The house is superficially clean.  And the Christmas tree has come out and is decorated with delicate blue lights for the first time since Rachel died.  But the basement garage has been claimed by the spiders, and the swimming pool has become a Petri dish of leaves and ice.  Dad is 71 and he looks and thinks every day of it.  Since Rachel died in 2009 he’s been, I should say, distracted.  

Every day I have seen him in the past two years he has worn the same sweater.  It is stained with… something.  His favorite jacket is stained with… something.

We went shopping today.  First I took him to Target.  Four pairs of khakis (38×29) and a dozens of pairs of socks and undershirts and underwear.  Then to Men’s Wearhouse, and then to a shoe store for three pairs of new shoes.  

Then to a pizza place (Lola’s) that I found on Yelp.  He told me he didn’t remember the last time he had eaten pizza.

It’s the best I can do for him at this point.

I can’t stay here anymore.  I need to head over to see my Mom tomorrow.

It is the height of irony that conservatives passed, and now bemoan the passing of, the Defense of Marriage Act.

It is, I believe, an axiom of conservative thought (which I do not entirely disagree with) that government’s powers should be limited to that which is critical to the functioning of a stable society. Why then, do the standard conservative mouthpieces compare the death of DOMA variously to the fall of Rome, an illegitimate stench, and casual contempt for the citizenry?

As far as I can tell, only one conservative news source groks the gulf-wide internal contradiction and steers sensibly clear from it.

Anyway, it’s not polite to bash homosexuals anymore stateside. Even the conservatives can’t get away anymore with calling it a mental illness and the like. I believe, and am happy to believe, that the gay-bashing movement in the USA will quickly grow very, very, very quiet.

It is impossible to treat the Bible or the Qur’an as practical law and yet maintain that the government should have no business telling people how to live their lives.

You cannot serve both God and the Republican Party.

Now’s as good a time as any to start blogging again. What with Facebook and all the new new forms of 140-character communication, this dust-smelling form seems practically retro only a few years after its inception. Conveniently, this means that my parents have probably stopped reading this, and I can be a little more simple and direct. Anyway, I think most ideas worth repeating deserve more than 140 characters.

I woke up this afternoon. My sleep schedule has rotated severely with my work on this new musical, Zombie Vixens from Hell. As so many other people did, I read the dreadful news about the shootings in Colorado, and this in turn led me to do as much research as I possibly could about lone wolf terrorists in one hour. This search led me to read this interesting document, which describes the Internet as a fresh source of power for such terrorists. I think the Internet is awesome and wonderful. But I have seen a frightening tendency among my friends and me of only wanting to interact on the Internet with people who share our point of view. I find myself reaching for the Unfriend button on Facebook when someone has an opinion that disagrees with mine, and I’ve seen nearly all of my friends do the same. Which brings up the interesting question: What is it about us that makes us only want to interact with people who share our points of view? What about the Internet makes us more closed-minded, not less?

Here’s a completely unsupportable supposition that will, I think, demonstrate its own truth in time: James Holmes made posts in some back shithole of the Internet, describing whatever outrage he felt the need to avenge. And the kicker will be, of course, that he found support and encouragement there.

I think that Facebook is enemy number one in this regard. Facebook tracks every click we make, and little AI gremlins watch us, and determine what we should see next. And Facebook thinks that what we want to see is content from people who share our points of view, whether we’re birthers or Green Party or vegetarians or corrective makeup artists. Newspapers are clearly on their long slow slide into irrelevancy, but newspapers did something very very important for us: they made us read opinions that we didn’t automatically agree with. Facebook has no qualms about feeding our little cocaine monkey brains only what makes us happy; i.e. that which does not challenge our world view.

I make a point of trying to read as many news sources as possible. Each morning I read at least the front pages of the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, Gamasutra, National Review, The Economist, Gamesindustry.biz, Huffington Post, MCV UK, Slashdot, The Daily Pilot, and the OC Register. I read the Register mostly for comic relief; it’s also fun to play the game of Find The Spelling Or Usage Error Of The Day with the Register. It has been pointed out to me that I read at an unusual speed.

This reading list forces me to be exposed to opinions that I do not automatically agree with. I am hoping there’s some therapeutic value. Lifting weights makes you stronger.

“Such Biggest Loss Can’t Happen, Unbelievable”

Pyongyang, December 19 (KCNA) — Kim Jong Il, general secretary of the Workers’ Party of Korea, chairman of the DPRK National Defence Commission and supreme commander of the Korean People’s Army, passed away from a great mental and physical strain at 08:30 December 17, 2011, on train during a field guidance tour.

His picture makes everyone feel pangs of compunction as he made long journey of field guidance, going in his field jacket all his life.

He had inconvenient naps and simple rice-balls in cars or on trains while making the journey of field guidance for the country’s prosperity and people’s happy life, not even taking a day off.

Mourners cried in chocking voices, “General, you have had pain only for people all your life”, “How can you, General, pass away so early leaving us behind?”, “We have not fulfilled our obligation”.

