Election 2016 - Vote for my dogs

My dogs have decided to run for president.

Well not all of them, just Freedom. Macky is his running mate, and will be vice president.

Let's talk sh*t

According to an article I read recently, when dogs go out and are doing their business, they prefer to align themselves with the Earth's magnetic field.

By "doing their business", I mean going potty

Yes, someone actually did a scientific study of this, and published it in a scientific zoology journal.

And I wouldn't be surprised to find out that they got a government grant to do the study.

The study suggests that dogs are sensitive to small variations in Earth’s magnetic field. After examining 70 dogs — made up of 37 breeds — over two years, 1,893 defecations and 5,582 urinations, researchers found that under “calm magnetic field conditions,” dogs preferred to “excrete with the body being aligned along the north-south axis,” avoiding east-west altogether. Dogs were observed in a free-roaming environment, meaning they were not leashed and not influenced by walls or roads that would influence linear movement. 

It is still enigmatic why the dogs do align at all, whether they do it “consciously” (i.e., whether the magnetic field is sensorial perceived (the dogs “see”, “hear” or “smell” the compass direction or perceive it as a haptic stimulus) or whether its reception is controlled on the vegetative level (they “feel better/more comfortable or worse/less comfortable” in a certain direction).



So I got curious. I take my dogs out on a regular basis so the can "do business" and decided to see if my dogs aligned themselves with magnetic north. They didn't.

My dogs do not appear to have a compass.

Despite an elaborate ritual of sniffing, selecting just the right spot (which, I believe, is a dog-fengshui thing), circling, squatting, and finally defecating, my dogs did not align with the magnetic field.

I guess they didn't read the article.

Every time they went out, the aligned in a slightly different direction. But what I did notice was that all four aligned in the same direction as each other. At first I thought it was a "pack thing," but after a few weeks of observation, the answer became apparent:

They were facing into the wind.

And it made sense. By facing into the wind, the stink was blown away from their noses when they "did business."

How cleaver!

I'm thinking of doing up a paper, and submitting it to some scientific journal.

I wonder if I could get a government grant?

Ars gratia artis

When I logged into my blog account the other day, I found a notice from Google (the service host) that they were changing their policy regarding blogs that contain explicit content

In the coming weeks, we'll no longer allow blogs that contain sexually explicit or graphic nude images or video. We'll still allow nudity presented in artistic, educational, documentary, or scientific contexts, or presented where there are other substantial benefits to the public from not taking action on the content.

This doesn't apply to Dances With Dogs as it is a relatively tame blog. The most explicit content I published was the series of Guns and Nudity blogs, and that was only PG-13. There are some "suggestive" pictures, but anything "explicit" was not seen, thanks to strategically placed happy faces.

Many web and blog hosting services has a no nudity policy regarding content. This is fine, and I understand there position, but this blanket policy would also exclude many famous classical art paintings by established artists.

Some years back, someone created a webpage on GeoCities that showed paintings and other artwork by by Michaelangelo, Raphael...

(No, not the Ninja Turtles)

...Leonardo DiVinci, Reuben, etc, which were nudes, and on the top of the page wrote a big bold caption that stated that in accourdance with the webhost terms of Service, these images are prohibited.

Some libraries have a similar policy: Nude art depictions are prohibited from being accessed on their computers, and sometimes are even blocked by web filters.

Ironically, the same images can be found in books on art available in the very same library that prohibits them on the computers.

But we do not want our children to be exposed to nudity. Or Art.

They should stick to there violent PC games, I guess.

I'm a creative person with a vivid imagination.

Obviously. I publish a blog that has talking dogs.

I'm very artistic, the result of genetics, environment, or both. My talents manifested themselves early. Even in pre-school director noted that my finger paintings were better than the other children, both in technique, composition, and subject matter.

I was also unique in that, as an infant, I did not attempt to eat crayons.

Speaking of crayons: When I was a child, there was a "Flesh" colored crayon in the 64-pack of crayola®.

Back in the day, Crayola® came in 8, 16, 24, 48, 64-packs. If you had the 64-pack, you was the shizzle, because you could be so much more colorful than the others in your class (except for those who also had a 64-pack).

And the 64-pack had a built-in sharpener so your crayons could always be sharp (8-pack students always had dull crayons)

And in the 64-pack, there was a crayon labeled as flesh. As kids, we were curious, and tried to match the crayon to everyone's flesh, and found that nobody in our class was flesh colored. So we compared other crayons to our skin. Most of the kids in the class were white, and by "white" I mean Caucasian - nobody in the class was actually white.

The closest to white was Andy Lindholm. He was pasty, but he had some color. Andy was sort of a Light Beige.

Most of my classmates were either Apricot, Peach, or Tan (Except Juan who was Burnt Umber, and Leroy who was Brown. And Light Beige Andy). There were no "White" people in the class.
 

You won't find a Flesh colored crayon in the box, 64-pack or other. It got fired. Actually, it just got renamed along with a few other colors that were not politically correct.

You wouldn't think crayons would offend people.

Another color that got changed was Indian Red (to Chestnut) out of concern from teachers that their students wrongly thought it was supposed to be the color of Native American's skin. The name actually referred to a red pigment from India.

