Category: etc.

Take some time to read and ponder this piece by Bill Whittle.

And this heartfelt piece from WordGirl.

And this tale of selflessness and heroism from The Oregonian.

My (very-pregnant) blog pal Amanda Sue from Upheaval has this very encouraging, first-hand account of the goings-on at the local evacuation center in her hometown of Nacogdoches, TX.

“Daniel was working security at our local evacuee center, which is currently housing about 70 Louisiana residents. I dropped by to see him a few minutes ago, and this is what I saw …”

Well, I don’t want to give it away; go on over and read!

Oh, and here’s something to bring a smile to your face. Scroll down a wee bit and see the picture of her adorably pregnant self. (She’s due Sept. 9, I believe, so wish her the best.) A tiny bit of life and joy in the midst of so much sorrow.

There’s this. Houston-based blogger Christine over at Big Pink Cookie is collecting knitted goods for the youngest victims of Katrina — baby booties, blankets, sweaters, etc. I think it’s a lovely idea and one way for people to feel they’re doing something tangible. And I think that’s a natural human impulse we have at moments like this. Donating money online or over the phone, while so vital , can seem a bit sterile and cold when so many hands are longing to touch, reach out, hold a hand, wipe a tear. Why else would so many voluntarily open their homes to strangers? I think it’s for that very sense of tangibility, for being able to say, “I give this to you with my own hands.”

So if you can knit or crochet — and I know I have a least one reader VERY talented in this area — pop on over to her site for the details and consider using your gifts to wrap the littlest homeless ones in some homemade love and warmth.

Something you can give with your very own hands.

Hootsbuddy posts on a similar theme as my last post. He quotes from a site called Repent America:

“Southern Decadence” has a history of filling the French Quarters section of the city with drunken homosexuals engaging in sex acts in the public streets and bars. Last year, a local pastor sent video footage of sex acts being performed in front of police to the mayor, city council, and the media. City officials simply ignored the footage and continued to welcome and praise the weeklong celebration as being an “exciting event”. However, Hurricane Katrina has put an end to the annual celebration of sin.
[…]

That’s all I’ll allow myself to post of what’s written there. Go read it all …. if you want. Lord, may we devote our minds to praying for victims, not dancing on graves.

H/T: The Anchoress

Be ye prepared. I’m in a rather dark and pissy mood.

I CANNOT STAND this attitude amongst some believers right now in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. It’s the “wrath of God” angle, the “abomination” angle, the “all those homos are the most horrible” angle.

A reader at the site above made a very short, pointed comment on the post I’ve linked. Incensed, I just had to comment (chickening out at the last minute and calling myself “renee”), but what I said was this: Are we not ALL sinners? Are we not ALL hellbound, if not for the grace of God? Why all this post-disaster, self-righteous boasting? Why all this virtual glee in the wake of horror and death and destruction? Babies are dead. Children are dead. Even heterosexuals are dead. Katrina was a natural disaster, but this, THIS, is a spiritual disaster. Sure, the Holy Spirit still resides in our hearts even if we harbor this attitude, but I’ll bet He cringes; I’ll bet He weeps; I’ll bet He longs for us to repent of OUR sin. We are to boast in nothing but the cross of Christ, not in our non-existent superiority and righteousness.

No wonder homosexuals HATE us. We ARE hateful and hateable.

And I am a little angry.

The other day, our gay neighbors and friends, Mike and Lee, had some people over for dinner. My Beloved, walking by their open window, heard a snippet of conversation from their guests about how much they “can’t stand Christians.” It’s discouraging to hear this, yes, but let me say this — they are not wrong to feel that way toward us, not when we are peddling notions like the one linked above. It sickens me. It sickens them.

I quoted in my comment a lyric from my all-time favorite musical, “Sweeney Todd”:

“We all deserve to die.”

Yup.

Another lyric from that show goes like this:

“I, too, have sailed the world and seen its wonders,
For the cruelty of men
Is as wondrous as Peru.”

Yup.

Grace is all there is, folks, all there is.

All right, peeps. I’ve worked up this very basic English-to-Machine-Steno Translation for you …. (or for those of us, ahem, nerds who find this vaguely interesting.) Oh, and the dashes before the letters means you use the final side/right side of the keyboard only. Got that, WordGirl? 😉

Now this takes up a lot of space, sorry, but keep scrolling down after it. I found an example of steno writing from a website. It’s a fancy- schmancy moving image that shows the writing with the translation.

Ooh! Ahh!

So check that out.

My next post will have a Machine Steno Translation CONTEST!

