Welcome to Fort Dix

We just watched the MASH episode where the characters get their families together for a reunion at the Pierre Hotel in New York City.

It's a great episode that is home to two lines by Major Winchester we quote a lot in our family:

1. Hunnicutt, you're to blame for this.

2. I shan't be there. I'm turning myself in to the Chinese.

Not to forget Charles complaining about "my Uncle Ed and *me*" and the goat Randy trying to kiss a turkey.

Tonight, though, it was Klinger's desire to continue the charade that he's really at Fort Dix rather than Korea, so his mother wouldn't worry.

His mother, of course, knew where he was all along, despite the scores of Fort Dix photos he sent home.

Mothers always know.

Miss you, Mom.

Paranoia, or WHERE IS THAT LEBANESE MONGOOSE?

Spent my reading time with week with Avi's "Catch You Later, Traitor," a book I think anyone who lives in political "perilous times" should read.

The book is set in Brooklyn in 1950 during the McCarthyite "Red Scare," when the liberties of American citizens were violated for wrongthink, plain and simple.

I likely wouldn't have been a "commie" back then -- but I certainly could have been a sympathizer for those caught in the accusatory webs.

This bit from the book certainly caught my attention:

“Pete,” said Mr. Ordson [a blind man Pete Collison visits daily to read the news to], “we live in a time of great mistrust. This is not always a bad thing. People should question things. However, in my experience, too much suspicion undermines reason.”

I shook my head, only to remember he couldn’t see me.

“There’s a big difference,” he went on, “between suspicion and paranoia.”

“What’s . . . paranoia?”

“An unreasonable belief that you are being persecuted. For example,” Mr. Ordson went on, "I’m willing to guess you’ve even considered me to be the informer. After all, you told me you were going to follow your father. Perhaps I told the FBI.”

Startled, I stared at him. His blank eyes showed nothing. Neither did his expression. It was as if he had his mask on again.

“Have you considered that?” he pushed.

“No,” I said. But his question made me realize how much I’d shared with him. Trusted him. How he’d become my only friend. And he was the only one I hoad told I was going to follow my dad. Maybe he did tell the FBI.

He said, “I hope you get my point.”

Silcence settled around us. Loki [Ordson's seeing-eye dog] looked around, puzzled.

Mr. Ordson must have sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Now, Pete, you don’t really have any qualms about me, do you?”

No spoilers, of course, but I do like this little conversation on trust and paranoia. Because while we can be loyal to a cause, a government, et cetera, there's nothing wrong with a bit of skepticism when we believe things are fishy.

I'm thinking about the exploding pagers and walkie-talkies in Lebanon as of late, thinking that this is not a thing any government should be allowed by its citizens to do, because one can transform from "loyal citizen" to "pager bait" at the whim of whomever decided in the first place planting bombs or figuring out ways to make electronics explode to the point they're killing people was a good thing to do to the "enemy." And I look at my government-issued laptop and cell phone and wonder . . . 

On a lighter note: The book also contains reference to the Giants' "Shot Heard 'Round the World,' which was a much-needed light note:

As I got to that point in the book, I could hear Klinger wailing "Oh nooooo!" as his packing crate hideaway fell over, and I could see Charles passed out in the compound.

Daisy's Little Mac

Looks like Daisy created her own version of MASH's Little Mac: "A bird here, a flower there, pieces of dummy everywhere." Good thing Christmas is soon so she'll get new toys to destroy.

I Love it when Fiction Intrudes into Real Life

In the MASH Season 7 episode "Ain't Love Grand," Klinger mentions he grew up at 1215 Michigan Street.

That got me curious to head to Google Maps. Looks like his neighborhood has seen better days.

But that address puts him only 1 1/2 miles northeast of Toledo's Fifth Third Field, home to the Toledo Mud Hens, which still has as a neighbor Packo's at the Park.

It's kind of fun when real life intrudes into fiction.

There's also a Tony Packo's across the river, not far. And apparently they have a lot of MASH memoribilia.

Anyway, my idiot Facebook friends and I had a fun discussion about it. Read if ya wanna.

Hunnicutt, You're to Blame for This . . .

 For an earthquake in or near Bloomington, Illinois, to register on the seismographs at Fordham University in The Bronx, New York, the temblor would have to be at least a 6.3 on the Richter scale, according to #scienk

And this is the kind of thing you do when:

1. You’re a MASH fanatic

2. A friend comments on Facebook about the sadness that is Sam’s Club take ‘n’ bake pizza

3. You recall your own farty experiences with said pizza

4. You have Internet.

First, some of the basics.

