American Fez

Drastic Measures

Unfortunately, a rash of unwelcome robotic spam comments has finally forced me to employ a comment verification procedure; an extremely tedious precautions that I had hoped to avoid taking. Even the most neophyte Internet user can easily detect the disjointed gibberish that typifies spam commentary and knows to ignore its associated links, so I don't know what the fraudsters think they have to gain by defacing my blog with their wretched attempts at trickery. Hopefully the comment verification process will deter future outbreaks, but I somehow doubt it. My apologies to genuine commentators for the added inconvenience.

Dairy, Dairy Quite Contrary

My intention was to write a post detailing the numerous pros and cons of consuming unusual dairy products: obscure international cheeses; pints of udder stout; creamed streptococcus thermophilus; oxen nadger curd; and so on. But what can be said about oxen nadger curd that has not already be said?

A cynical attempt to attract more female readers was to be made by highlighting the keywords "lactose" and "intolerance," although, tantalizingly, never in the same sentence.

For amateur scientists, a graphic and disturbing account of the time I unwisely examined a milk droplet under a microscope was to be included (my dreams were filled with images of churning, buttery, black worms for weeks afterwards).

I also planned to debate the controversial issues of full-fat versus non-fat yogurt; plain versus flavored; fruit on the bottom versus fruit already mixed in; and Greek yogurt versus yogurt from economically stable countries.

Then there was the whole flan equation that I wanted to discuss. A freshly served flan, as the physicists Gustavo Taht and Ernst Karamull both noted, vibrates at a rate of eighty million kilopuddings per microsecond. An eminently disputable statistic such as this obviously raises many questions, even if none of them are actually worth answering.

So why is no post about dairy products appearing this week? Well, much like Salem witches cast evil spells to make their neighbors milk go sour, an evil hex as fallen upon my dairy ruminations: the ancient and powerful curse of boredom.

In short, I am sick and weary of the subject before I've even considered writing the first word of the first sentence. This is a great shame since I have already expended a great deal of mental effort thinking about the subject, as you can see from the brief paragraph outlines above.

If only it were possible to take all those uncoordinated, unorganized thoughts and magically transform them into publishable blog form without actually sitting down at my computer and completing all that tedious typing. If only I had a secretary to act as a 200WPM milkmaid for the rich cream of my creativity, then I could pace around and pontificate to my heart's content while she tapped away.

Alas, I am but a humble scribe with no means to support such luxuries. The only office aides I have at my disposal are grim determination and black coffee.

Judge Not

I am called to jury duty this week. Apparently it's my civic obligation to pass judgement on my fellow citizens.  If impaneled, I shall be forced to listen to legal blowhards bend the truth through prisms of innuendo and misinformation : two scaly advocates attempting to tip the scales of justice in their client's favor. I'm not sure that Daniel Webster would recognise this theater of cant as a court of law.

The emergence of an approximation of a scintilla of the truth is the best that can be hoped for in such circumstances. Incriminating identifications are made from the reflections of shadows cast on murky water; from fingerprints smeared on fog and jack straws of DNA. Exhibits requiring more explanation than those in any archaeological museum are presented as vital evidence, leaving weary and bewildered jurors to determine innocence or guilt by the toss of a mental coin: do we like the defendant or not? Not, probably. After all, you can't disguise congenital sullen insolence with a collar and tie.

There are roughly two hundred people in the jury pool. Fidgeting in plastic chairs, pacing back and forth, slumped against the walls, we look like immeasurably bored airport passengers waiting for delayed flights to Baltimore, Charlotte, Frankfurt and other interzone hubs. Some read books or peruse iPads and smart phones. Some just stare at the floor. I wonder if anyone else is thinking of the fate of Draco the Lawgiver: suffocated beneath an avalanche of cloaks and hats after delivering a typically enervating speech.

Occasionally the court officer, equal parts troop leader and stand-up comedian, interrupts the dolorous silence with reminders about the importance of our service. As an administrative functionary he is excellence personified, the only court house representative who inspires confidence in this belabored system. Everyone else should go home since we can trust him to act fairly and responsibly as judge, jury and social worker. Alas, not. We must sit here and wilt until a plea bargain is accepted and everyone can home, except, of course, the guilty party.