I’m working on posting something that YOU will need to translate correctly to ME. Haven’t decided what you’ll win.

“A sense of smug satisfaction” sounds good to me.

So study up and be ready for the EXCITEMENT!

Initial B: PW
Initial CH: K H
Initial D: TK
Initial F: T P
Initial G: TKPW
Initial H: H
Initial J: S K W R
Initial K: K
Initial L: HR
Initial M: P H
Initial N: T P H
Initial P: P
Initial QU: K W
Initial R: R
Initial S: S
Initial T: T
Initial V: S R
Initial W: W
Initial Y: K W R
Initial Z: SWR
Final B: -B
Final CH: -F P
Final D: -D
Final DZ: -DZ
Final F: -F
Final G: -G
Final J: -PBLG
Final K: -B G
Final L: -L
Final M: -P L
Final MP: -FRP
Final N: -PB
Final NG: -PB G
Final NJ: -PB G
Final NK: * -PB G
Final P: -P
Final R: -R
Final RCH: -FRPB
Final RF: -FR B
Final RVE: -FR B
Final S: -S
Final SH: -R B
Final T: -T
Final V: -F
Final X: -B G S
Final Z: -Z
Vowel A: A
Vowel A (Long): A EU
Vowel Aw: A U
Vowel E: E
Vowel E (Long): AO E
Vowel I: EU
Vowel I (Long): AO EU
Vowel O: O
Vowel O (Long): O E
Vowel OI: O EU
Vowel OO: AO
Vowel OU: O U
Vowel U: U
Vowel U (Long): AO U

For the literally hundreds of people Googling for a steno machine image and getting this post — if you’re considering court reporting school, please, I beg you, read this post,too.

WHAT THE HECK IS THIS, YOU ASK?!

STENO MACHINE

UP CLOSE “KEY” TO A STENO MACHINE KEYBOARD

*********************************************************************

BUT STILL, WHY IS THIS ON MY BLOG?!

Well, betcha didn’t know I studied to become a court reporter, did you? S’true, I’m afraid. And I’m going to be revisiting this grand and glorious chapter of my past right here on this blog.

I thought I’d do a few posts on the mysterious, little-understood field of court reporting — because as it happens, I do know a LOT about it. I thought maybe I’d explain it a bit, share some stories from the trenches, and confess my reasons for never ultimately pursuing it as a career — and won’t that be tremendous fun?!

(And I cite M@ as the inspiration for this dredging of my past, mainly because I thought he might find it interesting. Perhaps some of the rest of you will, too. So I expect myriad comments, M@, in which you “ooh” and “ahh” and express astonishment, even if you have to fake it!)

Now, I say this will be “a few posts,” but let’s face it, I thought I could do the whole drama camp finale in ONE post and we all know how that turned out. So, honestly, I don’t know how many I’ll write. I may get caught up in it. Or I may get bored. I can’t say, but at least I’m saying that up front.

All right. Because I’m a rather lazyish blogger and because I thought it would amuse (me, at least), I’m starting with a non-court reporter’s explanation of what court reporting is. This is a recent article by David Engber at Slate on “what court reporting is all about.”

Of course, I chose this so I can make blatant editorial comments on his “expertise.” My comments in parentheses.

What’s That Thing Court Reporters Are Always Typing On?

(Oh, dear, Davey. Right off the bat, you’ve gotten it wrong and any court reporterish person reading your article would be somewhat offended by your use of the word “typing.” Court reporter types call it “writing,” quite haughtily, really, so I don’t know who you interviewed, because I simply can’t believe that person wouldn’t have made that QUITE clear, again, with a twinge of snobbery, as I just did. So please don’t call it typing. Or spelling, either, for that matter. It is in no way related except that fingers are used. So hmmphh!)

It’s called a stenotype machine, and it’s also used for captioning television broadcasts and general office stenography. (Huh? “General office stenography”? No. That’s a rare occurrence, indeed. It’s used for recording court proceedings, pre-trial depositions, and captioning, as mentioned above. I just love using the caption function on my TV. It’s fun to see what those captioners are trying to do and to be able to read through the “junk.”) The stenotype works a bit like a portable word processor, but with a modified, 22-button keyboard in place of the standard qwerty setup. Modern stenotypes have two rows of consonants across the middle, underneath a long “number bar.” Set in front of these are four vowel keys: “A,” “O,” “E,” and “U.”

How does it work? Court reporters can type (write!) entire words all at once by striking multiple keys at the same time. The left hand (called the initial side) spells (WRITES!) out the beginning of a syllable, while the right hand (called the final side) spells (AGAIN, argh!) out the end; all keys are pressed at the same time, and the machine produces an alphabet soup that’s incomprehensible to anyone who’s not trained in machine shorthand.

