Goodbye, John Reed

Although I have been accused of trying to be the incarnation of W. S. Gilbert (high praise I don't come close to deserving!), I have a confession: In the constellation of all things G&S, although I admired Gilbert tremendously, he was never my source of inspiration. When I think of Gilbert and Sullivan, my thoughts are not of abstract words or perfect melodies, but of one voice--the voice of John Reed.

Our library had, and I often borrowed, a large collection of the D'oyly Carte recordings; most featured Reed as the comic baritone. It was his voice that defined G&S for me, and brought Gilbert's words, Sullivan's melodies, to perfect life. Reed's voice was not operatically trained, but it was perfect for this task (others may disagree and have their own favorites, but I am right). I am very happy he sang at a time when a good stereo recording was possible.

So, goodbye, John Reed! Thank you for your elocution, your timing, your voice.

Imitation being flattery and all that, I reprise an earlier bit of work. Far better to acknowledge this as inspired by Reed than by the undeserving creationist plagiarists.

I am the very model of a devious creationist
I’ve made a film that’s best described as stolen-animationist
I know the use of rhetoric when facts are unavailable
To render the impossible into the unassailable

I’m very well acquainted, too, with data manufacturing
I’ll claim I stand on solid granite even as it’s fracturing
I document complexity, like when it’s irreducible…
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible

And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible
And think my movie’s in the league of Arthur Miller’s Crucible

I’m very good at lying, both the verbal and statistical—
Like Darwin in his later years, I’m openly theistical
In short, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

In short, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

My evidence, in volumes that would baffle a librarian
Is not so much orthogonal as utterly contrarian
Presented with a problem like the claw of a Deinonychus
I pause for just a moment, then it’s “Dammit, bring it on!” I cuss

My scientific colleagues have been banned from Universities
Expecting them to publish was just one of their adversities
They’ve parried the attacks of retroviruses endogenous
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us

Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us
Maintaining all the while that Darwinians are dodgin’ us

My evidence is solid as a fossil of triceratops
Presented with the humor of a monologue of Carrot Top’s
In short, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

In short, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

In fact, when I know what is meant by “cinemas” and “enemas”
When I can tell by sight the harmless serpent from the venomous
And claim I found the evidence in chapter one of Genesis
You’ll see, compared to Darwinists, which one of us the menace is

When I have crack’d a book on Evo-Devo or Biology
Enough to understand instead of mutter simply “Golly gee!”
And understand my argument is simply false dichotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy

You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy
You’ll say that this creationist does not deserve lobotomy

For the science that I know was not updated for millennia
Not since the latest virgin birth, or genesis parthenia
But still, you might describe me as a mental masturbationist
I am the very model of a devious creationist

But still, you might describe him as a mental masturbationist
He is the very model of a devious creationist

Stormy Weather In Cuttletown

When the power goes out
And I'm starting to doubt
That the house will be here in the morning
When the wind and the rain
Bring us heartache and pain
Like some biblical end-of-days warning
When the snapping of trees
Brings the town to its knees
And our courage is starting to ebb
Does it make me a dope
If my one fervent hope
Was to get myself back on the web?

****

Ok, that was a joke, not the truth. We did lose power here, for about 10 hours, which is next to nothing for a good storm. Within a stone's throw from here (literally), they still do not have power, some 20 hours in total, and will not for a while. A short walk away finds trees toppled over power lines, with no crews working on them--which means these are small potatoes in comparison with the *real* problems. A house I pass by every day has two mature pines, just under 2 feet in diameter each, now securely embedded in the roof. One tree was uprooted (rain made the ground a bit soft), and the other snapped like a toothpick about 20 feet up the trunk. The first hit the garage; the second hit the middle of the roofline.

We can't leave our town, since all roads have downed power lines. Or did, anyway; we had no reason to keep checking. We have food, water, and now power, and so will be offering our showers and stove to our neighbors. (Yes, I put showers first. Trust me on this.)

The forecast says I had better finish this up, because we should get hit again tonight. Within the hour it should start.

Don't worry about me. I've got plenty of food & water, and a wood stove if necessary (it wasn't for the mere overnight power loss). I like losing power, actually... which shows how incredibly well off I am, compared to so many. (Or how stupid, but let's not go there.)

Stay warm and safe, my friends. Thank science and technology that it is much easier for us to do so than pretty much any of our ancestors.

Lindsey Vonn Puts Faith In Cheeses, Wins Gold

Lindsey Vonn was badly bruised;
Her shin was black and blue.
But these are the Olympic Games--
Whatever would she do?
Some athletes rub on emu fat;
For some, placenta pleases--
But Lindsey Vonn's a different sort:
She put her faith in cheeses.

