Halloween 2007

It's just past 10pm, and it looks like the tricksters-or-treatsters are done for the evening. This was my first Halloween in my house, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect, volume-wise. I bought five bags of candy, figuring I'd have more than enough, which is better than running out.

My usual thing is to get a variety, and let the kids pick. I'd been told by my neighbors not to expect a huge number of kids, so from the outset I let them take two pieces each. A couple of the younger kids only took one. What amazed me was that one of them, fairly late in the tricking-or-treating, actually commented that he only needed one.

I'm not sure if I should despair of this generation.

Metapost: Metainformation

Think of this as housekeeping, but without the pine-fresh scent.

If you're a loyal (or at least grudging) reader, ask yourself these two questions:

1. "Have I submitted anything to the request line?"
2. "Have I told at least one other person, who probably doesn't know Mike, about this blog?"

When a Fish is not a Grape

There is a common etymological misconception that the phrase "puppy dog eyes" traces its origins to 1957 at Wilmington, Delaware's Camp Wanahakalugee, a summer camp frequented primarily by the children of employees of the Dupont Corporation. The story was that a particularly bad growing season resulted in a crop of white grapes that were somewhat lacking in firmness. This unfortunate texture, when combined with the natural tendencies of the pre-teen mind, was supposed to have led campers to begin referring to these grapes, often included with the camp's lunch or as an appetizer before afteroon tea, as the aforementioned immature canine ocular organs.

The prevalence of this explanation is such that a recent random sampling of linguists found that an astonishing 97% of them believe this to be the correct origin of the expression. It is, nevertheless, incorrect, as the true origin comes not from the monied solsticial juvenile boarding institutions of the Eastern Seaboard, but rather from the arboreal recesses of Appalachia.

A young lad, along with his faithful hound, was fishing one day in an eastern-Tennessee creek. The dog, as well as the boy's fishing gear, were piled into the go-cart with which the boy had recently won the Sevier County Non-Motorized Downhill Race and First-Aid Training Course, his Radio Flyer wagon being in the shop at the time for a transmission rebuild. As luck would have it, the only fish biting that day were mud puppies, but their size was made up for by their number, and as evening approached the go-cart was nearly full.

The boy loaded the rest of his gear and the hound into the go-cart, and began pulling it towards home. While rounding a bend in the road, he glanced back and saw that his dog had been gorging on the mud puppies. Intending to scold the animal, the boy turned, at the same time letting go of the cart. Owing to the slight downward slope of the road, and the quality with which the go-cart was constructed, the cart immediately began to roll under gravity's influence, quickly reaching speeds well beyond the boy's capacity to keep pace.

Eventually, of course, the go-cart rolled to a stop, coincidentally not far from the center of town. The hound, both frightened from its ordeal and queasy from the mud puppies sitting uneasily in its stomach, began to exhibit signs of digestive discomfort. Much to the consternation of the gathered townsfolk, the hound began vomitting up the fish it had eaten.

Oddly, the most distinguishable feature of the mud puppies in mid-digestion were their eyes. The sight of the distressed hound and the fish eyes was by far the saddest thing any of the onlookers had ever seen, resulting in the expression "as sad as mud puppy eyes" gaining currency in the local vernacular. Over time, the most common usage was to refer to something pitiable by comparison with "mud puppy eyes". The expression spread to neighboring areas, and as it was employed increasingly be people having little or no familiarity with the origin, it was further shortened to "puppy eyes". The transformation to the phrase as currently known (with the earliest recorded instance being in a 1963 op-ed piece in the New York Times) derives from a misunderstanding of its origin.

The veracity of this origin for the phrase "puppy dog eyes" is established by the fortunate coincidence that a now-anonymous local was, at the time, recording local footage with his recently purchased Sears Roebuck home video camera. The audio, while somewhat faint, clearly establishes a prototypical form of the original expression. The video, for its part, while grainy, still conveys enough detail that you would likely not want to watch it on a big-screen TV.

The hound, for its part, was ultimately none the worse for wear for its ordeal. Local lore has it that it was extremely repentant of its actions, and subsequently refused to eat seafood.

In Honor of "Talk Like a Pirate Day" We Present "Write Like a Pirate Day"

liusadhyfv 3 37y vfro87 873 yvro87resygf 43 87o o87v343 87f3 vr o8v3q7oq o87fds liufhv lksdh 43q 3

[Note: Most pirates were illiterate. Me hearties.]

