Lift Up Your Hearts!

Tom Lehrer didn't quite make it to his 100th birthday, and I'm sure he could have written a song about that.

I discovered him when I was in junior high school, and his album That Was the Year That Was is one of the few records I owned before marriage.  I can't say as my parents approved of all of the songs—in retrospect I can see why—but they generally put up with my adolescent idiosyncracies.

Here's a great obituary for Lehrer from The Economist, cleverly interwoven with lines from his multitudinous satirical songs.  You can read it for free, but you have to jump through a bunch of hoops that may or may not be worth the trouble.  You need to enter, not just the usual name and e-mail address, but also your profession and industry.  Worse, you have to fit your life into their limited boxes, which has never been easy for me.  "Retired" and "Homemaker" are not options.  On the other hand, writing homeschool reports has made me pretty good at stuffing whatever it was we were doing into conventional terminology.

His childhood had been a breeze of maths and music, with a preference for Broadway shows. He entered Harvard at 15 and graduated at 18, the sort of student who brought books of logical puzzles to dinner in hall, and, on the piano in his room, liked to play Rachmaninov with his left hand in one key and his right a semitone lower, making his friends grimace. He seemed bound for a glittering mathematical career, but then the songs erupted, written for friends but spreading by word of mouth, until he was famous. He wrote each one in a trice and performed, increasingly, in night clubs. By contrast his PhD, on the concept of the mode, vaguely occupied him for 15 years before he abandoned it.

Oh fame! Oh accolades! He had toured the world and packed out Carnegie Hall. Yes, they really panted to see a clean-cut Harvard graduate in horn-rimmed glasses pounding at a piano and singing: sometimes stern, sometimes morose, but often joyose, as he twisted in the knife. [Is that a typo for joyous, or a deliberate portmanteau of joyous and morose?]

When he suddenly stopped, and the output dropped, he was presumed dead. No, Tom Lehrer replied. Just having fun commuting between the coasts, teaching maths for a quarter of the year, ie the winter, at the University of California in sunny Santa Cruz, and spending the rest of the time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, being lazy. Never having to shovel snow; never having to see snow. And, being said to be dead, avoiding junk mail.

I wonder how he managed the last.  We're still getting junk mail for Porter's father, who has been actually dead for six years.

Did he ever have hopes of extending the frontier of scientific knowledge? Noooooo, unless you counted his Gilbert & Sullivan setting of the entire periodic table. He would rather retract it, if anything. He still taught maths, along with musical theatre, and that was his career. He had never wanted attention from people applauding his singing in the dark. His solitary, strictly private life made him happy; to fame he was indifferent. In 2020 he told everyone they could help themselves to his song rights. As for him, he returned to his puzzle books, as if he had never strayed.

Requiescat in pace, Tom Lehrer. Thanks for all the fun.

If your day is in need of a laugh, or at least an ironic smile, try some Great Moments in Unintended Consequences. It's lighthearted humor with a serious point. Here are two examples, from which you can get to many more. Warning: they're addictive.

Streisand Effect, Sesame Labeling, Golden Goals

Printed Guns, Scratch and Sniff, Jakarta Traffic

Here's how to know when television has been too much a part of your life:

You read the headline, "1,000 Troops Who Identify as Transgender Being Discharged," and your first reaction is,

"Where was Donald Trump when Max Klinger needed him?"

Okay, NOW it's funny. At the time I was not laughing.

The doorbell rang. Normally, I'm more cautious and look before opening the door, but I was expecting a friend and so threw the door open with a cheery greeting. Imagine my shock when faced with a young man selling pest control.

I do try to be polite, so I calmly reminded him of the "No Soliciting" signs at the neighborhood entrances. That's when things got weird.

"Oh, I'm not a prostitute; I'm merely selling pest control."

"Which is soliciting."

"No it's not. Look it up on Google. Soliciting is...."

At that point I exclaimed something loud and unintelligible and slammed the door.

Five minutes later I could laugh.

He didn't even have the excuse of English being his second language, as he had no trace of an accent. Possibly one could blame a failure of 12+ years of school.

But what it sounded like at the time was that he was being cheeky, that this was a practiced response for the many people in our neighborhood who inform solicitors—politely or rudely—of the warning signs they should have seen upon entering. (Unless, of course, they were dropped in by helicopter or parachute.)

Either that, or he had been coached in that response by whatever pimp sent him here.

I've always been open to cute little girls in Girl Scout uniforms selling Thin Mints, and to the earnest band members from our local public school who once a year sell apples as a fundraiser.  Perhaps, however, we should consider these to be gateway drugs. I try to be kind to door-to-door salesmen, because Porter had such a gig one summer during college, and I know that "pimp" is not too harsh a word for the adults who profit by sending the innocent into such situations. That's just sleazy.

I have to give the Jehovah's Witnesses credit: they've taken to setting up on public land just outside of the neighborhood instead of knocking on doors and disrupting people's Saturday mornings. They can read and follow the rules.

Maybe I should resurrect my COVID-era door sign:

This picture showed up on my Facebook page. It's from the Babylon Bee, which I often, though not always, find funny. I wouldn't have given this article more than a passing glance, were it not for the fact that less than 24 hours previously we had seen an excellent and amazing production, by our church's Resurrection Players, of Beetlejuice, Jr.

Trump Issues New Striped Robes For Federal Judges

If you've never seen the show, this won't make sense, but if you have, the association may provoke a smile unintended by the Bee.

Reprising my favorite Holy Saturday cartoon.  Actually, it's the only Holy Saturday cartoon I know, but it makes me smile every time.