She could not race until she healed;
Her hopes would all be lost,
And so went where cheese is priced
To calculate the cost.
She found some at the marketplace
And bought a couple tins,
To make a Topfen poultice
For forgiveness for her shins.

By all accounts, her injury
Was really rather vicious--
But thanks to cheeses, once again
Her legs are just delicious.
Apparently, for Austrians,
This cure is very old--
My guess is we'll see more like this,
Since Lindsey got her Gold!

****

My guess is, if you follow the Olympic Games at all, you already know about Lindsey Vonn's injury. It was her great good fortune that the weather caused a series of delays, giving her shin time to heal, at least a bit. During that time, she used some laser therapy, massage, painkillers, and now we hear, a poultice made of cheese.

After injuring her shin in Austria during training, American downhill skier Lindsey Vonn did what Austrian skiers do: She wrapped topfen cheese curd around her swollen right leg in hopes of reducing the swelling.

Whether or not the cheese helped her recover enough to win an Olympic gold medal Wednesday, the Austrian curd remains obscure.

Many gourmet cheesemongers aren’t familiar with the semisoft cream cheese-like fromage, and sports medicine experts certainly aren’t rushing out to prescribe it to injured patients.

Top athletes are often superstitious (having had a lot of success, they have had a lot of opportunity to falsely correlate that success with a lucky object, routine, or ritual); it is no surprise that, having had plenty of opportunity to recover from injury, athletes are prone to some pretty strange cures as well:

When orthopedic surgeon Dr. John Benjamin heard that Vonn had spread cheese on her hurt shin, he said he chuckled. “It’s a curious use for a dairy product, and I have not heard reports of great success,” he says.

Other curious treatments for sports injuries have ranged from rubbing placenta juice into a bad hamstring as Serbian soccer player Danko Lazovic reportedly did, according to the AP, and using the fat of an emu as a rub for pain and swelling.

You may also remember, if you followed this in the news, that Ms. Vonn initially suspected that her leg might be broken, but refused X-rays to confirm her suspicion. She was "putting her fingers in her ears" and refusing to consider the possibility that she would spend the Olympic Games with her leg in a cast, because of a broken shin.

Maybe it was denial and fear, but my hope is that her refusal to X-ray, her refusal to have her leg in plaster, came from her innate determination, her perseverance, her guts, her metaphorical cojones. I picture her telling her doctor "let he who is without stones cast the first shin. I'm putting my faith in cheeses."

He's A Maine-i-quack!

If I thought I had the answer
To a killer such as cancer
I would fight against The Lord, Himself
To make my findings known;
To make certain I was certain
I would gladly raise the curtain
So that anyone could take a shot
At what, therein, was shown.

I would never ask immunity
To jabs from the community
If doing so would cover up
The rigor that I lack;
But Moritz and Maloney,
Though they're through and through baloney,
Choose to run away from evidence:
They duck just like a quack.


Both PZ and Orac have already taken them to task, but I forgot to actually post this little verse on my own site.

Blame It On The Vaccines

My right hand twitches, my left hand itches,
My knees won't stay in the legs of my britches,
The man on TV says it's probably witches,
My dad says it's all in my genes.
My vision is hazy, and one eye is lazy,
The ache in my hip makes me thnk it's dysplasia,
People are looking at me like I'm crazy,
I'm blaming it all on vaccines.

My nerves are fraying, my hair is graying,
When the moon is full, I can't help baying,
My voice gives out in the middle of praying,
I'm growing allergic to beans.
My ears feel funny, my nose is runny,
My skin turns green when the weather's sunny,
My piss runs clear, but it tastes like honey,
I'm blaming it all on vaccines.

My feet are stinky, my phlegm is inky,
There's parasite worms in the joints of my pinky,
My corpus callosum is shriveled and dinky,
I'm really not sure what it means.
My liver's aching, my spleen is shaking,
The bones of my spine are all cracking and breaking,
But rather than coyly admit that I'm faking,
I'm blaming it all on vaccines.

****

Inspired by PZ's post on the cheerleader who developed all those bizarre symptoms shortly after her vaccination. Although her disorder made no sense physically, the antivaxxers invited her gladly... because they are never ones to let actual science get in the way of a good story.

I'd link to PZ, but my laptop died two weeks ago, and I am posting this from a coal-fired difference engine we long ago decided was obsolete. It is. I can't open pharyngula now, without the computer crashing. I am sure you can find it yourself.

Meanwhile, happy valentine's day, and thank you very much to the person who used one of my valentine poems and actually tipped!