Hey, maybe the NFL should consider this for a team name: Washington Chestnuts.

(Or maybe Congress should find more to worry about that the name of a football team.)

In 1992, Crayola® released a set of eight multicultural crayons which "come in an assortment of skin hues that give a child a realistic palette for coloring their world."

And even that offended some people.

One of many crayon colors you
won't see in a box of crayolas®:

 

I have some "formal" art training (other than finger painting). In college a took several art classes as electives. On of them was Drawing I, taught by an instructor who was one of those "formal" art teachers who believed everyone should adhere to the formal rules of art.

I believed that as an artist you should make the rules as you go.

One of his teaching techniques was to give us an assignment, then wander around the class to observe and critique of progress.

"Critique" is a French word that means "to criticize."

It sounds nicer in French

After "observing" my progress on an assignment, he "critiqued" my progress, primarily on my usage of numerous lines.

"There are no lines in nature" he reminded me.

"Yeah?" I responded. "Well, the are lines in Doug's art!"

I have always been a troublemaker.

On the average, males only know about a dozen colors: red, orange, yellow, light green, dark green, light blue, dark blue, purple, white, pink (sometimes called "salmon"), gray, brown, and black.

Show a guy a shirt, and ask him what color it is, he will give you a simple answer, like blue.

Women, on the average know about 4000 colors.

Show a woman a shirt, and ask her what color it is, she will give you a different answer, like Sky Blue. Or Navy. Or Aqua. Or Cyan. Or Cornflower.

Computers, like the one you may be reading this on, understand 26,777,216 colors. A few of the have specific names, most don't and are only known by an alpha-numeric code (such as #D2691E), and unless you are a programing geek you probably don't ever need to know this.

Show a computer a shirt and ask what color it is, you will get an answer like ##1E90FF

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains? Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Bob Ross
The Joy of Painting
 

He estimated having painted

between 25,000 and 30,000

paintings in his life.

Do you know who knew lots of colors? Bob Ross.

 

Bob Ross was the host of The Joy of Painting, an half-hour instructional television show which ran from January 11, 1983, until May 17, 1994. In each episode, Ross taught techniques for landscape oil painting, completing a painting in each session.

 

Bob became known for his soothing tone and reassuring comments, and his use of catch phrases such as "happy little trees" and "happy little clouds" while painting.

"We don't make mistakes; we just have happy accidents."

Some of the colors Bob used were titanium white, phthalo green (and phthalo blue), midnight black, dark sienna, Van Dyke brown, alizarin crimson, sap green, cadmium yellow, and yellow ochre.

And you won't find these colors in a box of Crayolas®. Even the 64-pack.

Bob irritated me, though.

First off: what was up with that hair? White (or rather Beige) people are not suppose have afro's like that.

Bob would sit at the canvas, easel in hand, and in thirty minutes, he could create a majestic landscape full of "happy trees" and "happy mountains."

And he painted the @#$% mountains with a spatula!

He'd scrap up some paint from his palate with said spatula, smear it on to the canvas and "voila! " a mighty mountain.

It would take me thirty minutes just to paint one happy tree.

And it wouldn't be as happy as one of Bob's.

She comes in colors everywhere She combs her hair She's like a rainbow Coming colors in the air Oh, everywhere She comes in colors

The Courtyard of the

Old Residency in Munich

by Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler painted. Maybe if he had

been able to earn a living as a painter,

World War II may never had occurred.

I have a theory that if you say something ridiculous, if you say it with a straight face people will believe you.

This is how Adolf Hitler was able to come to power. He didn't smile.

I've learned to do this on a smaller scale. One of the"ridiculous" things I tell people (with a straight face) is that the color orange did not exist until the 1600s. I further explain it was invented by Rembrandt van Rijn, who named it after Filbert, Prince of Orange, his chief patron (and I pronounced it "oh-rahnj" to make it sound European). I further challenge people to verify (or disprove) my claim by inviting them to go to the library and find a book on classical art (or go online) and try to find a painting done prior to the Renaissance that has any orange color in it.

Only one person has actually taken me up on the challenge.

Regular readers of this blog are

aware of my love of coffee and

coffee shops

A friend to whom I told this came to the coffee shop carrying a book entitled "Religious Art of the Early Middle Ages (Vol I). Before she even ordered her coffee, she sat the book down on the table in front of me, opened it to several bookmarked pages, and pointed out several examples of pre-renaissance art in which the color orange was used.

I was actually proud of her. Most people accept my bullshit without giving it a second thought.

"See? See?" she taunted. "How do you explain that?"

 

"Hmm" I responded (with a straight face). "Maybe it was the Ancient Greeks who invinted orange."

 

"Yeah" she said, "It must have been."

Well, I was proud of her for a few minutes.

 



My Dogs are artistically creative. I explained in a previous blog entry that I try to expose my dogs to the Humanites: Art, Music, Theater, etc.

 

My dogs like to paint. Lacking opposable thumbs, however, they cannot utilize crayons, brushes...

...or spatulas.

But they did like the episode of The Joy of Painting I showed them on YouTube. They especially liked the was he talked. One morning, they asked me to cook "happy bacon" and "happy eggs" for breakfast.

