degree that I love the tune to "Our Savior's Love," so the connection between the two songs is fun.

Oddly enough, it's hard to find a YouTube video of the song as Gates composed it. The most popular ones by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir use a different, much less interesting tune.

But thank heaven for the Crofts Family:

It's a challenging song to sing, and one that's typically a miss when we sing it. It's Like "That Little Light of Mine," meant to be a gospel spiritual, not one sung by a staid choir or congregation. But that song, just like Gates' version of "Ring Out Wild Bells," is beautiful and touching in the right setting.

Progress for both Bathroom and Dog

I really need to get this bathroom remodel done because in my Facebook memories I'm starting to see one-year anniversaries of past prep work in the bathroom, including the $1,600 job I had to farm out to the professionals.

That's a long time to be without a basement bathroom, though we do have three others to choose from.

Good news is another few courses of tile and I'll have that wall done and can move on to finishing the tub enclosure. Then it'll be a lot of cleanup and setting the sink and toilet in place.

I'm a little irked that the pedestal sink doesn't meet the wall at a 90 degree angle, but in researching the problem online, it seems that's not an uncommon problem. Part of it might be due to the fact the sink is one we found at a thrift store and the bowl may have been attached crookedly to begin with. So I'll keep experimenting with that and seeing what I can do to make things right.

I had hoped to get more done, but I also had to spend some time babysitting/sitting with Dottie, who hopefully has a better night tonight than she did last night, where she woke us all up at 1:30 am crying. Poor little thing.

Crash and Burn

Last night, our weenie dog Dottie crashed and burned going down the stairs.

Had she waited five seconds, I would have had her in my arms to carry her down the stairs as we always do, but no, Dad was taking too long.

Hit the landing and started crying. Picked up the shattered remains and she didn't want to be touched and tried to bite me.

Nevertheless we manhandled her, got a compression bandage and a splint on her right front leg, and prepared to have a long night with her before we could get her to the vet in the morning.

That meant, of course, Dad sleeping on the couch with her in his lap because that's what you do. Dressed in your plaid shirt and jeans, belt and all.

She slept peacefully.

At 4 am, I took the dogs outside to use the potty. The bandage and splint came off during the night - it's ridiculously hard to bandage and splint a wiry weenie dog.

She's a little gimpy - slightly more gimpy than usual - but doesn't seem to be seriously hurt, even after a thorough poking of both front legs by our daughter at about 7:30 am.

Napping now because that's what she does every morning.

I may need a nap myself. That took a lot out of me.

Update: Vet gave Dottie a good bill of health, considering. He said her motor function looks good, and she was moving around a lot more while there, partly due to the adrenaline. But she's on doggie painkillers now, and hopefully on the mend.

Geniuses in Charge

The Idaho state legislature loves making noise about "unfunded mandates" whether they come from the federal government or from ballot initiatives approved by voters.

It seems, though, they have no problem with such things if they create them.

Peep at this from the Idaho Capital Sun, regarding legislative mandates to cut budgets because in part the state cut taxes to make the rich folks happy:

Saving $210,000 but having to spend $3.5 million as a result of the savings? Genius move by the legislature.

Into the Abyss . . .

 

First policeman: Is he all right?

Second policeman: Says the Ty-d-Bol is irritating his buttocks.

First policeman: Hang up.

The little notes help me remember what I forget.

The humor helps me retain the tattered remains of my sanity.

"They're not the Lunatics, it's Us."

 

I hear a lot these days that if I agree with something, I must, naturally, completely disagree with the things that is diametrically opposite of what I agree with.

Maybe in some cases that's true.

But in the vast majority of cases, it's not.

I like to think I have an open mind. I'll listen to others and try to understand their point of view. Because while I may be certain of some things, I readily concede I'm ignorant of others. And there's a good chance on many things that the lunatic in the situation is me.

But of the many things I'm certain of, I do know this: It doesn't have to be us vs. them.

Because that's what Satan wants. Division. He doesn't really care what we're divided about, as long as we're divided. And the more things he can find that divide us, the happier he is because he wants us to be miserable like unto himself.

And while I'm coming into this from a Christian point of view, I refuse to believe that other religions and non-religions don't teach the same thing: That we as people on this planet have far more in common than what divides us, and if we can find common ground and agree to get along and understand the differences between ourselves and look at those differences as differences, not gulfs, we'd all be a lot better off.

So in the vast majority of the culture wars we see these days, I refuse to participate, because at the foundation of it all, I know who wants me to choose a side in arguments that don't really matter.

$65 Dollar Hole

 

That's a $65 hole in the tile and I only had to cut it twice, but I did it myself. And it was not as nerve-wracking as I expected it would be.

Now I just have to convince my wife that I can amortize the cost of that diamond bit set over several projects . . .

But as a friend pointed out on Facebook: Tool math.

Also: While Future Tiling Me understands why Past Tiling Me leaves the thinset bucket all gunked up because it's "easier" to clean up dry thinset than wet thinset, sometimes Future Tiling Me thinks Past Tiling Me is a bit of a jerk.

The Pink Pages

I'm watching a documentary on the Apollo 13 mission, focusing on the famous accident that nearly brought the mission to an end. There's little narration; they're just following along with the actual radio transmissions between Houston and Odyssey, with text. I'm loving it.