Enthusiasm, fortitude, patience, and joy are good qualities in a president.

I wouldn't wish that job on one of my grandchildren any more than I'd wish them leukemia. Nonetheless, I would vote for her.

President Grace Daley speaks at the Smithsonian.

Sometimes the Babylon Bee—like much modern satire—is too heavy-handed for my taste. And other times it is spot on. This pretty much sums up what I'm feeling about our federal judges right now. You can read the article here, but this is the best part.

A district judge has issued a ruling saying Trump lacked the Constitutional authority to pick up two astronauts who have been stranded at the International Space Station for several months.

SpaceX has been ordered to return the astronauts immediately.

The SpaceX craft docked at the ISS on Sunday and was preparing for the return journey to Earth when the orders stopped the process short. "Please bring us home, I just want a cheeseburger and a nap in a horizontal bed," said one of the crew.

At publishing time, Trump was polling at 100% approval among the stranded astronaut demographic.

With all the important things that should be said about current events, sometimes you just have to make room for noting the absurd.

Enter Heather Heying's latest Substack offering, "Not the First Woman President: but yes the First Raccoon". Anyone who has read (and re-read, and loved) Sandra Boynton's "But Not the Hippopotamus" will understand my first thoughts upon reading that title.

Heather is reacting to some particularly absurd responses to President Trump's executive order entitled, "Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism and Restoring Biological Truth to the Federal Government." I have read the order and find it cogent, rational, and much-needed; it states the obvious that should never have had to be stated.

Here's one absurdity, from the Guardian, which headlined its article, "After his executive order on sex, is Trump legally the first female president?"

Despite Trump’s decree that sex is “immutable”, the wording of his executive order left some room for interpretation. Indeed, some critics noted that because the undifferentiated genitalia that males and females share very early in fetal development are “phenotypically female”, you could argue he just made everyone legally female.

“[Trump] just declared everyone a woman from conception, based on the language of the executive order,” Delaware representative Sarah McBride, the first openly transgender person elected to the US House of Representatives, told the Independent.”

As Heather states, Nope. Wrong. So wrong. She goes on to detail why. There a lot to that, which you can easily read for yourself, but here's a snippet:

Early in development, everything is undifferentiated. Decades ago, some researchers argued that early “undifferentiated” genitalia are phenotypically female, but they’re not. They may be just a bit more female-like than male-like, but are actually, again, simply undifferentiated. Furthermore, at conception, there are no genitalia at all—nothing exists at that stage to be differentiated or not. Conception is when two cells come together—an egg, from the mother, who is definitionally female, and a sperm, from the father, who is definitionally male.

One commenter on the post pointed out another problem with the absurd headline:  Even if one accepts their premise, the first female president would not be Donald Trump, but George Washington.

After all that seriousness, Heather moves into a diversion about the First Raccoon (typical biologist!), who made her debut in the Coolidge White House.

From an article in Harper's Magazine:

Rebecca, who would soon become the First Raccoon, had been sent to the White House in 1926 by a citizen of Mississippi, who perhaps thought that she would taste good with cranberry sauce. President Coolidge declined to eat her. Soon she would be wearing an embroidered collar and taking baths, which she particularly enjoyed when given a cake of soap with which to play.

Here's where I burst out laughing and decided to share Heather's post with all of you:

“And so she lived a life of luxury until she did a thing many of her fellow Americans have dreamed of but very few have achieved: she bit the president of the United States.”

In the latest Château Love episode, Vivienne and Isabella share with us their first look at the restoration of Notre Dame in Paris. At our last visit to the cathedral, I found it beautiful of course, but also dim. Not so now! Light, light, everywhere! It's only 18 minutes long; enjoy!

A friend shared this on Facebook, and I found a version I could share here.  Amazing!  (3.5 minutes)

I'm definitely still climbing out of battle-fatigue mode when it comes to writing. It's so weird. Normally I find writing to be energizing and restorative. I find it relaxing, even when it's also a struggle. Writing is one of the most important ways I keep my hold on sanity; writing is how I think. But ever since the election, my incessent and irresistable drive to write has gone into hibernation. Generally, I'm pleased with the results of the election, but I'm not dancing in the streets; I'm numb and exhausted. The last few months have been intense.

It may be weird, but at the moment it's a good thing. Too many other areas of life are demanding my attention! I know I'll be back to writing soon enough. But for the moment, I'm pulling out bits and pieces I've saved for just such a time.

This may not be the most important thing my father taught me, but it comes close to a universal truth.

Why is it that if you are trying to lose weight, one tablespoon full of ice cream will add five pounds, but if you are trying to gain weight, a whole day's worth of forbidden food makes not one iota of difference?

Microsoft caught me.

I have been avoiding ChatGPT and other AI temptations for a long time, particularly when I receive invitations to use AI for my writing. I am confident enough to prefer what I write myself, thank you!

Drawing, however, is another matter. When Microsoft's Copilot recently—and unexpectedly—appeared in my Windows Taskbar, I was a bit disconcerted, but intrigued enough to give it a try.

I wanted a picture for Grace, to go with the caption, "Happy 3rd birthday, bonnie warrior!" After about 15 minutes of work, this is what I chose.

These are some of the iterations along the way. My second choice was the manga-looking image on the right.

That was fun!

Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you. —Pericles

Despite the truth of this wisdom of Pericles, aren't we all tired of politics? I can't overstate how critical I believe our political situation to be, but sometimes we just need a little break—from both politics and hurricanes.

For me, I find it surprisingly calming to watch the Black Spruce YouTube channel, which I've written about before. In this video, he's building an outdoor kitchen for his off-grid cabin.