So instead of brushes (or crayons), my dogs fingerpaint - or "paw"paint to be more accurate (as dogs don't have actual fingers in which to "Finger"paint with.

 

I might be biased, but there work is above average both in technique, composition, and subject matter.

Reba, my newest dog (4 month old), likes to lick the paint.

And tries to eat crayons.

 

 

I turned in a finger painting for an assignment in a college art class.

Yes, I said finger paint.

The assignment was to make an artistic composition that used colors in the order of the spectrum - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet.

 

Sometimes ones artistic muse goes out on a beer run, and forgets to come back for some time. It was on an evening like this I tried to complete the assignment, but no matter what I did, it just didn't come out the way I wanted. After a while I stood up, and unfortunately was not paying attention and I placed my left hand in my paints.

 

Then out of frustration, slapped my oil paint covered hand on of poster board.

 

I went into the bathroom and washed the paint of my hand, then went to the kitchen for more coffee. When I returned, I noticed that the hand print on the poster board was clear and went from a red thumb to a violet pinkie finger - the hand print was in spectrum order!

 

It was dry by morning, so I took it to class and turned it in. The instructor loved, praising my originality, and even held it up for the entire class to admire.

A lot of my educucation resulted from B.S.

I will cover this in a future blog.

I am green today
I chirp with joy
like a cricket song

I'm a rainbow today
all the colors of the world
are in me

I am blue today
calm as glass and
cool like the sea

Western Daze

Today's blog entry is a chapter from "Western Daze," one of my numerous books that may never get published, or even finished. The book is a (fictional) historical account of my hometowns of Kennewick, Pasco, and Richland WA - commonly known as the Tri-Cities.

Fictional, as the stories take place in the later part of the 1800s - twenty years before the town(s) were actually founded.

This chapter, entitled "The Nomination," takes place in May of 1889. In November, the Territory of Washington will be granted statehood, at which time the people of Washington will be allowed to send representatives to congress. Both political parties are meeting to select their candidate to run for congress.

Our story covers the local Democratic Party committee.

Dramatis Personae

• Arthur "Art" Coffey - town Sheriff
• Herbert "Herb" Miller - owner and operator (along with Mrs Miller) of the Miller's Mercantile (The town's General Store)
• Julius "Jay" McMinn - One of the town's attorneys
• Leonard "Lee" Johnson - Blacksmith
• Milton Freeman - Banker
• Robert "Bob" Green - Town's Magistrate and owner of The Silver Dollar Saloon

Members of the local Democratic party are meeting at The Silver Dollar Saloon, sitting at a table in the back room, chatting, smoking cigars and drinking whiskey.

The door opens, and Herb Miller enters.

HERB: Sorry I'm late.

BOB: Your right on time.

Herb seats himself in the vacant chair.

ART: How was your vacation?

HERB: Very nice, thank-you.

LEE: You were gone almost a month. Where did you go?

HERB: San Francisco. We were visiting with Ida's sister and her husband.

Bob pours him a shot of whiskey. Herb takes a drink.

HERB: Hey! This is some good whiskey.

LEE: It is good, isn't it?

HERB: Is it local?

BOB: No, It comes from Tennessee. It's made by a man by the name of Jack Daniels.

HERB: I've had jack Daniels whiskey before, and it didn't taste as good as this.

BOB: You probably had his old Number Six. This is his newest creation, Number 7.

HERB: It's very smooth.

LEE: I heard that he uses charcoal filtering.

ART: I heard that too.

MILT: Well, whatever he does, It is very good.

JAY: Hey, wait a minute! Milton, what are you doing drinking?

LEE: Yeah! Your a Baptist.

MILT: Only when my wife is watching.

BOB: So, I call this meeting to order. We only have one piece of business, and that's to nominate our party's candidate to run for congress for this district. Now, since this is the first time we will be directly represented in Washington D.C. we should nominate an upstanding member of our community with good morals and impeccable character.

LEE: Should he be a church goer?

BOB: That would help.

LEE: That rules me out, I guess.

ART: We rules you out at "good morals."

LEE: Funny, Art.

MILT: You know who would make a good candidate is Eli Peterson.

HERB: There's an idea.

JAY: Won't work.

MILT: Why not? Eli has been a good upstanding member of our community for as long as any of us can remember. He's trustworthy. He's friendly. He's courteous.

BOB: Sounds like your describing a boy scout.

MILT: He's perfect.

JAY: He's a Republican.

MILT: He is?

JAY: Yes, he is.

LEE: I've heard that the Republicans are planning to nominate him.

ART: I've heard that too.

MILT: Damn. He'll be hard to beat.



HERB: What about Tom Jenkins? He got a lot of good qualities, I think he'd make a great choice.

JAY: Won't work.

HERB: Why not? He practically founded this town. He a virtuous pillar of our community, a devout church goes, and he's a Democrat.

JAY: He's also dead.

HERB: He is?

JAY: Yep.

HERB: When did he die?

JAY: About three weeks ago.

LEE: While you were in San Francisco.

HERB: That's too bad.

BOB: It was a nice funeral

MILT: One of Reverend Jackson's best eulogies.

LEE : It was nice.