Cuttlefish Classic: Happy Birthday Charles Darwin

On the newsstand at the station
There it was, a publication
With a bold prevarication
Where it asked “Was Darwin Wrong?”
Darwin stands among the giants
Of our modern view of science
So, in answer and defiance
I’m replying in this song:

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Variation in the features
Of all sorts of nature’s creatures
Was a sign of God, for preachers,
But you thought you’d take a look
It’s descent and not creation
That explains the population
So we start the celebration
For the guy who wrote the book

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

From the South Pacific Islands
To the bonny Scottish Highlands,
In the oceans and the dry lands
We can see the evidence.
From diversity most splendid,
We infer that we descended;
It was you who comprehended
And your impact was immense!

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!

Well, the theory you created
Has, for decades, been updated,
But it shouldn’t be unstated
That it all began with you
That’s the way with any theory
Though detractors may grow weary
As they try to make folks leery
But they can’t deny it’s true

Happy Birthday, Charles Darwin, take a look around today—
You might recognize the path we took, cos you showed us the way.
We will celebrate your influence with unabashed delight;
Happy Birthday Charles Darwin, you were right!



Cos, you know, it's his birthday and all.

The Learned Judge Blair

The learned Judge showed mercy,
For she knew the man devout;
One cannot be religious, and
A brutal, lowly lout--
Religion shows the brighter light,
Not worldly, but sublime;
You'd never break a fellow's jaw...
Except, of course, this time.

The learned judge, she reasoned
That forgiveness was the path;
She'd demonstrate God's mercy
When she could have picked God's wrath.
A judge who follows faithfully
Could never be a dunce;
She'd choose the wise and sober course...
Except, of course, this once.

The learned judge is hearing
From the slighted and the wronged
For speaking through her prejudice
As if such views belonged.
Some arguments belong in court,
But then again, some don't;
The judge should learn from this mistake...
Except, of course, she won't.


Judge Cherie Blair has suspended the sentence of a man found guilty of assault, on the basis that the convicted is "a religious man". AC Grayling writes eloquently of the story on RichardDawkins.net. Cuttlecap tip to PZ.

Girl, 16, Buried Alive

How dare she talk to boys as friends!
It's time to dig a hole
This is where her flirting ends!
It's time to dig a hole
At sixteen years, a headstrong girl
Get in the hole and kneel
She used to be my precious pearl
Get in the hole and kneel
She would not bend to my demands
A shovel-full of dirt
So hold her tight and bind her hands
A shovel-full of dirt
The family council called for death
Ignore her cries and screams
Inhaling earth with every breath
Ignore her cries and screams
Our family's honor is at stake
So bury her alive
We have a code we cannot break
So bury her alive
Throw more dirt down on her head
A daughter must obey
It took a while, but now she's dead
A daughter must obey
My daughter's gone, the shameless whore
A father's word is law
But no great loss--I've got eight more
A father's word is law


This is the hole where she died. Where her own family buried her alive. Where she breathed and swallowed dirt, kneeling with hands bound, until her death restored her family's honor.


M.M., a 16 year old Turkish girl, had male friends she would talk to. It appears, according to reports, that this was the reason her own father and grandfather buried her alive.

This is one of those stories I cannot read without putting my daughter's face on the victim's. Sixteen was not that long ago.

Why Not Use The Bible As A Science Book?

It's not hatred; it's not loathing;
It's the emperor's new clothing,
And Creationism doesn't have a stitch.
There's no bible-methodology
That's better than biology--
It seems a level playing-field's a bitch.

When the real world's more exciting
Than some Aramaic writing,
Cos it adds to what we know about ourself,
Then the bible's contribution
When it comes to evolution
Is most useful when you keep it on the shelf.

See, the truth about the ages
Isn't there within its pages
It's a waste of time to even go and look
Science strives to see the lawful
But the bible's frankly awful:
All in all, the perfect anti-science book!


Cuttlecap tip to PZ

Super Bowl Sunday, Redux

A repost from a year ago, and pretty much nothing at all has changed. My wish is that one of these years, a QB is going to say "well, first of all, I gotta give it all up for my lord and savior Jesus Christ, without whom nothing is possible. I couldn't have done what I did without Him watching over me"... in the presence of an offensive line that sweated blood to keep this guy off the turf for 4 quarters, and who are comprised of a very talented group of Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, and atheist athletes who decide to let Jesus take care of the QB by himself next game.

Oh, well. Not likely in this lifetime.

The repost:

****************

It's Super Bowl Sunday again (well, tomorrow, as I write)! I must admit, I love the Super Bowl. Not because it is the SB, but because it is the last meaningful game before next season. My dad, when I was really young, was a football coach, so I watch football looking for all the fun interior line details that are never part of the televised commentary; football, like so many things, gets better the more you know about it.

