Turkeys are from India?

It has always bothered me that turkeys (the bird) has the same name as Turkey (the country) but, like most things, I just let it go. But today, inspired by the sight of a young family of turkeys in the backyard (the rafter of turkeys pictured below) , I did a little internet research. Turns out that the British thought the bird from North America resembled a different bird that had been imported into Europe from Turkey for years.

The "Indian" peoples (Native Americans) I always knew were misnamed because Columbus et. al. thought they had made it to India, but I had never made the association with the French word for the American turkey (dinde = d'inde = from India). At least the French were consistently incorrect: all that foreign exotic stuff must be from India!

If only we hadn't started talking to the Native Americans, we might be calling the tomato (derived from Aztec word for wolf peach) an "Indian peach" (or would it be a "Turkish peach"?)

Nerd Club

A few years ago, Irene and I were attending a wedding in Colorado. We were staying in one of those big hotels that hosts conventions as well as weddings. We were giving a lift to a couple other guests when I was pulling into the hotel parking lot. A sign in front of the hotel said "Welcome Vector Marketing Corp!"

Irene said "Hmmm, I wonder what they do?" and I responded,

"I dunno what they do, but I know that they used to be called Scalar Marketing Corp but they felt the company lacked direction."

She laughed, I laughed and our two guests in the back (not in the club) asked "What's funny about that?"

Mellencamp, Daoism, and La Strada

“A little ditty about Gelsomina and Zampano
Two Italian kids doing the best they can

Zampano, he treats her like a strumpet
She don’t speak much, but plays a mean trumpet

Breakin’ chains with his bare chest
Kind of like a mean dog, his animal side is best
He don’t think he loves her much
When he finds out she’s dead, oh what a punch

Oh yeah life goes on
Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone
Oh yeah life goes on
Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone

Gonna get a rock
Let it roll
Let me push it forever like Sisyphus
Hold on to The Way as long as you can
Changes come around real soon
Make us deader than dead”

Apologies to Fellini and Mellencamp

Sometimes a drink is just an egg sandwich

Years ago, my good buddy PK and I were heading out to a fancy restaurant in Shadyside (Pittsburgh). All day long we had been craving a martini. A good ole classic James Bond martini. This place had good martinis and when we took our seats, PK pounced on the waiter: "Martini, please!"

The waiter, very serious, took out his note pad and proceeded to ask:

"Neat or on the rocks?"

"Shaken or stirred?"

"Gin or Vermouth?"

"Beefeater or Tanqueray?"

"Dry or Wet?"

"Olives or with a twist?"

The waiter paused after each question to write down the response. All the while, PK looked more and more distressed until finally, after the waiter had left, he turned to me and said "was that guy pulling my leg or was he serious?"

I just ordered a beer.

I hadn't thought of that incident in years, but it popped into my head the other day when my wife was making an egg sandwich for my Dad and asked such a litany of questions (whole wheat or white, runny yolk or firm, with ham or without, with cheese or without, etc.) that I felt the recipient would no longer enjoy the sandwich. I then told her the PK story above as if I had had it on my mind everyday for the past 15 years and it was of great import. She looked at me as if I were crazy. Which I probably am, but I feel there is a kernel of truth in here somewhere; lurking about waiting to be elucidated. When I figure it out, I'll let you know.

Like grandaughter like grandfather

Years ago, my Dad used to smoke a pipe.
It was his way of getting away from everything and pondering. If you called out to him, there would be a long pause like he was coming from far away and then he would remove the pipe and respond.

My daughter drinks from a sippy cup.

She will go to a quiet room and lie down and suck the juice or milk down absent mindedly while pondering. When you call out to her, there is a pause and then a sucking sound as she releases the pressure. Then she calls out "I'm over here" as if the 'here' were far away and yet close at the same time...

E-piph-a-ny

"3. a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience. " (dictionary.com)

Escaping from the other adults in the Macaroni Grill, the kids and I escape to watch other little ones play in a fountain. Seized with a sense of purpose, I hoist both kids in the air, squeeze them tightly to either side. We three gaze at the jets of water shooting skyward, the other frolicing kids, and the fading sun. I feel it.

(picture is from a few days later on the beach, but captures the feel of the moment)

Entropy

Entropy Demo Instructions:

1. Tell 4 cousins to line up in order of height and stand straight

2. Have Irene take one photo every 5 seconds

3. Done

The "Wen" cousins:

Timothy (5), Isabelle (3), Erin (3), & Sebastien (1)

Topsy Turvy

Do you like your planets clockwise or counter-clockwise?

Viewed from "above" the North Pole, the Earth rotates CCW. But viewed from "above" the South Pole, our planet rotates CW. "Above" and "Below" are meaningless once we leave the surface of the planet. There is no "up" or "down" in space!

So why is it that we always picture the North Pole as "above" and the South Pole as "Below"? Cultural baggage, I say! North=down, South=up, East=left, and West=right is just as good as what we're used to!

(thanks to an old West Wing episode that turned me onto this idea years ago)

Joseph Campbell, The Cure, and Camus

A few year back I was listening to a lecture (on a CD) on Buddhism by Joseph Campbell: "you are not your thoughts: think about your random thoughts and suppress them. Then ponder the inner observer of your own thoughts and try to quell that as well." (I'm paraphrasing from a distant memory, this is the best link I found that seems to echo the lecture)

I then turned on the radio (or switched CDs?) and caught the 1978 Cure classic "Killing an Arab" and was struck with a new perspective on Camus' "The Stranger". The novel has always been strangely haunting despite what I would consider a weak plot and and a flat writing style.

Suddenly it now seemed to me that the power of "L'Etranger" was that there were two main characters, not one as I had always assumed. In addition to the narrator, there is his own inner observer of his own thoughts. (or maybe the narrator is the inner observer? - I need to reread the novel). Does the novel haunt me because Camus is prodding us to contemplate our inner observer as distinct from the rest of our "engaged" personality? Camus is asking us "what is the self?" just like the Buddhist meditation does.