In the MASH episode “Crisis,” one of my personal favorites, personnel at the 4077th are forced to share tents after the Chinese cut their supply lines and they run out of everything, including fuel oil, firewood, and shuttlecocks. Col. Blake, Radar, Klinger, and Father Mulchahy are forced to sleep in the Swamp, where Henry announces he snores, with the following exchange:

Henry Blake lives in Bloomington, Illinois. The Fordham he refers to is Fordham University in The Bronx, New York, home of the William Spain Seismic Observatory, one of the oldest such observatories in the United States.

Google Maps tells me that Bloomington, Illinois, and The Bronx are roughly 850 miles apart, as the crow flies. That’s a rough estimate, but good enough for the #scienk part of this idiocy.

The United States Geological Survey appears to be anti-#scienk, saying that it’s virtually impossible for earthquakes to travel long distances through the earth’s crust, given the crust isn’t as rigid as we might think (keep this in mind when we get to the Sam’s Club take ‘n’ bake pizza).

However, the folks at livescience.com tell me in what I’m sure is an exhaustively scientific article that this same USGS says earthquake tremors are known to travel much further east of the Rocky Mountains than they are in the mountains themselves or to the west. They cite as an example a 5.0-magnitude earthquake that struck near the Ontario-Quebec border in June of 2010, which was felt as far away as Ohio, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Masssachusetts. A USGS expert quoted for the article says a 5.5-magnitude quake could likely be felt as far away as 300 miles east of the Rockies.

So using the USGS’s own “How Much Bigger” earthquake calculator, I figured that a 6.3-magnitude earthquake, which is 3.162 times bigger than a 5.5-magnitude earthquake, theoretically has the power to travel the 850-or-so miles between Bloomington, Illinois, and The Bronx.

So Henry Blake, by his own admission, snores as powerfully as a 6.3-magnitude earthquake, or stronger as the earthquakes felt in Utah and Idaho earlier this year. Utah’s was a 5.7, while Idaho’s was a 6.5.

That’s some snoring.

Now, moving on from snoring to farting and the aforementioned Sam’s Club take ‘n’ bake pizza.

We got a few such pizzas a few months ago. And as I recall, they gave me some pretty good gas. Or bad gas. Significant gas, at any rate.

Then a friend today posted on Facebook about his lamentable experience, taste-wise, with said pizza. Which helped me recall my own experiences. And the MASH quote.

So to conclude: A person in Bloomington, Illinois, would have to experience a magnitude 6.3 earthquake for it to be strong enough to be felt by seismographs in The Bronx.

I’ll leave the fart #scienk to someone else. Until then, this is going to peer review.

"Lawn Mowers"

When I read the opening paragraph of Adam Chandler’s article this morning in The Atlantic, this vignette from MASH immediately came to mind:

FRANK: When I heard you were engaged, I sat down and did some hard thinking. And there, printed right on the paper was the answer: lawn mowers.

MARGARET: You lost me, Frank.

FRANK: Lawn mowers, Margaret. That's what this war is all about. The smell of fresh-cut grass on a hot summer's day; girls with straight, white teeth; freckle-faced kids in striped T-shirts.

MARGARET: Oh, Frank, when you talk like that, l-I could . . .

FRANK: May I give the bride a peck on the beak?

MARGARET: I don't think it would weaken the war effort.

Here’s the opening, in case you don’t want to click on the link:

“The U.S. is riven by politics and race and religion and foreign policy and the economy. But one constant unites nearly all warring demographics: fast food, America’s highly imperfect, deep-fried North Star.”

Frank Burns could probably come up with some ludicrous reasons why it’s lawn mowers and straight-teethed girls the Korean War was fought for. Just as Chandler can see a nation “riven” by so many slashes and arrows being bound together by chicken nuggets.

But yanno, I think he’s looking at the world through a cracked and crooked lens.

Yes, there are problems in this nation.

And yet there are many examples where politics, race, religion, foreign policy, the economy – and probably even lawnmowers – are uniting forces.

I look at Troop 1010 as one example. We’ve got six girls of different backgrounds and faiths working together. They may not necessarily see eye to eye on anything ranging from religion to lawnmowers, but they are moving toward a common goal.