My Dinner with Danger

I was sitting at the bar at Johnny Spatula's, getting stewed on scotch with bourbon chasers. The door opened, basting the place in dusty daylight, which was odd, since I didn't expect anyone but me to be drinking at eight in the morning. I blanched as a meaty hand landed on my shoulder, spinning me around on my barstool like a rotisserie chicken. My worst fears gelatinized when I found myself staring at the ugly mug of Rocco Gelato.

"I shoulda known I'd find you here, Sam," he growled, "spending the money you owe me on the sauce." Rocco was a tough egg. He was real hard-boiled, over-boiled, and he looked almost boiled over. But I knew he was just steamed about the clams. I knew I'd have to feed him some half-baked excuse, I just had to hope he'd swallow it.

"Simmer down, Rocco. I'm working on a big case, a real tought nut, but it'll be a couple days before it's cracked." It was all a lie, of course; I didn't even have anything on the back burner, but it was enough to extract a grunt from Rocco, who left after one or two muddled threats.

I caught a cab that whisked me back to my office, where I could hone my anxiety over what that masher Rocco would do to me if I couldn't pay up. There was a wrap on the door, and in walked a leggy tomato in a lime-green blouse and a wine skirt that looked like it'd been reduced by half. She may have had bad taste, but at least she didn't have much of it. "My name is Bree Souffle, Mr. Trivet, and I'd like to employ your services."

"Have a seat, Ms. Souffle," I said, gesturing to an empty chair, "You look like you're about to collapse. Now, what's cooking?"

"It's my fiance, Ned Shanks. It turns out he was playing me for a fool all along, and the engagement was just a recipe for him to get his hands on my inheritance. I don't want the publicity I'd get by going to the police, so there's a thousand dollars in boullion for you if you can get my money back discreetly." A grand would square me with Rocco, with gravy in the mix, so I said I'd take the case.

If Shanks was on the lam with that kind of dough, I knew there was only one guy who could give me a lead. As I walked to where I figured I'd find him, my wool suit had me in a sweat in the 90 degree weather. I was braised like a ham hock, but at least I knew I'd be bringing home the bacon.

A couple of boring days of chasing down leads and getting my jaw broken, it looked like I was in the soup when I finally tracked Shanks down to the waterfront. "Give it up, Shanks," I said, "Return Bree's inheritance, and I'll let you cheese it."

"Why should I?" he replied, "You've got less on me than a kosher deli has ham."

"You forget, I've got this Magnum, and it's pointed right at that cabbage of yours," I reminded him.

"Baloney. You shoot that thing, and the cops will be crawling over this place like ants on a picnic basket." His tone was defiant, but I could see in his eye that he was waffling.

"Let them; Sam Trivet can handle the heat. Besides, I'll just tell them it was self-preserving."

"You're not getting the money, and this conversation is getting rather bland," he sneered, his self-assuredness steeling, so I peppered him with bullets. They say you've got to season to taste, and I've always been partial to hot lead. Now Bree's back rolling in dough, Rocco's got his bread, and there was enough left over for me to wet my whistle.

Clothing and Fascism — The Truth Can Finally be Told!

Much has been written of Mussolini's ruthless pursuit of efficiency as a means to a strong nationalist economy. For example, it is almost cliché to point to the fact that under his rule the trains always ran on time, to preserve the freshness of the marshmallow fluff that was the backbone of the pre-war Italian economy. (It is chilling for modern geo-politics to note that the role of crude oil in contemporary Venezuela is essentially identical to that of marshmallow fluff in 1930's Italy.)

Less has been written of Mussolini's ruthless pursuit of carousels. He was completely obsessed with them, and was known to travel for hours just to see a single carousel pony that had been painted in a particularly unique manner. It was one such carousel that dramatically changed the direction not only of Mussolini's avocation, but that of Italian Fascism and, indeed, world history.

The carousel in question was part of Federico Fellini's Carnival dell'Assurdità. Before his career as one of the great auteurs of cinema, Fellini was well known in the carnival community for his fascination with the bizarre. It was at this carousel that Mussolini spied a toddler riding in a giant fiberglass pair of pants. Immediately, a spark was ignited in Mussolini's mind; a spark that would become an obsession, a frustration, and ultimately a humiliation.