JAY: His whole family showed up.

LEE: Must have been four or five dozen of 'em

ART: I thought the widow looked very lovely.

HERB: Widow? What widow? Claire died in '78.

JAY: That was his first wife.

HERB: He got marries again?

JAY: Yeah, about three weeks ago.

LEE: While you were in San Francisco.

HERB: Who did he marry?

BOB: Catherine O'Conner.

HERB: That name seems familiar... Wait a minute! Do you mean Kitty O'Conner? The saloon girl at Miss Anita's?

BOB: That's her.

HERB: That old goat!

JAY: A moment ago he was a "pillar of our community."

LEE: And now he's an "old goat."

HERB: Tom was at least 60 years old ---

ART: Sixty-four.

HERB: --- and Kitty was twenty.

ART: Nineteen.

HERB: That old goat. So, what did he die of?

JAY: Weren't you listening? He got marries again, about three weeks ago.

LEE: While you were in San Francisco.

HERB: I heard that, but how did he... Oh. No kidding?

JAY: Yep.

ART: I rode out with Doc Thompson the next morning bring the body back for the funeral.

LEE: He died with his boots off.

MILT: The undertaker did an excellent job on him. The smile on his face was priceless.

ART: He had that smile on his face when we found him.

LEE: I bet he did.

HERB:Well, I suppose I should ride to the Jenkins place and give my personal regards to the widow.

"Miss" Anita
(c.1890)

ART: You don't need to ride out there. You can find her at Miss Anita's.

HERB: Why is she there? Tom had a lot of money, didn't she get any of it?

JAY: She got all of it.

HERB: Then why is she still working for Miss Anita?

JAY: She isn't working for Miss Anita. She bought her out.

HERB: No kidding.

JAY: Yep.

HERB: So, what is Miss Anita going to do now that she sold her business?

JAY: She's moving to Nevada

LEE: She's going to raise horses.

HERB: Horses?

JAY: That's what she was telling folks before she left.

LEE: Yeah, I heard her say that she was going to open a Mustang Ranch in Nevada.

ART: I heard that too.

HERB: Must be true then. Well, as successful as she was here, I'm sure her Mustang Ranch will be just as successful as her old business.

MILT: What about Nathan Burnside?

JAY: Won't work. He's a racist.

MILT: So is most of the district.

JAY: But he's extreme.

LEE: I heard he once refused to do business with a man because his last name was "Black"

ART: I heard that too.

JAY: We don't want to offend the colored folk.

MILT: And since when are we worried about that?

JAY: Since the got registered to vote.

MILT: They're registered?

JAY: Yep. Someone went around the district and talked them into it.

HERB: Must have happened while I was in San Francisco.

MILT: Who went and done that?

JAY: Reuben Goldbloom.

MILT: That @#$% Yankee carpet-bagger!

JAY: So we have to be nice to them.

MILT: For how long?

JAY: Just until the elections are over.

The 14th Amendment of the United

States prohibited any person who

"engaged in insurrection or rebellion"

from holding "any office, civil or

military, under the United States."

LEE: Jay, why don't you run?

JAY: I can't. I served in the Confederate army

LEE: Oh, yeah. I forgot.

BOB: That's going to disqualify quite a few possible candidates.

BOB: What about Myron Fankel?

Silence descended upon the meeting.

JAY: Bob, have you lost your mind?

To understand Jay and the rest of the committees reaction to Judge Green's suggestion, I need to explain who Myron Fankel is, or rather was.

Myron Fankel was the only child of Elmer Fankel, attorney at law, and his lovely wife Ethyl. As a child, Myron suffered from poor health, malaises and maladies (the result of a copy of Galen's Dictionary of Common Ailments and Ethyl's overly active imagination) and thus spent a good deal of time inside, engaged in reading and other structured activities devised by his protective mother, as oppose to going outside playing with other children. As a result, he became overly educated.

And an obnoxious know it all.

As a teenager, Myron managed to inject his presence (and his knowledge) into the business of everyone in town. Townsfolk dreaded his approach they way they would dread a crazed coyote.

They would have preferred the crazed coyote.

When he turned eighteen, his parents sent him to school back east for a few years (much to the delight of the town). It was hoped that this time away from his mother would help develop a more positive (less obnoxious) character. Sadly it did not, and Myron returned a much worse know-it-all.

And it got even worse when he passed the bar and began to practice law with his father.

JAY: Bob, have you lost your mind.

LEE: You're kidding right?

BOB: No, I am completely serious.

JAY: If we nominate Myron, we'll be the laughing stock of the district.

MILT: If we get him elected, we'll be the laughing stock of the country.

HERB: I'd rather nominate the dead guy.

ART: Can a dead person run for congress?

LEE: They vote in Chicago.

ART: I've heard that.

BOB: You are not considering the positive reasons for getting him elected.

LEE: Positive reasons?

HERB: What possible reason could you have for wanting that boy elected to congress?

BOB: Have you considered the fact that if he was elected to congress, he would be spending quite a bit of time in Washington D.C.?

Silence descended upon the room.

BOB: Instead of her in town, annoying us?