I see many quiet acts being done by people of different faiths, of different religions, working together to make things better. And those efforts may well indeed involve chicken nuggets, but it’s not the grease in the deep fryer that unites them.

Anyhoo, this isn’t a deep dive into anything that would get me into The Atlantic. I just thought the juxtaposition of chicken nuggets and lawn mowers was funny.

'Doris Doesn't Know it Either'

RADAR: And now, for the third time tonight a request from our commanding station manager that moldy oldie, "Sentimental Journey."

BJ: Again? Colonel there's gotta be something special about that record for you.

COL. POTTER: Yeah, there is, but I don't know if I should tell you boys.

HAWKEYE: Oh, come on, Daddy. We want a story.

COL. POTTER: Well, every time I hear that song - it reminds me of a very special young lady. - Mildred? - No, after Mildred.

HAWKEYE and BJ: Oh-ho!

COL. POTTER: Happened about a dozen years ago when I was stationed at Fort Dix. One night, some of the boys and I went up to New York to hear Les Brown and His Band of Renown. Well, I was sort of just lookin' around when suddenly, walkin' across the dance floor there she was, this willowy blonde beauty. I was in love. Well, the band started playing. The vocalist started singing "Sentimental Journey." I looked up to see that I had fallen in love with Doris Day. I'm glad Mildred wasn't there. I couldn't have handled it. I have never taken her to a Doris Day movie. I've seen 'em all alone. Sometimes I feel bad that Mildred doesn't know. But then I remember, Doris doesn't know either.

Now, I’m not in love with Doris Day. But Col. Potter’s story from “Your Hit Parade,” an episode of MASH, shows Day’s impact not only on people, but on popular culture. She was big. Very big. More than 600 songs and 40 movies big.

I’m not sure I’ve seen one of her pictures all the way through. They’re a bit before my time. You’d think the music would be too, but my mother loved Doris Day. She sang sometimes along with her. I remember in particular Mom singing “Sentimental Journey” along with Mrs. Day, described by Les Brown, bandleader with whom Day made it big: “I’d say that next to Sinatra, Doris is the best in the business on selling a lyric.”

Ignatius Riley likely saw some or most of her movies, and relished them secretly while reviling them publicly – and loudly enough to get thrown out of the Prytania Theater in John Kennedy Toole’s “Confederacy of Dunces.”

“Good grief. Is this smut supposed to be comedy?" Ignatius demanded in the darkness. "I have not laughed once. My eyes can hardly believe this highly discolored garbage. That woman must be lashed until she drops. She is undermining our civilization. […] Please! Someone with some decency get to the fuse box. Hundreds of people in this theater are being demoralized."

More evidence of Doris Day’s cultural power.

I love her songs. Maybe they’re sugary. Maybe they hark back to an era when the United States had problems. Though you could very well say the same of contemporary musicians.

And yet she sang without Autotune. And with power. Unlike many of today’s singers. Her songs are of an era that likely can’t come back, because singing like what she did just doesn’t happen today, unless it’s campy or retro or whatever. We may have love songs, songs of unrequited love and such today, but none of them are sung by the likes of Doris Day.

And I have to confess: I didn’t realize she was still alive until news of her passing came today.
Maybe she’s singing in heaven now. Surely, she has fans there.



Of all of her songs, this is the one I remember most, some from the radio, some from Mom singing along:

Roof Report, Life with Solar, and ‘The Colonel’s Horse’

You’ll recall back on April 7 we had a severe (for Idaho) hailstorm occur, damaging the shingles and the siding on the back of the house. I can now report that repairs are underway.

If I’ve calculated correctly, we’ve replaced about 2/5ths of the shingles on the house, all on the lower part (the only lower part left is over the front porch and a tiny pop-out above the kitchen window). If my calculations are right, we’ve got about 55 of 85 bundles left to do to finish the house.

I can report this:

1. I have one finger that’s not really speaking to me at the moment. I managed to mash it at least once each day over the three days we spent doing shingles this weekend.
2. Of our three children, Liam and Lexie have swung hammers to put shingles in. Isaac came out on the roof for social purposes and moved some loose shingles around for us, but that’s about it.
3. Mother Nature saw us on Friday putting shingles up and decided we looked hot so brought over a rather intense thunderstorm (including new hail) and just sorta stalled it over us.
4. Houses need shingles because otherwise their roofs leak like sieves, as we discovered during said storm as the garage turned into a shower and the closet in the laundry room into a waterfall (fortunately a minor one).
5. My wife is a shingle-driving fiend, particularly when her laundry room is threatened with additional flooding.
6. The nifty little homemade ladder elevator I saw on YouTube, the one that featured the power winch I figured was optional, probably would have worked better if I hadn’t regarded the winch as optional. As it was, we slung the 30 bundles of shingles up on the house via the time-tested method of me humping the bundles into the back of the truck and handing the shingles four or so at a time to the kids, who stood on top of the truck box and flung the shingles onto the roof.