Mussolini's idea was to design a pair of Techno-Trousers that would give the wearer the ability to travel great distances at high speed without tiring (while developing exceptionally toned thighs). He immediately focused the bulk of Italian technological research towards the development of these Techno-Trousers, though he was unable to convince Adolf Hitler to assist in this, being met instead with ridicule from his ally (who chose to focus German war-time R&D on the Combat Skort).

Work on the Techno-Trousers greatly influenced Italian foreign, as well as domestic, policy. The 1936 invasion of Ethiopia, for instance, was planned predominantly to gain control of Ethiopia's vast cotton resources. Mussolini believed this was essential, so that the linings in the prototype trousers could be changed to cotton from wool, which caused considerable chafing of the wearer. Mussolini was also motivated by Ethiopia's coffee crop, as Italian scientists were working nearly around-the-clock on the Techno-Trousers project, and required vast quantities of caffè perfecto to remain awake.

Ultimately, the Techno-Trousers never got past the prototype stage. The only known deployment of a Techno-Trouser was a prototype worn by Il Duce himself to help keep him upright during his legendary marathon speeches. This was noted briefly by several Italian fashion reporters as "Mussolini's big pants," which was followed quickly by the reporters being shot and the articles being purged from the record. Other fashion reporters, who entered journalism for the hem lines, not the firing lines, quickly took the cue and omitted any subsequent mention of Mussolini's clothing. There were, however, one or two veiled references made to his "strong fashion sense."

By the time of Mussolini's capture and execution, the existence of the Techno-Trousers project was known to the leaders of the anti-Fascist opposition. As an act of symbolic defiance of the Fascist war machine, Mussolini was hanged pantsless at his execution. It is a testament to the continued power of Mussolini's spirit, even in death, that photos taken of his lifeless body were framed so as not to reveal this final indignity.

Today, Mobile Armored Lower-Limb Outer-Wear (as they are known officially) are banned by the Geneva Convention. Rumors that they have been used recently on suspected terrorists, forced to participate in involuntary and hours-long games of "Dance Dance Revolution," are most likely fabrications.

A Few Useful Scripts

I have a set of perl scripts that I use fairly often. They convert numbers between decimal and hexadecimal, as well as to and from dotted-decimal. All are released under the GNU General Public License.

The calling syntax is the same for all of them:

$ dectohex 12345

or

$ echo 12345 | dectohex -

This allows them to be chained together.

[dectohex]

#!/usr/bin/perl
#
# Copyright (c) 2007  Michael A. Marsh
#
# This program is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify
# it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by
# the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or any
# later version.
#
# This program is distributed in the hope that it will be useful,
# but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of
# MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.  See the GNU
# General Public License for more details.
#
# The GNU General Public License is available at
# http://www.gnu.org/licenses/gpl.txt or by writing to the
# Free Software Foundation, Inc.
# 51 Franklin St, Fifth Floor
# Boston, MA  02110-1301 USA
#

$usage = "Usage: dectohex  | -\n";

$arg = shift @ARGV || die $usage;

sub do_translate
{
   my ( $dec ) = @_;

   $hex = sprintf "%X", $dec;

   print "$hex\n";
}

if ( $arg eq '-' )
{
   while(<>)
   {
      do_translate($_);
   }
}
else
{
   do_translate($arg);
}

[hextodec]

#!/usr/bin/perl
#
# Copyright (c) 2007  Michael A. Marsh
#
# This program is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify
# it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by
# the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or any
# later version.
#
# This program is distributed in the hope that it will be useful,
# but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of
# MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.  See the GNU
# General Public License for more details.
#
# The GNU General Public License is available at
# http://www.gnu.org/licenses/gpl.txt or by writing to the
# Free Software Foundation, Inc.
# 51 Franklin St, Fifth Floor
# Boston, MA  02110-1301 USA
#

$usage = "Usage: hextodec  | -\n";

$arg = shift @ARGV || die $usage;

sub do_translate
{
   my ( $hextotal ) = @_;

   $dec = hex($hextotal);

   print "$dec\n";
}

if ( $arg eq '-' )
{
   while(<>)
   {
      do_translate($_);
   }
}
else
{
   do_translate($arg);
}

[dectoip]