On November 5th, 1889, Myron T Fankel (D-WA) was elected by on overwhelming majority of voters in his district... which included 42 dead people ...to serve in the U.S. House of Representatives, a position he held until his death in 1923.

Birthdays

The dogs enjoy celebrating birthdays
because there is food involved.
But because birthday cake (sugar)
is not really good for dogs (and
chocolate is a definite no), we
celebrate by getting a birthday
Spam - the dogs prefer the bacon
flavored one. We all love bacon.

---

Visit the official Spam® website.

---

Macky Rae, my youngest dog, celebrated his 3rd birthday last August. He's a Leo.

Freedom, the oldest, was born in April (Aries), Sarah in November (Scorpio).

Macky enjoy birthdays, as do my other two (Freedom and Sarah). We make a special event out of it, and I go get some tasty treat for them from the store.

I celebrated my birthday last summer (Gemini).

Actually, I did not "celebrate" as much as "observed" it. I just got up one morning, and there it was. And I might have actually completely missed it, except for the numerous "Happy Birthdays" plastered on my Facebook wall from friends and loved ones.

I would have been happy not celebrating (or observing) my birthday, but my dogs were not going to allow that. The dogs enjoy celebrating birthdays (any birthday) and for me to skip my birthday, and miss out on a bacon-flavored opportunity, was out of the question for them. So we (me and the dogs) celebrated. Well, they celebrated, I just observed.

Macky Rae, my youngest dog, asked me how old I was, so I told him.

"Wow!" he exclaimed. "That's over 300 in dog years."

Nothing like man's best friend to make you feel old.

The dogs love Spam, bacon, or any other pig-product. Their desire for bacon (or bacon flavored anything) is strong, and they have come up with some rather ingenious means to acquire it. Macky Rae came up to me one morning and said "Dad, you know what today is? It is my unbirthday!" I assume he got that from watching Alice in Wonderland. "We should celebrate it" he suggested. Later, I found a old, empty Spam can, and gave it to him. "What is this? he asked. "It's an unSpam for your unbirthday." He did not find that very amusing. After re-examined the can and snorting, he said "It is not even the bacon flavored one."

Birthdays are just not really all that fun anymore, at least for me. Birthdays are, for the most part, more fun for children than they are for adults.

As a child, birthdays mean you are getting older.

As an adult, birthdays mean you are getting older. 

When you are younger, there are more significant birthdays to look forward to:

• At 13, you become a teenager (much to the delight of your parents).
• At 16, you can drive the car (much to the delight of your parents).
• At 18, you are an adult. You can vote, buy cigarettes and smoke (legally), join the military - almost everything other adults can do.
• And at 21, you can drink (much to the delight of society). You can buy liquor, go into bars, get drunk, and wake up naked in the neighbors front lawn.

In addition to being 35,  to be president
you must also be a natural-born citizen,
have been a permanent resident for 14
years, and not have participated in a
rebellion against the United States.

Define "rebellion."

After your 21^st birthday, there is not much to look forward to until you are 67 and start collecting social security. Oh, there are a few insignificant birthdays of note:

• At 25, your insurance rates go down.
• At 35, you can run for President.
• At 40, you are as old as dirt.
• At 50, you are over the hill.
• At 55, you get a discount at Denny's.
• At 60, you are older than dirt.

And, if you are fortunate enough:

• At 100, you are officially ancient. If you live that long.

Hey, it could happen. Consider:

• George Burns - 100
• Moses - 120
• Abraham - 175
• Adam - 930
• Noah - 950
• Methuselah - 996

Surprise!

A lot of people do enjoy celebrating their birthday, I'm just not one of them. Many people treat their birthday as a personal holiday, going so far as to take the day off from work.

There are a few benefits to birthdays - like the free beer you get at the bar.

In our culture, birthday gifts from friends and loved ones are common, and many participate in the ritual of the birthday party.

And then there is the surprise birthday party, where the friends and loved ones plan a party without telling the birthday person. Everyone gathers and awaits the arrival of the unsuspecting birthday recipient, and then when he/she arrives, everyone yells "Surprise!' and sings the birthday song.

No one has ever thrown me a surprise birthday party.

Everyone knows I have a concealed weapons permit. 

 And you don't actually celebrate your birthday. You celebrate the anniversary of your birthday (although usually when one says "anniversary" one is referring to a wedding anniversary, unless qualified else wise, such as the anniversary of 9/11). But an anniversary, whether of a birthday, wedding, or some other event is the day that the Earth, in it's orbit around the sun reaches the approximate same position that it was at when the event being celebrated originally occurred.

When you look at it from that definition, birthdays seem a little silly.



Dog Latin The word anniversary comes from two
Latin words: Anno meaning "year, and
versar meaning "to return to the same
approximate position".

So, how did birthdays start? Many cultures, past and present, celebrated birthdays one way or another, but the origins predate written history.


The Earth has gone around

sun twenty-one times since

you were born. You are now

permitted to consume beer.

Many cultures use the birthday to delineate childhood from adulthood. The exact age depends upon the culture. In Jewish culture, you are a man at 13. In the United States, you are "a man" at 18, unless you want to drink (then it is 21). This can be traced back to the primitive rite of passages ceremonies of our hunting/gathering ancestors.