Good news is once we’d shingled the exposed roof and it rained again, there were no new leaks. I had certainly hoped that would be the case, but you never know. I’m always so optimistic in my pessimism.

So the bigger test comes later this week now, when the Blue Raven solar people come to remove the panels for us so we can re-shingle that portion of the house. They balked at first when we suggested they do the work for free, but after Michelle pointed out to them that their crew opted to put the system up under the following conditions that it was probably best to do the work for free:

1. It had snowed the previous night so they had to shovel the roof in order to do their work, thus making it harder to see any damage.
2. Their “roof inspector” guy never actually got up on the roof to look at the state of it.
3. We told them we’d had a hailstorm and they could see the damage to the siding, and knew our insurance adjustor hadn’t been by yet to inspect the house, yet opted to do the install anyway
4. They found one hole in the roof, straight through the waferboard, indicating again the roof might need repair.
5. When they suggested we cover the cost of the removal and reinstall with our homeowner’s insurance, we pointed out the panels hadn’t been up there at the time the damage occurred, so the insurance company was very likely to say “Nope. Ain’t gonna.”

I feel a little cheap about it all – but not cheap enough. There were enough error precursors there for their crew – which we were trusting to do things right – to say, “Yeah, we’d better wait until after the insurance adjustor takes a look first.” I should have done a lookie at the roof as well, but it’s very high.

Aside: As I posted about the shingle job on Facebook, a friend reminded me of this quote from MASH:

Hunnicautt (after talking with his father-in-law Floyd on the phone): Colic. Her intestines are blocked. We gotta keep her on her feet, so they won't twist. And we gotta clean her out. Lots and lots of warm water.
Hawkeye: I think I'll stroll up to the front to see how the shooting's going.
(Next scene)
Hawkeye: Hook this to the spigot up there.
Hunnicutt: It looks awful high.
Hawkeye: You want the other end?
Hunnicutt: It's not so high.

Bottom line is: If you’re going to have solar panels installed and you’re not sure what condition your roof is in, have it inspected professionally beforehand – don’t trust the solar installers to do the job.

On a positive note for Blue Raven, they’re willing to work with us (though we had to talk with three different people to make sure this was filed under “you’re fixing your own mistake,” and they did send someone out to see why our inverter kept shutting down, and seem to have fixed the problem.

We still haven’t seen an impact on our power bill, but this is only the first month after we got the system installed and running, and I’m not exactly sure how it all works. Next month’s bill will tell. And it had better, else Blue Raven will get yet another phone call from us. And likely Rocky Mountain Power will hear from us too. We’re crossing our fingers that once the removal and reinstall are done, it’s smooth sailing from here on out. And we’ll have a roof underneath that’ll more than match the expected lifespan of the panels.

Three Bags Full

Many times at my place of work, I’m reminded of this scene from MASH:

FRANK BURNS: No, no, no, Sergeant. From now on, you will not simply slop food onto these trays. Look at this random arrangement, Major.

MARGARET HOULIHAN: I'm looking.

FRANK: The kidney beans have slopped from the bean compartment into the applesauce compartment. The dehydrated potatoes are in the every compartment. It's no wonder I never have an appetite. Sergeant, I want standardization of compartment usage. When I look down a table at trays I want to see beans, beans, beans, beans! Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes.! - Applesauce, applesauce, applesauce! Got that?

IGOR: Yes.

FRANK: Yes, what?

IGOR: Yes, sir.

FRANK: Yes, sir, what?

IGOR: Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full?

(Script courtesy of Springfield! Springfield!)

Frank clearly wants precision. Predictability. Order. Igor just wants to serve the food, knowing full well the order in which it’s placed won’t matter since people will either eat the food or dump it and then complain about its quality.

If the food works for his customers, Igor thinks, why fuss over compartment standardization?

Yet here I am in the compartment standardization business at work. I admit to not being as rigid and precise as others. And, generally speaking, I don’t hear many complaints about that from the people I work for.

