Post 61

Sixty-one is the 18th prime number--a twin prime with 59. My brother-in-law intends to teach his children to count to 1024 in binary on their fingers. I intend to waste my children's time by teaching them to count in prime factorizations: one, two, three, two squared, five, two times three, seven, two cubed, three squared, two times five (I love this!), eleven, two squared times three, thirteen, two times seven, three times five, two to the fourth, seventeen, two times three squared, nineteen, two squared times five (I just now decided to stop at thirty), three times seven, two times eleven, twenty three, two cubed times three, five squared, two times thirteen, three cubed, two squared times seven, twenty nine, two times three times five. Alright, that was fabulous. I just realized that thirty is the first number with three distinct prime factors. A good place to end. You see, this torture will give my children an intuition for the Fundamental Theorem of Arithmetic, and an appreciation of the primes, which obviously are less work than the composites. Anyway, we'll wait to see if this actually happens.

I wanted to tell a joke about how this all relates to my retirement planning, since my genius child is certain to solve some long-outstanding problem regarding primes, one with at least a million-dollar prize for its solution. I think funding my 403(b) may be a better idea.

Another blog pose

Inkeeping with my new tradition of retaining typos in blog post titles, the title of this post says "pose" instead of "post." I will leave it to you to interpret that Freudian slip of the fingers.

Blogger won't let me post here from the library. I can save things fine, but it won't do anything when I click "publish post." Computers are the devil anyway.

Looking down at my shitty wallet I'm reminded of all the people who have told me to replace it. I'll take it out to pay for something in my standard business casual work clothes and they say "man, you need a new wallet." I won't believe them until one of my cards actually falls out of the huge hole in the side of it. This duct-tape constructed wallet was given to me by my father-in-law for Christmas... um, 2006 I think. Younger folks think it's cool, and it serves its purpose. It's staying.

Perhaps someday I'll be able to post this boring-ass entry. Not today.

This clog still exists

I just wanted to make it clear that I sometimes intend to post to this blog, so it "is still a going concern" as John Cleese did not say of the parrot. I have made a halfhearted commitment to post every time I visit the Fuller Library, so maybe I'll stick to that.

I mistyped the word "blog" as "clog" in the title. I like that word "clog" so much that I kept the title as-is even though it doesn't make sense. Make no mistake, folks: I want wooden shoes. Comfy ones with something soft inside, but still very traditional-looking. I want to do lots of damage if I'm ever called upon to kick somebody with them. Oh, and they need to have wings so I can fly.

Christmas is bearing down on us like a shotgun full of cheer. Goddamn motherfucking son of a holiday. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate Christmas. You have to go to stores and spend money on people and talk to people and travel and smile and stuff. Horrible. Anyway, here's my eggnog recipe:

Separate two eggs. Mix about 1/3 cup cream, 2 tbsp sugar, a drop of vanilla, and some fresh-ground nutmeg (that's what the funny teeth on the cheese grater are for) and your booze (I use rum, Bourbon is popular) with the yolks. Whisk until smooth. Beat the whites to the desired stiffness. You have a decision to make: the stiffer you make them the less viscous the drink will be (good) but the less they will want to mix with the yolk mixture (bad.) This, at least, is my experience. Now you have to mix it all together. I prefer to add some of the yolk mixture to the whites, whisk until combined, then add gradually larger amounts. Other recipes suggest that you fold the whites into the yolks, but I think my way is a better way for avoiding clumps. I haven't figured out how to make the mixture truly uniform: the top of the glass is usually airier. So I recommend serving it with a stirring spoon. The result should be something that tastes "light," in a sense. When you realize 35 minutes later how much protein, fat, sugar and liquor you've consumed, you can sleep Yuletide away.