What is irritating, though, is that God is always on the side of the winners (as PZ noted); it is such a great time to wear one's religion on one's sleeve. Of course, it also bothers me that even those among us who find that notion silly, the same after-the-fact reasoning is used to show that the team that had greater will to win, that wanted it more, that just refused to say die, is the one who took the trophy home. Nobody ever gives up the will to win, but then cruises to victory anyway.

Anyway, here's the song of the day... with sincere apologies to Bob Dylan, and to pretty much everybody else, too.

Oh, the workouts are nothin’
And the wind sprints are less
We don’t even practice
We think that it’s best
Cos practice means nothing
I’m forced to confide—
But we’ll win big on Sunday
With God on our side

Oh the networks will show it
They’ll show it so well
How the righteous team won
And the evil team fell
Oh the righteous team won
But it’s not cos we tried
It's Super Bowl Sunday
With God on our side

Oh, when I cross the goal line
I’ll raise my arm high
With one upraised finger
I’ll point to the sky
I’m sending a message
That can’t be denied
I just scored a touchdown
With God on my side

When it’s fourth down and inches
We’ll go for it all
It’s a quarterback keeper
But where is the ball
They’ll bring out the chain gang
And the refs will decide
First and ten to the team
With God on their side

And the fans in the stadium
Will cheer on their teams
And eat without stopping
Or that’s how it seems
And most of it’s salty
And all of it’s fried
They’ll eat it on Sunday
With God on their side

Oh, it won’t even matter
What’s the final score
The points aren’t important
That’s not what it’s for
This game’s about Jesus
We can all say with pride
We won big on Sunday
With God on our side

We gather each Sunday
We won’t miss a week
It’s more than just victory
It’s salvation we seek
It’s more than religion
It’s the reason Christ died
So we could play football
With God on our side

Homeopathic Science!

It's a wholly different system--
There are data, but you missed 'em,
In the infinite dilution of our minds!
Modern medicine is bleaker
Cos our evidence is weaker,
Which is stronger, as our different system finds!

All those articles and studies
That you put out with your buddies,
Which you think will make your evidence more strong?
It is our determination
Through our less-is-more translation,
Each one proves that Western Medicine is wrong!

While you losers have fun losing
We're diluting and succusing,
Gaining power modern science can't assess--
And our strongest contribution
May be found in this solution:
Common sense (at just one molecule, or less)!



Cuttlecap tip to P-Zed.

A Scientific Valentine

I write today of human love
Not as some gift from god above,
But scientific views thereof
From many different fields.
Each science may have different tools,
And so the scientific schools,
Although they may agree on rules,
Have very different yields.

The chemists say it’s chemistry;
Biologists, biology;
Astronomers say “Can’t you see?
It’s written in the stars!”
In physics there’s a certain view
Psychology can claim one too
(And one with naught at all to do
With Venus or with Mars)

I’ve read a scientist who writes
That mating pairs scale passion’s heights
To outmaneuver parasites—
That could, of course, be it.
I’ve also read, we may respond
To those to whom we’ve grown quite fond
Because a stable mating bond
Makes offspring much more fit.

They may (or may not) all connect,
As scientists may well expect.
If one of them is more correct
Then I am not aware
But I am yours, if you’ll be mine,
My scientific valentine,
Through random chance or will divine
I frankly do not care.

Nothing To Talk About?

My faithful friends were wondering,
And I was wondering, too,
When atheists get together—
Just what all do they do?
They have no common purpose,
And so I find it odd,
To think they join together
And talk about “no god”.

My faithful friends were arguing,
I made my case as well,
Which people went to Heaven
And which ones went to Hell.
Which version of our Holy Book
Is better than the rest,
And, ultimately, which of our
Religions was the best.

My faithful friends were fighting
And I, too, joined the fight
God’s Holy Word demanded it
And so we felt it right.
The heretics and infidels
All needed to be taught;
God will not stand for people
Not believing what they ought!

My faithful friends were killing
As we have throughout the years
An internecine battle with
Our brothers and our peers
With countless souls in suffering
And countless hearts in grief
To show that there is nothing
More important than belief

My faithful friends were dying
By the dozens, by the scores
In random city bombings
And in major bloody wars
We lose our lives as instruments
Of God's own rightful wrath;
And when we've gone, our children too
Will follow in our path.

My faithful friends were wondering,
And I was wondering, too,
When atheists get together—
Just what all do they do?
They have no common purpose,
And so I find it odd,
To think they join together
And talk about “no god”.


Inspired by PZ's post here, and the linked article from The Age, "2500 people with nothing to talk about?"

There are worse things than having nothing to talk about.