But I’m working to improve my precision, because that’s what’s called for. I want the paychecks to keep coming, and if that’s what’s required, so be it. Because it’s impressive to show at dog and pony shows that everything is compartmentalized, just as Frank desires. And to a certain degree of precision, I agree with that.

Those fully in the Precision Camp chalk it up to laziness. And I’ve been called lazy – both rightly and incorrectly – before.  But sometimes those of us in the If it Ain’t Broke Don’t Fix It Camp point to the name of the camp we’re in.

But it’s mine to deliver a Francophone “Bof” and do what’s required. Echoing what they say at Camp Precision: “It’s not THAT hard.”

Taffy Stretching

Explain something to me:

Business A should do business with Person X because even though Person X espouses a view that the owners of Business A don’t support, Person X has the right and obligation to be served by Business A and the owners of Business A are terrible, terrible people for refusing to do business with Person X.

Business B, however, should NOT do business with Group Y because Group Y espouses views that may not necessarily jibe with the culture of Business B, but Business B regards a larger part of its culture as obligating it to do business with Group Y which clearly has a right to be served no matter what they believe. But because Group Z opposes what Group Y espouses, Business B is a terrible, terrible business for refusing NOT to do business with Group Y.

It’s happening here, folks.

Business A and Person X.

Business B, Group Y, and Group Z.

This is the question I want answered: Should business be blind to the political and social proclivities of potential customers, or should businesses be allowed to pick and choose whom they serve based on those proclivities?

Also, I'm pretty sure Figure B has fallen asleep.

Jocularity, Jocularity . . .

In this time of trouble and woe, we have to step back and look at the big picture: Which is the best Father Mulcahy story from MASH?

First, read the stories. Then vote in the comments below.

Story No. 1:

Father Mulcahy: [After being pulled out from the latrine when it collapsed on him] Sis and I picked up these apples from under the tree. I said you can't make a pie out of crabapples and she said, I learned how in the Girl Scouts.

Hawkeye: He's OK, just a little dazed.

Father Mulcahy: She used brown sugar and the crust was just so crispy and nice. Well, it was so good we ate it all before dinner.

Hawkeye: Get him back to his tent, let him rest.

Father Mulcahy: Mommy came in and said, 'What the hell is going on here?' [Looks at Klinger, who is in drag.] I remember, Mommy, you know that's the first time I ever heard you swear.

Analysis: I chuckle at this for the same reason most chuckle at it, as Father Mulcahy is simply continuing his conversation with Col. Blake from before the latrine collapse. In his dazed state, however, the story takes on a babbling form that even involves Klinger as his mother.

Story No. 2:

Frank Burns: Have you ever given a lecture about temperance, Father? About the evils of drink?

Father Mulcahy: Uh, no. On the troop ship, I was once asked to give a lecture on the, uh, sex thing.

Frank Burns: Oh, good.

Father Mulcahy: Well, being celibate, I didn't feel qualified. They brought in a Protestant. He had a film, about two sailors. One was from Cleveland ostensibly, the other from a small, rural area. The city boy decided to stay on the ship and write his high-school sweetheart. Lovely young girl, with a megaphone on her chest.

Frank Burns: Father, please. This is important.

Father Mulcahy: The country boy got mixed up with a young lady who lived in a trailer with three other young ladies and a man with a whip.

Frank Burns: Father?

Father Mulcahy: Broke his wristwatch and everything.

Analysis: Obviously it’s his wandering delivery mixed with curiosity that nails the one to the wall.

'Great Mother Machree, I Think I'm Gonna Die!'

But of course it was old age, not shaving cream in his toothpaste, that did MASH actor Harry Morgan in. He died today at age 96.

I still maintain that no actor can yell quite like Harry Morgan, who as Col. Sherman “Don’t Forget the Swoop in the T” Potter did his fair share of yelling.

Or sing like him. And get away with it like him.

Awl Ah Wahnt Is Mah Monnnaayy. . .

Over at the Lithium Press, my brother-in-law's blog, he's written an interesting post on an interesting post that's attracted a lot of attention from folks who don't want to be called digital pirates, but are in the eyes of some.

This is the question of the ages, and how it'll be settled will decide the fate of more than one industry, area of study, discipline, and commandment.