Worried

I snuck into the Fuller library again. They don't want me here since I'm a spouse and for some reason they seem to expect seminary couples to have the money for in-house internet. We don't, so here I am. I keep thinking one of the library staff is going to see me on Facebook and ask, "Are you a student here?"
"No, I'm the husband of a student. We do actually exist."
"The library is actually only for Fuller students and members of the theological community, from which spouses are excluded. Don't you guys know that it's *men* who are called to professional ministry?"
"I do know that--that's why I helped put on a puppet show for the kids at church a couple months ago."
"For the kids...you pussy. That's woman's work. What do you do for a living, macho man?"
"I'm a credit counselor."
"Sheesh. You ever break a sweat doing that?"
"Sometimes"
"If you're gonna let the misses wear the theological pants in the relationship, the least you could do is have a respectable career and make more money than her."
"Right now I do."
"Uh huh. And how much more?"
"$12 an hour more, except when she's TAing. She's full time, at least until she finishes in the Spring. And I'm wearing boxers, by the way."
"Why are your nails so long?"
"Huh? Oh. Before I answer that, I'll confuse you further. Look at the other hand"
"Fine then--why so long on the right and so short on the left? Is this some kind of fag fetish? Where did you *get* that ring, anyway? I suppose you've only been emasculated on the one side, is that it? That must be how you defend the puppetee--"
"I play guitar. I play country blues and ragtime."
"Maybe you have a Y chromosome after all. Legitimate seminary purposes only, sir. Please leave."

Success

I've been studying for a test for the past two years and I passed it this morning. It's not an exaggeration; I really did start studying for the thing shortly after we moved here. Trying to condense my studying into a the 1.5 hours plus that I spent on the bus each day was not working. I took a new job closer to home, and started getting up at 4AM to study.

I expected to fail. I didn't complete even half of the suggested study hours (300) and I consistently struggled with base-level concepts, and the ensuing lack of motivation.

Anyway, the first of many hurdles is cleared. I didn't expect to have a very strong reaction, whether I passed or failed, and so far I haven't been overly pleased with myself. Like a Lake Wobegone Lutheran, I worry that self-congratulation and positive feelings in general are mere stormcrows. I want more defeat, and more frustration, and lots of them. Then maybe I can pass the next one.

District 9

(started 11/7/2009)

We watched District 9 a few weeks ago. I enjoyed it much more at the time than I did afterward, largely because of Virgie's unfavorable reaction. I kept trying to put my finger on what exactly I liked about it but found that the enjoyment did not rest on the films artistic merits. I tried and tried to find something deeper than "mankind is intolerant and abusive of minorities," but nothing materialized. It's just an action film; I enjoyed it as such.

That said, there is one thing truly detestable about the film. I don't think I will ever watch it again for this reason: while attempting to get across its message about South Africa's atrocious Apartheid-era relocations, it perpetuates the stereotypes that fuel South Africa's ongoing racial problems. Currently, South Africa has problems with large numbers of immigrants from elsewhere in Africa, namely, some of the worst goddamn places on Earth (the DRC, Rwanda, Nigeria, etc.) These immigrants have much darker skin than the native South Africans. In the film, they are represented by a group of Nigerian gangsters who live in the ghetto with the aliens. They are gun & sex crazy cannibals, and their leader's name is "Obesandjo". Olusegun Obasanjo is the most important politician in Nigeria's history. Though he is an African leader, and thus almost by definition a butcher of human beings, he has done great things for his people. To use a practically identical name for a mindless thus is reprehensible and outrageously racist. I can't imagine an American filmmaker getting away with it.

Imagine a film in which the lost city of Atlantis is discovered, and it's 10,000 desheveled, green-faced inhabitants are moved to Mobile, Alabama. It's not long before they are treated as second-class citizens and semi-forcibly moved into ghettos. "The horror!" say the viewers. "It's un-*American* to treat any human(?) being with such indignity! This is just like the Nazis!" Then a bunch of dirty, crack-smuggling Mexicans come along and try to take away the Atlantians' jobs! Not to worry: the US Army is there to mow the Mexicans down with machine guns. The Atlantians are reconciled to the US government, given rights, and an exhibit at the Museum of Tolerance. Intolerance is a terrible thing, when it's in the past.