#!/usr/bin/perl
#
# Copyright (c) 2007  Michael A. Marsh
#
# This program is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify
# it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by
# the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or any
# later version.
#
# This program is distributed in the hope that it will be useful,
# but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of
# MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.  See the GNU
# General Public License for more details.
#
# The GNU General Public License is available at
# http://www.gnu.org/licenses/gpl.txt or by writing to the
# Free Software Foundation, Inc.
# 51 Franklin St, Fifth Floor
# Boston, MA  02110-1301 USA
#

$usage = "Usage: dectoip  | -\n";

die $usage unless scalar(@ARGV);
$arg = shift @ARGV;

sub do_translate
{
   my ( $dec ) = @_;

   die $usage unless $dec =~ /^\d+$/;

   $hextotal = sprintf "%x",$dec;

   @digits = split(//,$hextotal);

   while(@digits)
   {
      $digit = pop(@digits);
      $digit = pop(@digits) . $digit if(@digits);
      unshift(@pieces,hex($digit));
   }
   while ( scalar(@pieces) < 4 )
   {
      unshift(@pieces,0);
   }

   $ipaddr = join('.',@pieces);

   print "$ipaddr\n";
}

if ( $arg eq "-" )
{
   while(<>)
   {
      do_translate($_);
   }
}
else
{
   do_translate($arg);
}

[iptodec]

#!/usr/bin/perl
#
# Copyright (c) 2007  Michael A. Marsh
#
# This program is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify
# it under the terms of the GNU General Public License as published by
# the Free Software Foundation; either version 2 of the License, or any
# later version.
#
# This program is distributed in the hope that it will be useful,
# but WITHOUT ANY WARRANTY; without even the implied warranty of
# MERCHANTABILITY or FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.  See the GNU
# General Public License for more details.
#
# The GNU General Public License is available at
# http://www.gnu.org/licenses/gpl.txt or by writing to the
# Free Software Foundation, Inc.
# 51 Franklin St, Fifth Floor
# Boston, MA  02110-1301 USA
#

$usage = "Usage: iptodec  | -\n";

$arg = shift @ARGV || die $usage;

sub do_translate
{
   my ( $ipaddr ) = @_;

   @pieces = split(/\./,$ipaddr);

   die $usage unless ( @pieces == 4 );

   for($i=0;$i<@pieces;++$i)
   {
      die "IP address must be in dotted-decimal form\n"
         unless $pieces[$i]=~/^\d+$/;
      $hexvals[$i] = sprintf "%02x",$pieces[$i];
   }

   #$hextotal = @hexvals[0..4];

   $hextotal = join '',@hexvals;

   $dec = hex($hextotal);

   print "$dec\n";
}

if ( $arg eq "-" )
{
   while(<>)
   {
      do_translate($_);
   }
}
else
{
   do_translate($arg);
}

rms reminisce

In keeping with my policy of violating my policy on not posting personal stuff, I had dinner this evening with Richard Stallman. It wasn't, of course, a one-on-one dinner. He was speaking at the university, and I was one of the group that went with him to dinner.

I have to say, I've read and heard a lot about his personality, and dinner was very pleasant and non-contentious. I was prepared for impassioned arguments throughout the meal. Granted, he spent much of the time catching up on work, but he'd certainly chime in with "GNU plus Linux" whenever someone slipped up and referred to "Linux." We were also watching ourselves to not accidentally say "open source" but rather "free software." I understand and sympathize with both points — he's right on both counts, if you want to be pedantic. As an activist who's always "on," it's his job to be pedantic, which can't be easy.

There wasn't much getting to know the guy, but I suspect he appreciated the opportunity to get some work done as the rest of us chatted, and he contributed significantly more to the conversation than just correcting our terminology. He seemed to enjoy his sushi, as well, certainly enough to get a couple of extra pieces.

What's the point of this post? None, really, other than to say, "Hey, I met Richard Stallman," and that, as someone who isn't a confidant, I found him reasonably pleasant to be around. Given many of the accounts I've read online, that seems to bear mention. You know, balance and all that.

Impressions of an Idiot

Today, I mowed my lawn. From my last post, you know this means I pushed a reel mower around my yard. I also had to pick up a bunch of twigs, which took some time.

All told, I spent about an hour clearing my yard and mowing. I could tell I was getting a workout, and by the end I was ready to take off my jacket, even though it's in the 30s here.