And, frankly, it's a lot older question than the Internet likes to pretend it is. Take me, for instance. I can't remember the last time I bought a new book at a bookstore. Yet books continue to flow into my house at an alarming rate. So alarming, in fact, I had to pack two boxes of books under the stairs because they were becoming a fire hazard in the study. I bought all of those books used, from thrift stores, with none of the proceeds going to the authors. And legally, there's nothing they can do about it, unless they suddenly go after every thrift store, used book store, library sale and garage sale in the nation, looking for a cut. And you've got newspapers and magazines bragging to advertisers: Hey, each copy of our publication is read by 2.3, 3.4 people. That's pass-along readership. The subsequent readers don't pay a cent for the publication they're reading. But they've obviously got some value to the publication, as they're bragged about. "Hey! We have freeloaders reading our stuff! You ought to pay us more!"

Why, suddenly, in the digital era, can't we buy used e-books? And why can't we share our paywall passwords with other people, so they can read the stuff we just read? What is it about the digital age that suddenly equates a one to one ratio between consumer and media to be consumed? Yeah, we can spread the copies around easily. But you know what, I have a sister in North Idaho who shops for books at a used book store up there, and she sends me the occasional book. It's laborious and more expensive than the Internet, but I still get the books I want without having paid a cent for them. The authors get nothing out of the transaction.

About a year ago, I saw a new book from one of my favorite authors at the book store. I really wanted to buy it. But it cost $24. It stayed at the bookstore. I don't have that kind of money lying around the house. But you know what? I've got the book now. Didn't pay for it. My sister bought it used. Read it, then mailed it to me. She doesn't have the room to store books, and typically doesn't re-read books anyway, or at least not as much as I do. So I've got the book. Free, absolutely free.

I'm scum.

I'm a wannabe author. I finished writing the first draft of a fantasy novel just a few weeks ago. It's available for free, in installments, on my blog. Nobody wants it. Nobody's reading it. Who am I to think that if it's printed, bound, edited and marketed that suddenly someone will want to read it? Did I write it for financial gain, or for the fact that I wanted to write a book? What's more important? The remuneration, or the reward of having accomplished something difficult? I don't think it's unreasonable that somewhere along the line, if people want to read what I've written, they ought to pay me for the privilege. That's all Mozart wanted with the music he wrote. He loved doing it. But doing it all for free didn't help pay the bills.

My brother-in-law writes this, which offer something to think about:

When a pianist, as in this article, collects all the significant piano music ever published, pops it on a thumbdrive, and gives it away to other pianists, I have a hard time seeing any difference between that pianist and most scholars. Probably, true enough, this is sowing some seeds of destruction, but it also contains the seeds of creation. And I don't know why doing this is fair-use if you work at a university but piracy if you, well, work for a living. But of course, if academics ran the world, we'd replace copyright with open access on day one, or at least some generous implementation of Creative Commons licensing.

We can't say something is okay in one instance, wrong in the next -- which is illustrated by buying used books and by counting pass-along readership. Speaking of which, a friend of mine just e-mailed me a NPR article on the fate of the weekly news magazine -- because said friend wants my input as we as a group at Uncharted.net ponder how we can enter the print market. We've already published our first book. We published a four-page "magazine" in order to secure copyright on the Uncharted name in print media. But the big question remains: Will we be flogging a dead horse? We can't get our website to pay for itself, let alone paying to print books and magazines. And in the meantime, I paid no one to read that article. In its entirety. E-mailed to me at home so I didn't even have to search it out.

Here's something along the lines of what my BNL writes about: Tony Woodfield, writing for the Wall Street Journal, about the incredibly high fees he's being asked to quote copyrighted material in a book he's writing. I've got the same problem with another book I'm working on. If the fees are like this, the song that partially inspired me will have to be excised -- and at a dear cost, since the song is almost a character in the novel.

But don't people who create something have the right to expect -- and receive -- some kind of remuneration for their creativity along the way? Creative Commons licensing may foster creativity, but as an author myself, one of these days, I reserve the right to make the following statement:

Awl Ah Wahnt is Mah Monnnaaayyy. . . 

This video clip is, of course, copyrighted by 20th Century Fox. It comes from Episode 21, Season 10, of M*A*S*H, which I'm posting here under our nation's comically vague fair use laws, in order to prove a point. May God have mercy on my soul. Does it take the curse off it if I say it comes from the Season Ten DVD set that we bought -- legitimately -- and since I'm not posting the entire episode, but only a portion, nobody can really pirate this? I don't know . . .