They are shedding bitter tears, their knees on the ground, as they courageously weathered out stern adversities, trusting him only and holding him in high esteem as the sun of destiny and father.

They are throwing themselves into each other’s arms and wailing over his death, saying it was just a few days ago when they saw him full of bean.

They are getting the paved stones drenched with tears, feeling so regrettable as they can no longer see him whose smile was as broad as sunshine.

“Let us work harder”-this is the call they are shouting from the bottom of their hearts.

Saying he considered the people’s joy as his pleasure and happiness, he visited a lot of units related to the improvement of the standard of people’s living including the Meat and Fish Shop in Pothongmun Street, Pothonggang Shop, the shop producing wheat cakes stuffed with meat of the Kumsong Foodstuff Factory and the commodity exhibition of Pyongyang Department Store No. 1.

Workers of the February 8 Vinalon Complex, the Hungnam Fertilizer Complex and the Ryongsong Machine Complex called Kim Jong Il in chocking voices again and again, showing the vinalon fiber, a heap of fertilizers and latest geothermal facilities which pleased him so much.

Standing in the van of the Korean revolution at present is Kim Jong Un, great successor to the revolutionary cause of Juche and outstanding leader of our party, army and people.

Who is the last laughter? No one in the world can beat the man ready to die. With such pluck and gut Kim Jong Il made trips to inspect the front.

—

All sentences copied verbatim from Korean Central News Agency of Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, December 17-21, 2011 Juche 100.

On a warm green planet spinning around a minor Antares sister star, there lives a race of intelligent beings. They think, communicate, and scheme. Their technology is so sublime that any human being witnessing it could only comprehend it as magic. As do all advanced technological species, this race has a sense of humor tending toward the cruel. They do not refer to themselves by any name, so we’ll have to call them Zees.

Looking through the meson scope, Zee One spots our cool blue globe. Zee One thinks, “Check out these entities! Some technology they have, some art they have, but gullible, yes?”

Zee Two squints through the scope. Zee Two thinks, “Gullible, yes.”

Zee One thinks, “Of course they are. They believe that an abstract, all-encompassing, all-loving, all-knowing Entity created them. And they further believe that they can communicate directly with Him.”

Zee One and Zee Two have the same thought at the same time. Zee Two grabs his protonizer and follows Zee One into the warp chamber.

They arrive at Earth as you are walking through the forest, enjoying the splendor of creation around you. Zee Two hides behind a tree and zaps Zee One with the protonizer. When you come upon Zee One, he is a familiar form: a bearded figure of infinite patience and love, in glowing white robes, perhaps with man-made scars in his hands and feet.

“I have returned!” says Zee One. Zee Two stifles a huge cackle.

“Odd,” you say. “You don’t look exactly the way I expected my Deity to look.”

“But the Deity I am!” Zee One retorts. “Behold!”

Zee Two spins his protonizer on a nearby stream and the water hisses and bubbles until it becomes a jolly little river of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

“An excellent vintage,” you say, “but I am not quite convinced that you are my Deity.”

Zee Two turns his protonizer on a clump of fallen branches. The branches wiggle into life, and become a twisty mass of black snakes. The snakes wiggle and hiss, spinning themselves in the air to lift and support one another. They form themselves into the letters HE’S REALLY GOD, with an earthworm representing the apostrophe.

“Your snakes spell precisely,” you say, “but I am not quite convinced that you are my Deity.”

Zee Two points his protonizer heavenwards as Zee One beckons convincingly. As you watch, the sky turns blood-red as clouds of methane streak across the horizon. The sun is blotted out as forks of green lightning crash overhead. As the sun goes, utter darkness instantly falls across the forest. Zee One holds the darkness for a few seconds for the correct dramatic effect, then in a microsecond, restores the sky to day blue.

“I was blind but now I see,” you say, blinking a little, “but I am not quite convinced that you are my Deity.”

You are in the forest, enjoying the splendor of creation around you, in the presence of a being that may or may not be your Deity.

And so I ask you: how can you determine your truth?

And so I ask you: when you leave the forest and tell us your story, how can you convince us that what you experienced was true?

Recently, I’ve been reading Grimm Fairy Tales to get to sleep. Here’s a new story for you in their style. Like all fairy tales, half is new and two-thirds is borrowed.

—

“Pasalo and Shala”

There was a handsome and hardworking farm boy. Because his hair was bright as gold, he was called Pasalo (“gold-headed boy”). Pasalo woke one morning to hear beautiful singing. As he went to the road, he saw a pretty girl singing while she carried pails of milk to town. Pasalo went to her. Her name was Shala (“nightingale”), and her pails were heavy, and she sang to lighten the load. Pasalo carried her pails for her. After walking a mile or two, they fell in love, and Pasalo promised to marry Shala.

Whereupon an enchantress swooped down upon them, bearing a gilded bird cage. She had heard Shala singing too. The enchantress raised her dark cloak and turned Shala into a nightingale; and the enchantress stole the nightingale into her cage. The enchantress cursed Pasalo, and he was frozen as stone, and could not move. The enchantress flew away, and Pasalo collapsed, free of the curse.