In  primate times, a "boy" was not automatically considered a man just because the Earth had gone around the Sun a perquisite number of times (and returned to the approximate same position that it was at when he was born).He had to prove he was worthy of being called a "man." There was usually a test of some sort, such as going out to hunt (and kill) a woolly mammoth (with only a sharpened stick). If he succeeded, he became a man and there was a feast held in his honor (roasted woolly mammoth). If he failed, he was probably killed (crushed by a woolly mammoth) and his unworthy DNA was removed from the tribal gene pool.

The female rite of passage was a bit simpler: Mother Nature (not the tribe) determined when a girl entered womanhood (the number of times the Earth had gone around the sun being irrelevant). The event was celebrated with craps and bloating.

Wolly Mammoth hunting has gone out of style (due in part to the lack of mammoths, woolly or otherwise). Which is sad, because there is a proliferation of stupid people in our culture. We need to return to "rites of passage" (or at least institute a written test) in order to weed out some of the "unworthy DNA" from the gene pool.

Just because the Earth has gone around sun eighteen times since you were born does not make you a man.

---

Here's an interesting piece of information: If you have at least 57 Facebook friends, there is a 99% chance any two of them share the same birthday.

If you are interested in the math, see the

birthday problem on Wikipedia.org.

In probability theory, the  birthday paradox concerns the probability that, in a set of n randomly chosen people, some pair of them will have the same birthday. By the pigeonhole principle, the probability reaches 100% when the number of people reaches 367 (since there are 366 possible birthdays, including February 29). However, 99% probability is reached with just 57 people, and 50% probability with 23 people. These conclusions include the assumption that each day of the year (except February 29) is equally probable for a birthday.

Go to your events list and see how many of your friends share the same birthday.

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Actually, more people are born in October than any other month. This means more people were conceived in January (and this indicated that the national copulation rate increases in January). Several theories have been put forth to explain this, but do not adequately explain the phenomena. A common theory is that January is a cold, dark month, and people do not have much to do, other than have sex.

Copulating is a great way to warm up, I agree, but there are other cold, dark month which do not have an increased conception rate. So this theory also does not adequately explain the phenomena.

Since the NFL expanded, the

season has been extended and

the Superbowl now occurs in

February. If my theory is right,

November will soon become the

most common birthday month.

I has a theory of my own. What does January have that other months don't? The end of the football season.

Think about it: The die hard football fan has been glued to the TV every weekend since August. Suddenly, it's all over.  He become lost. Disoriented. He looks around, and notices a strange woman in the kitchen washes dishes.  

No, wait - that's his wife. Something stirs inside him. Its been awhile, since August. He slips up behind her and begins to fondle her... well, you know where.

"Hey, baby. You is lookin' good today." 

He wants sex. The dishes need to be washed, but she gives in easily. It has been awhile, since August.

Science vs. Luck

This was an article that ran in the Herald some 140 years ago. My thanks to Samuel Clement for bringing it to my attention. 

 

Friday, April 1st, 1870 - At that time, in Washington State (said the Hon. Mr. Knott M. C.), the law was very strict against what it termed "games of chance." About a dozen of the boys were detected playing poker for money, and the grand jury found a true bill against them. Jim Sturgis was retained to defend them when the case came up, of course. The more he studied over the matter and looked into the evidence, the plainer it was that he must lose a case at last -- there was no getting around that painful fact. Those boys had certainly been betting money on a game of chance. Even public sympathy was roused in behalf of Sturgis. People said it was a pity to see him mar his successful career with a big prominent case like this, which must go against him.

But after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon Sturgis, and he sprang out of bed delighted. He thought he saw his way through. The next day he whispered around a little among his clients and a few friends, and then when the case came up in court he acknowledged the poker and the betting, and, as his sole defence, had the astounding effrontery to put in the plea that poker was not a game of chance! There was the broadest sort of a smile all over the faces of that sophisticated audience. The judge smiled with the rest. But Sturgis maintained a countenance whose earnestness was even severe. The opposite counsel tried to ridicule him out of his position, and did not succeed. The judge jested in a ponderous judicial way about the thing, but did not move him. The matter was becoming grave. The judge lost a little of his patience, and said the joke had gone far enough. Jim Sturgis said he knew of no joke in the matter -- his clients could not be punished for indulging in what some people chose to consider a game of chance, until it was proven that it was a game of chance. Judge and counsel said that would be an easy matter, and forthwith called Deacons Job, Peters, Burke, and Johnson, and Dominies Wirt and Miggles, to testify; and they unanimously and with strong feeling put down the legal quibble of Sturgis, by pronouncing that poker was a game of chance.

"What do you call it now!" said the judge.

"I call it a game of science!" retorted Sturgis; "and I'll prove it, too!"

They saw his little game.

He brought in a cloud of witnesses, and produced an overwhelming mass of testimony, to show that poker was not a game of chance, but a game of science.

Instead of being the simplest case in the world, it had somehow turned out to be an excessively knotty one. The judge scratched his head over it a while, and said there was no way of coming to a determination, because just as many men could be brought into court who would testify on one side, as could be found to testify on the other. But he said he was willing to do the fair thing by all parties, and would act upon any suggestion Mr. Sturgis would make for the solution of the difficulty.