This part, about 45 minutes in, piqued my interest. They mention "Go[ing] to your GNC checklist, the pink pages," for one of their emergency power procedures.

In my early days at the RWMC, I was the writer in charge of the emergency alarm response procedures. When they were revised and placed in the Operations binders, they were indeed printed on pink paper. It's been a good decade since I was in Operations space out there, so I have no idea if that's still the practice there. But it would be interesting to know. Maybe I should put in for a transfer back out there.

Best Service by Friendly Staff

I love finding bookmarks people leave in the used books I buy. This has long been my favorite, from the New Merry Guest House in Bangkok, Thailand.

It came to me in a copy of Richard Adams' "Watership Down," clearly left there by a human who went on adventures or at least thought the business card would be a good bookmark.

Of course, back in the late '80s early '90s, discovering whether such a business still existed in a faraway country was nigh on impossible unless I wanted to make a phone call, but late '80s early '90s me was even less likely to make such a call than the me that exists currently.

So I turned to Google Maps.

The address itself, 18-20Phra Athit Rd, does indeed exist, and judging by the nearby river and the proximity of the Chana Songkram Temple, I do appear to have the right place.

And it looks like it's still a guest house, though under a different name:

The temple mentioned on the card if, of course, still there:

As is the bank, albeit under a different name:

So if I ever visit Thailand, I'll be strongly tempted to use this particular hotel to stay in, cause I feel like I already know it. All thanks to a guy who left the business card in a book he discarderd.

New Light. Big Difference.

We've had for a long time in the basement hallway a really ugly-looking light fixture attached to the wall.

Why the wall? Well, there are furnace ducts in the ceiling, so putting a light there would have meant the taller inhabitants of the house would have bumped their heads on a dangling fixture.

But we've wanted to get rid of it since we bought the house. This past weekend, with son-in-law Keaton's help, we got it done.

The new light is clearly functional, not a thing of beauty, but it does get the light where we want it and gets the old fixture off the wall.

Michelle isn't a fan of the plate covering the old fixture box, but that's what we had to do since there's an electric connection in the box, feeding power to the new light and linking to the light switches.

I still have a lot of holes to fill in from the cat6 cable project, but having the light there really took a worry out of the worry box for me. And filled in one of the ceiling holes.

Poelau Roebiah FOUND

Got to thinking about Dad this weekend, in particular the story he told of he and his brother Sjaak getting really excited when the merchant vessel their Dad was a sailor on was due back to port.

The story goes like this:

Their mother knew the ship, the Poelau Roebiah was due in port soon, but didn't know when. They didn't have a phone on their farm, so they had to walk to the post office to use the phone there. The phone was in a little booth.

She took her two boys with her to use the phone. Every time she mentioned the name of the ship, the boys would shout "Poelau Roebiah! Poelau Roebiah!" as loud as they could, often interrupting the phone call and making their mom a little cranky.

She finally got the information they needed and went home, not mindiing whether the boys followed since they were full of energy and she was a little weary of it.

A while later, the postmistress came to her house.

"Oh Frau Davidson, you have to come back to the post office and get your boys!" she said. They'd locked themselves in the phone booth and were shouting Poelau Roebiah! to anyone who'd listen.

"They have to get out of the booth because if the phone rings I'm responsible to answer it, and they've locked the booth so I can't get in!" the postmistress said.

So their tired mother went back to the post office, extracted her boys, and brought them home.

We assume they had a happy reunion when their father and the Poelau Roebia returned.

Today after church I got curious to see if I could find any information on the ship. I'd tried in the past, but as the story was told to us verbally, we had no idea how to spell the name of the ship. So I tried a few different searches today and came up with the name.

And some pictures!

There's a lot more out there I'm just digging into.

I did find that the ship was torpedoed by a German Uboat on July 6, 1942, in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Kingston, Jamaica.

The information here is from the site linked just below the picture:

In 1942, the “Poelau Roebiah” was part of Convoy HX-187 departing Halifax on April 26th 1942 and arriving Liverpool on May 8th 1942, though the ship may not have travelled with the convoy all the way.

The “Poelau Roebiah” sailed from the United Kingdom on June 1st 1942 as part of convoy WS-19P. Freetown was reached June 15th 1942 and departed on June 19th 1942. Cape Town was reached on July 1st 1942 and Durban on July 4th 1942. The convoy was split with the “Poelau Roebiah” being part of Convoy WS-19P (and later WS-19PA) which contained the slower vessels. Suez was reached on July 23rd 1942.

On June 7th 1943, “U 759” set sail from Lorient for patrol in the Atlantic. Almost a month later on July 5th, the U-boat found Convoy GTMO-134 and sank one ship. Two days later “U 759” found Convoy TAG-70 which included the “Poelau Roebiah” with a cargo of 8,100 tons of manganese ore and 100 tons of copper concentrate from Bombay to Cristobal, Guantanamo Bay and Baltimore. Also on board were 31 passengers, 24 armed guards and 68 crew members. The ship was torpedoed and sunk south of Jamaica at position 17°56′ N and 75°57′ W. Two crew were killed, everyone else successfully took to the lifeboats, who were later picked up by a US Coast Guard cutter and several escort vessels.

A week after the “Poelau Roebiah” was sunk, “U 759” was lost on July 15th 1943.

Interesting stuff, and a little more of the ol' family history.