Dishes or Towels?

Tripp protests that his laundry marathon should eclipse my dishwashing (and others’!) for Blogarian renown. Shucks, that’s okay with me — if Tripp really thinks that laundry should elbow dishes out of the spotlight, why we dishwashers are a classy enough bunch to move aside. And hey, if the screaming fans and autograph hounds follow the glamorous sudsmongers wielding Dishmatiques, then that’s just the vox populi.

Joe: tell us how to tell bad poetry from good, and make the connection to theology. This will be excellent.

Si compares his online gig at UBlog with his day job at Seabury — and UBlog comes out pretty well. Thanks, kid!

And just in time for orientation at Seabury: Sex in the Seminary (the long way round, courtesy of stavrostwc).

There was another copyright article in there somewhere, bu tI lost it. That means it’s bedtime.

Take That, Hilary Rosen

At a certain point, these stories become redundant; how many times do people have to demonstrate that file-trading doesn’t put musicians out of work? Today, Wilco (thanks, Margaret) and the somewhat less-well-known Brobdingnagian Bards (thanks, Jenny) testify that mp3s do not kill the market for packaged recordings of music.

I have yet to see reason to think that the Industries are not nearly so afraid of losing money to digital media as they are utterly terrified of changing their business models. Napster or no, they’ll make their thirty pieces of silver, and pass along the pence to the musicians. If they have to change business as usual, though, they may have to come up with something other than the present thinly-disguised payola system, and devising something new involves a risk of failure (for which even a music industry executive might be held responsible).

What’s Goin’ On

This address has been a shade less active than usual the last few days, in part because we’ve been trying to keep a firm hand on the rudder at home since Margaret came home from her travels with an enlarged thyroid—a really enlarged thyroid. When we took her in for tests last week, the lab called up her doctor in the middle of the night, and the doctor called in a prescription immediately and arranged for us to see a top local endocrinologist.

Anyway, it turns out that Margaret does indeed have Grave’s disease. That’s not a huge problem, though the scale of the problem seems to have been unusual. The catch for us is that it’s her second autoimmune problem; she also has celiac sprue, a disease of the digestive system. Our endocrinologist suggested that having two autoimmune diseases did raise the odds—and the stakes—relative to other possible breakdowns.

Again, thyroid problems are very common, affecting about one in ten people (the vast preponderance of them women). We can manage this. It’s the looking over our shoulders at whatever else might be happening that gets spooky.

Trend-setter at the Sink

Yeah, sure now everybody’s blogging about doing dishes. Well, I don’t begrudge you all the pleasure of writing out the ecstatic buzz one derives from that last spray of rinsewater around the sink; once you get the excitement of the post-purification euphoria, it’s tough to kick the habit. Myself, I washed up after we hosted dinner for nine this evening—though I shared the joy with Jennifer, on whom I have to keep a watchful eye lest she usurp my joy in cleansing.
’Specially now that she’s experienced the joy of a Dishmatique.

Next Year’s Summer Blockbuster

A smooth-talking African-American convict escapes from jail and embarks on a quest to track down the mysterious head of a racist transnational corporation who stole the affections of his wife by means of hypnotic drugs. Along the way, he and his companions encounter a variety of characters drawn from classical mythology and early-70’s blaxploitation movies. A funky soundtrack featuring urban roots music will underscore the outrageous plot, the eccentric characters, and the gently insistent political undertones of the film.
Title: “Undercover Brother, Where Art Thou?”

Minority Report Report

Before I get to the movie, I will observe that the trip to Gurnee went all right this morning. It’s a pretty high-church parish (the Rev. Edgar Wells was once their rector) which suits me just right, but as is so often the case with high-church parishes, they weren’t entirely prepared to communicate their particular liturgical observances with a hit-and-run priest. Everything went fine, but not perfectly. The sermon was well received.
After I collapsed in a heap to nap for the afternoon, I went to the store for Margaret, ate a delicious dinner of gluten-free quiche (with a crust you could never tell was gluten-free if you didn’t already know), washed dishes, and then we headed to the Evanston Megaplex (which is why I haven’t had time to blog today).