Mr. Sturgis was on his feet in a second:

"Impanel a jury of six of each, Luck versus Science -- give them candles and a couple of decks of cards, send them into the jury room, and just abide by the result!"

There was no disputing the fairness of the proposition. The four deacons and the two dominies were sworn in as the "chance" jurymen, and six inveterate old poker players were chosen to represent the "science" side of the issue. They retired to the jury room.

In about two hours, Deacon Peters sent into court to borrow three dollars from a friend. [Sensation.] In about two hours more, Dominie Miggles sent into court to borrow a "stake" from a friend. [Sensation.] During the next three or four hours, the other dominie and the other deacons sent into court for small loans. And still the packed audience waited, for it was a prodigious occasion in Bull's Corners, and one in which every father of a family was necessarily interested.

The rest of the story can be told briefly. About daylight the jury came in, and Deacon Job, the foreman, read the following

VERDICT.

We, the jury in the case of the State of Washington vs. John Wheeler et al., have carefully considered the points of the case, and tested the merits of the several theories advanced, and do hereby unanimously decide that the game commonly known as poker is eminently a game of science and not of chance. In demonstration whereof, it is hereby and herein stated, iterated, reiterated, set forth, and made manifest, that, during the entire night, the "chance" men never won a game or turned a jack, although both feats were common and frequent to the opposition; and further more, in support of this our verdict, we call attention to the significant fact that the "chance" men are all busted, and the "science" men have got the money. It is the deliberate opinion of this jury that the "chance" theory concerning poker is a pernicious doctrine, and calculated to inflict untold suffering and pecuniary loss upon any community that takes stock in it.

"That is the way that poker came to be set apart and particularized in the statute books of Washington as being a game not of chance but of science, and therefore not punishable under the law," said Mr. Knott. "That verdict is of record, and holds good to this day."

Guest Blogger: Benjamin Franklin on Flatulence

I did not write this.

This essay was composed c.1781 in response to a call for scientific papers from the Royal Academy of Brussels. Franklin believed that the various academic societies in Europe were increasingly pretentious and concerned with the impractical. Revealing his "bawdy, scurrilous side," Franklin responded with an essay suggesting that research and practical reasoning be undertaken into methods of improving the odor of human flatulence.

A Letter To A Royal Academy

 

Gentlemen,

I Have perused your late mathematical Prize Question, proposed in lieu of one in Natural Philosophy, for the ensuing year, viz. "Une figure quelconque donnée, on demande d'y inscrire le plus grand nombre de fois possible une autre figure plus-petite quelconque, qui est aussi donnée". I was glad to find by these following Words, "l'Académie a jugee que cette découverte, en étendant les bornes de nos connoissances, ne seroit pas sans UTILITE", that you esteem Utility an essential Point in your Enquiries, which has not always been the case with all Academies; and I conclude therefore that you have given this Question instead of a philosophical, or as the Learned express it, a physical one, because you could not at the time think of a physical one that promis'd greater Utility.

Permit me then humbly to propose one of that sort for your consideration, and through you, if you approve it, for the serious Enquiry of learned Physicians, Chemists, &c. of this enlightened Age. It is universally well known, That in digesting our common Food, there is created or produced in the Bowels of human Creatures, a great Quantity of Wind.

That the permitting this Air to escape and mix with the Atmosphere, is usually offensive to the Company, from the fetid Smell that accompanies it.

That all well-bred People therefore, to avoid giving such Offence, forcibly restrain the Efforts of Nature to discharge that Wind.

That so retain'd contrary to Nature, it not only gives frequently great present Pain, but occasions future Diseases, such as habitual Cholics, Ruptures, Tympanies, &c. often destructive of the Constitution, & sometimes of Life itself.

Were it not for the odiously offensive Smell accompanying such Escapes, polite People would probably be under no more Restraint in discharging such Wind in Company, than they are in spitting, or in blowing their Noses.

My Prize Question therefore should be, To discover some Drug wholesome & not disagreable, to be mix'd with our common Food, or Sauces, that shall render the natural Discharges of Wind from our Bodies, not only inoffensive, but agreable as Perfumes.

That this is not a chimerical Project, and altogether impossible, may appear from these Considerations. That we already have some Knowledge of Means capable of Varying that Smell. He that dines on stale Flesh, especially with much Addition of Onions, shall be able to afford a Stink that no Company can tolerate; while he that has lived for some Time on Vegetables only, shall have that Breath so pure as to be insensible to the most delicate Noses; and if he can manage so as to avoid the Report, he may any where give Vent to his Griefs, unnoticed. But as there are many to whom an entire Vegetable Diet would be inconvenient, and as a little Quick-Lime thrown into a Jakes will correct the amazing Quantity of fetid Air arising from the vast Mass of putrid Matter contain'd in such Places, and render it rather pleasing to the Smell, who knows but that a little Powder of Lime (or some other thing equivalent) taken in our Food, or perhaps a Glass of Limewater drank at Dinner, may have the same Effect on the Air produc'd in and issuing from our Bowels? This is worth the Experiment. Certain it is also that we have the Power of changing by slight Means the Smell of another Discharge, that of our Water. A few Stems of Asparagus eaten, shall give our Urine a disagreable Odour; and a Pill of Turpentine no bigger than a Pea, shall bestow on it the pleasing Smell of Violets. And why should it be thought more impossible in Nature, to find Means of making a Perfume of our Wind than of our Water?