My impression? It wasn't too bad. Given the first mow of the season is supposed to be the most difficult, since you're mowing older growth, I don't expect it to be a difficult lawn to mow. Negotiating the roots in the back was perhaps the most difficult part, but as I was mowing there I noticed that the grass wasn't particularly full, so some sort of ground cover would probably grow better there anyway.

The biggest surprise was that the slopes in my yard were much easier to mow than I'd expected. It helps that they're both short and narrow. Overall, I think my yard looks nice after the push mow, and I'll be guaranteed at least half an hour of cardio exercise every week during the growing season.

Idiot Not Included

In another of an infrequent series of posts relating to me personally, as a new homeowner I suddenly have to worry about things of which I was blissfully oblivious in the past. Water in my basement was one such thing. Another is suddenly finding myself with a lawn that has decided, against all reason, to grow.

As a consequence of this lawn growth, I've bought a lawn mower. It has what my Dad refers to as a 1IP engine. That's one idiot-power. Yes, it's a push reel mower. This wasn't an effort to be cheap. Nor was it particularly an effort to be "green." Gas mowers are a pain, and electric mowers seem to suck. Electric mowers either have power cords, which, face it, sucks, or they have heavy batteries that make them a pain to push and that take a day to recharge (also sucks). I've used a good electric mower, but that model hasn't been made in years.

So, I researched my mower options, and a push reel mower seemed to make sense. For one, I have a very small yard. The front is mostly level, with slopes along the sides towards the back. The back is again mostly level, though with a fair number of tree roots. It's also only about half grass, with extensive slate work and some planter boxes. If the roots give me trouble, the back might become even less grass-covered.

If you're curious, I bought a Brill Luxus 38. I've only just assembled it and taken it for a test swath. I have to say, it's pretty nice. At $210, with free shipping, it's on the pricey end of push mowers, but it allegedly won't need sharpening for a decade. I've got it set at 4cm (it's made in Germany), which was a reasonably easy cut through some appreciable grass. So, while it's still a bit early to tell, I think I'm going to be happy with it. The weirdest thing about was that the assembly instructions were effectively in reverse. I suspect it would have been a lot easier to assemble the handle completely (one Phillips-head screwdriver required) before attaching anything to the reel. When mowing, it makes a pleasant shwuff shwuff shwuff sound — much nicer than the buzz of a gas or electric mower.

Mmm...beer

I'm pleased to announce yet another blog. OK, this one doesn't get a lot of attention, and "Lying Scum-Weasels" was more-or-less a colossal failure. This new blog will be different, though. This new blog is: 36 Pints. It's about homebrewing, in particular about the homebrewing that my friends and I are doing. I'll be following each batch from inception to consumption. See the welcome post for more details.

Will Shill for Swag

As a renowned blogger, my opinion carries a lot of weight. If you're a manufacturer or distributer of fine products, for example a Sumo Omni, why not send me goodies to receive a (most likely favorable) review on this very blog?

NOTE: No guarantee is made regarding my own renown nor the effectiveness of my personal endorsement. All shilling is at the risk of the shilled.

The Great Beerjunction

Later this week, I'm bottling the second batch of beer (a Märzen) with one friend at his house. This weekend, I'm starting the second batch (probably an IPA) with another friend at his house. Sometime soon, possibly next weekend, I'll be kegging the first batch (a honey lager) at my new house.

I'm Doctor Zoidberg, Homeowner!

I'm going to break my rule of not discussing personal items. I'm about to move into my new house. If you

1. feel like you should have my new address and phone number,
2. didn't receive my email, and
3. read this blog,

drop me a line.

This One Goes to Eleven

This has been eating at me, and I can't be the only one. Whenever I hear that Eric Clapton commercial where he's talking about listening to records over and over, all I hear is Nigel Tufnel from Spinal Tap. "You can't dust for vomit."

And Only Seven Months Late

Because this blog is nothing if not a bellwether for cultural trends, I feel obligated to direct you to The Show, starring ZeFrank. He's thinking, so you don't have to.

A Couple of Administrative Notes

First, I have another blog, co-written with Luwak P. Civet, called Lying Scum-Weasels. It updates less frequently than this blog does, despite twice the authors. I have added it to the sidebar links for your convenience and derision.

Second, the request line is still open, and will remain so indefinitely until I get sick of it. Since Blogger neglects to inform me to which article a comment was submitted when it notifies me, any comment can become a reader request. To minimize confusion (if you're into that sort of thing), you might favor adding your requests to the comments of the original post, referenced above.