“I will bring my love back,” thought Pasalo. He got his pitchfork and went to the great dark castle on the hill where the enchantress lived. Through the top window he could hear the nightingale singing in the gilded cage. A great gargoyle perched on top of the castle. Pasalo attacked it with the pitchfork. The gargoyle laughed, snapped the pitchfork easily between his teeth, and pressed Pasalo to the ground with one claw. The gargoyle said, “You may not enter the castle unless you show me the most beautiful thing in the world.” He let Pasalo up. Sad and beaten, Pasalo walked down the hill.

As Pasalo returned to his farm, he spied a wise old fox, fainted from pain and hunger. “The enchantress has injured me,” said the fox. “Heal me, and I will help you.” Pasalo fed the fox chicken and let him heal in his bed. When the fox was well, the fox bowed and said, “How may your love be returned?”

Pasalo said, “The gargoyle said, I may not enter the castle unless I show it the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Ah,” said the fox. “It has never been done before, but it may be done yet. You must first find the place where water turns to air. Then, you must pass the unpassable door. There, you will find the most beautiful thing in the world.” Pasalo asked the fox what he meant, but the fox sprang out the window and ran away.

For many years, Pasalo searched for a place where water turns to air. He searched many countries, many towns and many forests, but he could find no such place. He endured many misfortunes, and his hair turned from gold to silver and then to gold again with the effort. At last, when he could go no further, he collapsed by the top of a waterfall. “I shall never find the place where the water turns to air,” said Pasalo.

Pasalo looked over the cliff, and found that he had walked all the way to the edge of the earth. Pasalo watched as the river drifted off the earth, and the water cascaded into infinite sky, and the river came to reform as clouds above the earth. “Is this the place the fox spoke of?” said Pasalo.

Pasalo was dry, so he put his face in the river to drink. As he did so, underneath the surface of the water, he could see clearly. Upside down, he saw an underground cave. He climbed through the water’s surface, pulled himself onto a ledge, and stood. Pasalo saw an underground passageway. A river flowed at his feet, the sun shone brightly through the river, and the light danced on the cavern ceiling.

“I can breathe in here,” said Pasalo, “and thus have I seen water turn to air!” Pasalo followed the river of light until he came to a small shore of sand before a great hewn wall. There was a single door in the wall. On the door, in red, were the following letters:

THE UNPASSABLE DOOR.

“Not unpassable for me,” said Pasalo, but though he beat, shoved and pried at the door, it would not move a bit. Pasalo slumped on the sand, dejected. As he sat on the sand, he could see a faint light under the door. Pasalo said, “If I might not pass through it, I might pass under it,” and dug sand from under the door. At last he removed enough that he could slide himself underneath the door.

When Pasalo emerged, he saw a vast and rich treasure room with every imaginable kind of wealth: rubies, emeralds and diamonds as big as porcupines, beds and sheets and linens spun of pure gold, encrusted crowns and swords and staves, each one more exquisite than the last. “Everything here is a wonder, and there are so many wonders here,” said Pasalo. “How can I possibly choose the most beautiful thing?” As he said this he spied a single tulip growing in a patch in the corner. A single droplet of dew sparkled from the center of the tulip. As Pasalo took the flower, a spell lifted and all the jewels and fineries were revealed as rocks and wood.

“All my treasures are vanished,” said Pasalo, “but at least I have this.” Pasalo went back under the impassable door, through the river of light at the edge of the world, and over many many miles to the dark castle on the hill.

The gargoyle glowered at him. “You may not enter the castle unless you show me the most beautiful thing in the world.”

Pasalo showed the beautiful tulip with the droplet of dew. The gargoyle laughed and said, “I tell you to show me the most beautiful thing in the world, and you show me a simple common flower?”

Pasalo said, “No. I have travelled far and wide over many years, and I have seen the edge of the earth. I have traversed the place where water turns to air, and passed the impassable door. I have rejected every earthly treasure to find this tulip and bring it here, but not to you. Please give it to Shala the nightingale on my behalf, and tell her that I love her, and always will.” Whereupon the gargoyle bowed deeply and permitted Pasalo to enter.

Pasalo ran to the top window. He saw the dark enchantress dangle the gilded cage out of the window with one arm, with Shala the nightingale therein. “If you come at me, I’ll dash your nightingale to the rocks below,” said the enchantress, “and that will be the end of your true love.” Whereupon, from outside the window, the gargoyle seized the cage and the enchantress’s arm with it, and pulled them both outside the window. The enchantress swang from the teeth of the gargoyle. The gargoyle gave a small chomp, and the enchantress (less one arm) fell twenty stories to the sharp rocks below. As she died, the sun lifted, and roses climbed the walls of the castle.

Pasalo despaired of Shala the nightingale in the jaws of the gargoyle, when the gargoyle placed his great head in the window and smiled. Through his teeth stepped Shala. The curse was lifted, and she was as beautiful as the day when Pasalo first saw her. They were married and lived happily in the castle with the great gargoyle guarding them; the last I heard, the three live there still.