Field & Stream

Some of you may be aware that about a year ago, I began receiving (out of the blue) the hunting and fishing magazine Field & Stream. I did not order this subscription, and no one has stepped forward to claim themselves as the gift giver. At this point, I'd like to think it's God.

(I also began to, mysteriously, receive Outside magazine; but Outside magazine has about as much to do with being outside as my mom, so I won't waste my time with it. It takes a direct route from my mailbox to my recycling bin, giving me just enough time to chuckle at the ridiculous cover and shake my head at the "exotic" places I could go to have an "adventure", if only I made 200K a year.)

It may seem odd that I have fallen in love with Field and Stream, but this love runs deeper than a man's love for his huntin' dogs. I have "The Best Ammo" issue, July 2007, nailed to my wall. I keep the rest of the issues in a neat pile, prominently displayed, in chronological order. Twice, I have thought my subscription had ended because its delivery was delayed and I felt a deep sense of loss. From Field & Stream I have learned many things: how socks can save your life, how to survive an unexpected night in the cold, which fishing line to use, which decoy to use depending on where we're at in turkey huntin' season, and, most importantly, how to get that bull.

I read every issue cover to cover. Why am I any different than any other avid Field & Stream reader? Because I am vegan and have never been hunting in my life. I have fished exactly twice and it was in my friend's backyard pond in Floyd, Virginia. So, what binds me to Field & Stream? What caused me to whimper yesterday when I received this month's issue and around it's sweet cover was another cover that said: This Is The Last Issue, unless I renew my subscription?

Because the readers and writers of Field & Stream and I share a common bond: a very real love and respect for open land and its animal inhabitants. Hunters are our most powerful conservationists in many ways. When they band together, they get things done on a government level, which is where our wilderness most needs protecting. They are intelligent and thoughtful people (and overwhelmingly woman-friendly). They are educators. They have the lands best interest in mind, if for no other reason than if our open lands disappear, they will have nowhere to hunt. But their motives are more altruistic than that: issue after issue is filled with stories of hunters and anglers working to preserve, conserve, educate, and rescue. And that is inspiring.

There is a house. In New Orleans.

It started out fairly benign. I bought a truck and it had a tape deck. I bought some tapes and one was Lynard Skynard. I enjoyed this tape very much. But no more than my Krafwerk or my Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard.

Then I innocently began listening to the classic rock station. They played the Who. I like the Who. Things were still ok.

Then I started looking forward to getting into my truck. Maybe some CCR would be on. Maybe I'd get to sing "Sweet Home Alabama." So what, that I was calling people just because Rush was on the radio. So what? What does it matter if I found myself sitting in parking lots before going into the building, for just "one more song".

Do I have a problem? A classic-rock addiction? Could that even be a problem?

So, I wake up and put Cream on the turntable. Have you really listened to their bass lines lately? Well, maybe you should.

So, I make some lunch and throw some Thin Lizzy on. It is HARD being a black Irish man, and I feel that.

Do I now think classic rock is the essence of real America? Yes.

Do I see vortexes on the highway while driving? Yes.

Is this a problem? No.

So, if you need me, I'll be at the Hotel California. Such a lovely place.

woof = dog tired

This hippo is very tired. She has wandered off from her pod and found many stacks of papers with strange words (not cited).

But fear not, soon these papers will disappear, and she will freely wander to and fro. Until then, she may let Zusje, the hound (see above), take over. She's (Zusje) got nothing better to do.


Cheers.

I Love Everyone

Today, I am an especially content member of the Pod. This is surprising, since I had to wake up at quarter to eight (I much prefer eleven). What got me out of bed? Well, it was neither the cold nor the rain, nor the prospect of a very busy day. No, what got this hippo out of bed was: the dance.

Yes, my thrice-a-week, nine a.m. dance class began today. Sadly, we did not dance. This confused me. But I did, since we did not dance, get out early and therefore have time to go to the gym and row (my other obsession) before going to my job. Post-gym and pre-job, whilst drinking coffee, I realized I was euphoric. And this feeling has continued. My sullenness from last night has discontinued until further notice, and this is great!

I have nothing more to say beyond just this: thanks guys, for being radical.

More later.

Book Clubs, Voting Polls, and, well, Hippos (again)

Kelsey (see Welcome To The Pod post comments) asked what it takes to be social, and it's a good question. So, I'm taking an opinion poll. Here is what I would like to hear your opinion on:

What, exactly, makes an animal social?


I propose willing (meaningful?) interaction, meaning hippos can travel in pods all they want and still be alone, still baffle those who study them (can we get a name for them?) as to their social/non-social habits.