The Vast Left-Wing Conspiracy

The way Hillary Clinton is shooting off her mouth these days, attacking the President and blaming America, you'd think it was already 2008. Hillary's public antics are reminiscent of Michael Dukakis. The only good thing about Dukakis was the number of states he gave away to George H. W. Bush.

Dukakis is emblematic of the problem with Liberals in America, even down to his Greek heritage. I think we all know what kind of "family values" were practiced in Greece during it's so-called "Golden Age." Hillary's not shying away from the Homoliberal Agenda, either.

Perhaps the biggest problem with the Left is their constant drive to take the "God" out of the "governed." This agenda isn't always as obvious as efforts to repeal the Ten Commandments. Even our woodworking classes, which are as American as anything taught in our Liberal-controlled public schools, are being corrupted by the crypto-Darwinian message hidden in something so seemingly innocuous as "Gorilla Glue." As if "uncle Bobo" were in the shop at the next bench, using tools like the proto-human that atheists would have us believe he is.

It's no wonder that Liberals support abortion-on-demand. According to them, killing a cockroach with an X-Acto knife is no different than killing a fetus with a scalpel, since either one could turn into a human being at any moment. While the college-age Liberals seem to like living in their own filth and surrounded by vermin, we should never forget that the driving force behind the Liberal Agenda are the wealthy Californians and New Yorkers who want to assuage their feelings of guilt for living in immaculately maintained and pest-controlled mansions.

Liberal attacks on God are nothing new. Back in 1845, the Devil-worshipper Daniel Webster tried to block Texas' entry into the Union. He wanted to prevent a new bastion of Godliness that would stand up to his Satanic ambitions. Well let me ask you, Mr. Webster, would we have the transistor today if Texas weren't part of these United States? I'll let you guess the answer to that one. I can tell you for certain that your Rand-McNally road atlas would look a Hell of a lot different, without the economic drive provided by the natural resources of Texas. Instead of having to learn Spanish to give instructions to the Mexican who scrubs your toilet, you'd have to learn Spanish to understand the instructions of the Mexican whose toilet you scrub.

We have to remember that Liberals have a definite agenda. That agenda is to destroy America's moral foundation, and with it our entire Nation. This destruction is being done methodically, one moral precept at a time. One day, it's denying God's Creation. The next, it's defying holy proscriptions against sodomy. After that, who knows? Possibly attacking our divine right to own guns. (I believe that was Leviticus 12:8.) In November, remember to vote Godly. Our futures depend on it.

Hyper-Sensitive Fucknut of the Week

This story is just completely stupid. Or rather, the the vice-principal is completely stupid. I'm an atheist, and pretty openly so, so it's not like I'm prone to coddling the God Crew when it comes to thinly veiled proselytizing masquerading as "private worship." But this is just moronic. What purpose is possibly served by preventing any student from reading any book (other than "controlled" books such as pornography, and there are undoubtedly people who would argue with that distinction)?

I'd be happy to see students reading The Bible. Or The Koran. Or The Age of Reason. Or The Necronomicon, for that matter. If they're reading, they're using their minds. Hopefully, when this girl reads her Bible, she actually thinks about what she's reading, whether to evaluate it critically or to figure out how the various teachings fit together into a single whole.

Imagine the uproar and protests if the school had prevented a student from reading The Koran. Muslim advocates would be up in (metaphorical) arms about this perceived attack on their religion. If I were cynical (OK, a touch more cynical), I'd say this was done deliberately to set a precedent for when a Muslim student is targetted by this sort of arbitrary censorship. Not that I think the girl was put up to this, but to the vice-principal, this could have been a God-send.

How Else Are You Going To Learn This?

or: From the "Public Service" File

If you have an opened packet of chewing gum in your shirt pocket when said shirt goes into the wash and then the dryer, the gum does not, in fact, make a mess of the entire load of laundry. Instead, you'll find the paper wrappers from the individual sticks slightly shredded, and the foil-wrapped sticks folded neatly into thirds and slightly compressed. At least, that's how you'll find three of the four hypothetically laundered sticks of gum. The jury is still out on that fourth stick.

Incidentally, the comments are still open and being monitored for reader requests, which has, disappointingly, resulted in only one entry so far.