For the Encouragement of this Enquiry, (from the immortal Honour to be reasonably expected by the Inventor) let it be considered of how small Importance to Mankind, or to how small a Part of Mankind have been useful those Discoveries in Science that have heretofore made Philosophers famous. Are there twenty Men in Europe at this Day, the happier, or even the easier, for any Knowledge they have pick'd out of Aristotle? What Comfort can the Vortices of Descartes give to a Man who has Whirlwinds in his Bowels! The Knowledge of Newton's mutual Attraction of the Particles of Matter, can it afford Ease to him who is rack'd by their mutual Repulsion, and the cruel Distensions it occasions? The Pleasure arising to a few Philosophers, from seeing, a few Times in their Life, the Threads of Light untwisted, and separated by the Newtonian Prism into seven Colours, can it be compared with the Ease and Comfort every Man living might feel seven times a Day, by discharging freely the Wind from his Bowels? Especially if it be converted into a Perfume: For the Pleasures of one Sense being little inferior to those of another, instead of pleasing the Sight he might delight the Smell of those about him, & make Numbers happy, which to a benevolent Mind must afford infinite Satisfaction. The generous Soul, who now endeavours to find out whether the Friends he entertains like best Claret or Burgundy, Champagne or Madeira, would then enquire also whether they chose Musk or Lilly, Rose or Bergamot, and provide accordingly. And surely such a Liberty of Expressing one's Scent-iments, and pleasing one another, is of infinitely more Importance to human Happiness than that Liberty of the Press, or of abusing one another, which the English are so ready to fight & die for. — In short, this Invention, if compleated, would be, as Bacon expresses it, bringing Philosophy home to Mens Business and Bosoms. And I cannot but conclude, that in Comparison therewith, for universal and continual UTILITY, the Science of the Philosophers abovementioned, even with the Addition, Gentlemen, of your "Figure quelconque" and the Figures inscrib'd in it, are, all together, scarcely worth a FART-HING.

Lottery Tickets, Giant Redwoods, and Pirates

Ever now and then, when I have an extra dollar in my pocket, I buy a lottery ticket. My three dogs help me, each one picks two numbers, and I pick one.

Hold on, you are probably saying. 3 dogs times 2 numbers plus 1 more equals 7. There are only six lottery numbers.

This is true. But Macky Rae, my youngest dog, is fond of the number 4, so this is always his first pick. It is also his second pick as well. He is somewhat unclear on the concept of picking to different numbers, especially since 4 is such a good number. Thus I have to pick a seventh number to complete our ticket.

The odds of us winning are not really good, roughly 7,000,000 to 1. Statistically speaking, one is more likely to be struck by lightning (which would make an interesting news story: a man wins the lottery, collects his winnings, and gets struck by lightning). So why do we buy lottery tickets?

Well, for one the odds of winning without buying a ticket are a lot worse. For another, we enjoy planning what we will do if we actually do win a big jackpot. Our big plan is to buy an RV and travel around the country and see cool places and things. Our first stop is the Redwood National Park in California. This may not seem all that exciting, but for a dog the opportunity to pee on a giant Sequoia is a fantasy come true. Considering the size of these trees, it will be an all day event, and I will need to bring extra bottles of water so everyone is fully charged for the event.

Now an interesting fact regarding lotteries is the overall payout. In Washington State, the payout is 60%, which means for every dollar taken in, 60¢ is payed out. It was 50% when the lottery first started out. In the casinos, the payout is much greater. In Vegas, the worst game (Keno) pays 75%, most all the other games payout over 90%! The government pays 60%, the mob pays 95%?

But I digress.

The other morning, while drinking coffee, Macky Rae came up to me and said "Hey, Dad! I know what we can do if we win the lottery. We can be pirates!!"

We will go and buy a ship - a real pirate ship, made out of wood with canvas sails and cannons. We will load the cargo hold with food and doggie treats, set sail and roam the Caribbean. When we spy and unsuspecting merchant vessel, we will slip up beside them, lean over the railing, and bark at them.

"Just bark at them? Aren't we suppose to board them and steal there cargo"

"No, Dad. That would be mean, and we are not mean dogs"

"Then why the cannons?"

"Decorations."

"Then how are we suppose to make a living?"

"Dad, we won the lottery, remember?"

"And what do we do between merchant vessels?"

"We watch TV."

Apparently, we are going to install a satellite dish on the ship. Not traditional for pirates, but we must adapt to modern times. I assume we will also have an internet connection, so we can check our email and our Facebook accounts.

"So we just sail around the Caribbean?" I asked him.

"Until our food runs out, them we go to our homeport and restock our cargo holds."

"We have a homeport?"

"Of course we do, Dad. All pirates have a homeport."

"Where is ours?"

"St Martin. I looked it up on wikipedia, and picked it because I knew you would like it."

"And why is that?"

"Because of the nude beaches"

I love that little dog.