The movie does an excellent job of keeping your adrenalin pumping steadily enough to divert attention from the plot holes, which are probably not so much “holes” as the inevitable problems that arise in change-the-course-of-time plots. Tom Cruise was no more irritating than usual, and the other players actually acted. The overtones of the Patriot Act sounded clearly, to my satisfaction.

What I most liked about the movie, though, was that it took the premise from Philip K Dick’s story and fleshed it out richly, strengthening a number of elements that often remain thin in Dick’s fiction, and also retained some very Dickian touches (the absolutely intolerable advertisements that call out your name as you pass were spot on — though as Nate pointed out, in Dick’s fiction they would never have been shilling for actual companies). On the other hand, the particular ending brought too glib a Hollywood resolution to Dick’s vision; I don’t remember that kind of ending from his story (though I have terrible recall of individual works of his, so I may just be confused).

In all, a good job and worth having seen. And I was glad to be making some kind of contribution to the Dick estate—though I’d rather have put the money into the pocket of the writer when he was living. I used to haunt bookstores to get copies of everything of his I could find, every edition of every book; I sold my collection off at Books Do Furnish a Room in Durham when I decided that a Philip K. Dick collection was too costly, too space-intensive, and too idiosyncratic a hobby for me.
Now I have a couple of the hardbacks, a smattering of paperbacks and books-about-Dick, and the habit of pushing Nate and Si to read all the books I can foist on them.

Dave Rogers Music Alert: “There’s a Touch,” the Proclaimers (the acoustic version from their website); “Highway Patrolman,” Dar Williams; “Repo Man,” Iggy Pop (nice random juxtaposition); “Carry Me Away,” Indigo Girls; “Round Midnight,” Miles Davis; “No Love for Free,” Joan Armatrading.

End of the Day

The sermon is now finished, such as it is, with time for me catch seven hours of sleep before the 6:40 AM departure time for Gurnee (if you want to catch a ride, be here early; Jennifer and Margaret are rolling out with me, so we only have three or four empty seats). Time to walk Bea, Fierce Warrior Puppy, and crash.

Dave Rogers Music Alert:“Egoverride,” Bob Mould.

Wish I’d Said

If I were perpetuating the discussion of hermeneutics, I’d point to what Marek just wrote in a parable. He and Des (scroll down, the link parable appears toward the bottom of the page) both respond, appropriately, to questions about meaning by telling stories.

The Winner Is

Well, I’m the winner, because my external hard drives are now harmonious with occasional sleeping by my CPU. But the winner of the “helpful advice to AKMA” sweepstakes was KevinmediAgoraMarks, who casually asked whether my drivers were up to date. “Of course,” I thought, “I installed the drivers when my last drive arrived, that was, err, four or five months ago.” Ah, but how old was the model of the drive? And did I check the company website?

Now I have. Thanks, Kevin.

I wrote half a sermon at Kim’s this afternoon, but I’m not sure it’ll work into a full sermon. I don’t see the hook. But it was good to sit down and write stuff on deadline, and I have tomorrow for some writing, too.

DMRA:“Treachery,” Kirsty MacColl; “I 76,” G. Love and Special Sauce

Twelve Years of Accessibility

Or at least, “twelve years of a government act intended to bring about accessibility.” The Americans with Disabilities Act was passed twelve years ago today, despite the efforts of iron-hearted “compassionate conservatives” and the mockery of commentators content to cash in on a cheap laugh at the expense of blind or deaf or wheelchair-bound jobseekers. We have a long way to go (I know this blog isn’t accessible), but we can no more afford to ignore the exclusion based on mobility or audition or visual perception than we can on the basis of race or religion or affection. We mustn’t stop now.