If I am in the city, on the subway, surrounded by the other members of the public transportation pod, but feeling none too friendly, and certainly not un-alone, am I still social? Someone I used to see told me what someone else had told him: The key to living in a large city is to learn to be alone among the throngs. This, I feel, the hippo has learned.


To change the topic but still maintain the thread of book clubs and interaction, yesterday I discovered this: this

It is a link to the Penn Sound author list. Move your little cursor over any of those poets' names and you will instantly be taken to a further list of live recordings of their various readings. How awesome is this? Pretty awesome.

The Face-Off: ShortD* vs. P*

It hurts me, just a little. Today. And the carrying on. But it must be done.

So, I deliver, as promised: the reasons and benefits of using short-dick in place of pussy.

1. Someone is commonly referred to as a "pussy" when they are, or have been, exhibiting signs of weakness, whining, wimpery, and wallowing. Why is this, when.....

2. Pussies, for those in the know, are in no way weak, whiny, wimpy, or wallow-inclined. Pussies pick themselves up by the boot straps. They carry on! They are tough, even when they are in pain. Which leads to...

3. Do you have a pussy? Then you would know the amount of pain, discomfort, and general beating a pussy can take and still maintain its luster and appeal. Can a short-dick do that? Let's see...

4. The answer is: no. The short-dick gets no merits. It only gets shorter when whipped. It does not carry on or get the job done no matter the circumstances. Since you are supposedly calling into question a person's strength, resolve, and vim-vigor in the face of adversity, calling them a pussy simply is not fitting (see above). Calling them a short-dick is much more apt. It is much more of a slap in the face to question someone's "manhood" by directly challenging it, as opposed to pegging it with a name it can never know. It is, if you will, a dick-slap in the face. Much more effective, no? (It should be noted that calling a woman a pussy in a pejorative sense just makes absolutely no sense whatsoever so I am not going to discuss that aspect here.)


With that, I encourage all to replace the pejorative pussy with the pejorative short-dick. Is someone not coming out tonight because they're too "tired". Short-dick. Did someone get hit with the ball a little too hard in kickball and is now pouting and rubbing their arm? Short-dick.

You get the picture. Now employ it.

hYsTeRiCaL

Dear English Language,

Ah, the wandering/wondering mind. Where are you taking us?


Previously this week, as two young men made cables at my kitchen table using a heat gun (hot enough to cook your cookies!) and heat shrink, I regaled them from my golden armchair (no, it really is gold) with my latest linguistic traipse-tromp-tramp. And here it is:


Ruminating upon hysteria, and the notion that it is often used (or was, in the time of rest cures) to refer to the woman's-craze, I wanted to know if that had any viable linguistic foundation, or if "hysteria" had just been ascribed to women because we are, well, "hysterical".

It turns out that both are true. I will provide you with the etymology and definitions, and then explain what I think is going on here.

hysteric etymology: L. hystericus "of the womb," from Gk. hysterikos "of the womb, suffering in the womb," from hystera “womb”; ad. L. hysteric-us, ad. Gr. belonging to the womb, suffering in the womb, hysterical (f. womb)
hysterical 1. Of, pertaining to, or characteristic of hysteria; affected with or suffering from hysteria. 2. transf. and fig. Characterized by convulsive emotion or excitement such as marks
hysteria; morbidly emotional or excited.

note: hysteria came from hysteric which also lead to hysterical

The root of all this, hysteric, does indeed pertain to women, or rather, the womb (a common and unique possession of women). Note that it not only has to do with the womb in general, but more speficially, "suffering in the womb".

That's all well and good. But how, then, do we get from that rather benign word to the damning implication of hysteria and its adjective state of being hysterical? Even if it began as a simple way to describe a woman's cries of pain during cramping or childbirth or uterine cyst, what have you, it still somehow became a way to label these cries as crazy or abnormal --- "convulsive emotion" and "morbidly emotional or excited" --- as opposed to what it actually was or is: a natural reaction to a womanly state of being. For example, if I cry out, I who possess a womb, in an excitable or seemingly exaggerated way, I am hysterical, not! acting within reason (mind you) but outside of it; at least, according to the English language. For those of you who think the language we use does not in some way shape our perception of people, places, and things (nouns!), perhaps this will jog your mind to consider.

In the end, at the end of the day, and allthingsconsidered, this could be seen as negative or damning, but I am choosing to embrace this linguistic evolution with a grain of woman-salt.

Signed,
We Who Invented Hysteria


next up: why and how i am working to replace the pejorative "pussy" with the more apt "short dick"