(A court reporter must attain 225 wpm to pass state boards. Some rare reporters — freaks, really — can write speeds of nearly 300 wpm.)

Court reporters spell (!?#!@?!) out syllables phonetically, but there aren’t enough keys on each side of the keyboard to cover every sound. Certain combinations of adjacent keys correspond to the missing consonants: For example, there’s no “M” anywhere on the keyboard, so you have to press “P” and “H” together to start a syllable with that sound. There is a “B” on the right side of the board, but none on the left—that means it’s easy to end a syllable with “B,” but for words that begin with “B” you need to hit “P” and “W” together.

Each court reporter might use different conventions to represent homonyms or other ambiguous words. At court-reporting school, you can learn one of at least half a dozen machine shorthand “theories,” which teach different approaches and general rules. But any experienced court reporter will work out his or her own abbreviations, especially for words and phrases particular to a given job. “May it please the court,” for example, could be shortened to a quick stroke, as could, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

(Ah, yes. Strokes like these are called “briefs.” Or as I used to call them “sweet, sweet briefs.” And here’s a little keyboard lesson that ol’ Davey isn’t giving you. Ready?

Home position for your hands: The fingers of the left hand rest along the gap between the two main banks of keys to the left of the asterisk (pinkie finger on the “S” to forefinger on the “H” and “R”). These fingers are used to stroke initial consonants. The fingers of the right hand lie in the corresponding position to the right of the asterisk (forefinger on “FR” to pinkie finger on “TS” — oh, and pinkie finger also controls the “DZ”.) This side is used for final consonants. The thumbs produce the vowels, so your left thumb rests on the “AO” and your right thumb rests on the “EU”. You’ve got it now, right?)

In the old days, everything the court reporter typed (did you even interview a court reporter, Davey? erghh!) would print to a roll of narrow paper tape. Later on, the court reporter would translate the notes back to English, and sometimes another court reporter, called a “scopist,” would check the translation. Now the translation is done by computer, and the fancier stenotype machines translate as they go. The paper tape still records the original notes, but an LCD display on the machine itself shows the words in regular English. (Ah, yes! But those paper notes are oh-so-important! They are the ultimate fail-safe if something else malfunctions technically. This is how important they are: Reporters are required to keep them for 7 years.)

A court reporter typically saves the spellings and abbreviations he uses into a personal dictionary on his home computer. These personal dictionaries can then be transferred to stenotype machines, most of which have floppy-disk drives or USB ports. Machines can be further customized, down to the sensitivity of each individual key. These changes reflect the relative strength of each finger: The “L” key under the scrawny right ring finger is often made less sensitive, since that finger is more likely to sag and touch the key by accident. (Oh, all right. That’s true. My scrawny little ring finger was weak.)

Almost all court reporters have their own customized machines, which they take with them on specific jobs. (Make that all jobs, Davey. Showing up for a job without your machine is generally frowned upon.) A brand-new, top-of-the-line stenotype costs up to about $4,500. Cheaper training models are a bit over $1,000.

****
That’s the rather abrupt ending to the article, so let’s just say that’s it for our little intro. Any questions? 😉

So I’m at Ikea today. They’re having a sale on Flarkes and Prutas and Morkers, so, of course, I’m at Ikea today.

I’m strolling about with a cart that floats more than it rolls, needing rowing more than pushing. I list this way and that and back again, until suddenly, I start to feel like some modern day Peter, shopping on water, trying to stay afloat, desperate to keep my eyes on Jesus, who is waiting for me over by the Humlarps. I drift that direction, happy and sure, until I quickly glance down, lose control, and crash into a display. Furtive, I glance to see if Jesus saw that. He did. He shakes His head with a mixture of love and pity and disappears.

I didn’t want a Humlarp anyway.

I float away from the place where Jesus was and practically collide with

The Devil.

Really.

The Devil, for those who don’t know, is a tall and angular fellow with grayish hair and hawkish nose and greenish eyes. His khaki shorts and T-shirt seem to scream normal, bland even, so I just assume “normal”; that is, until I see the evil sandals.

The sandals, you see, are THOSE kind of man sandals that look not so much like sandals as instruments of torture. Thick, wide straps curl clawlike about the feet, strangling the very extremities a man thoughtlessly expects to schlep him about all day, up or down, fast or slow, on plush carpet or hot asphalt, without thanks or reward — ALL DAY, I say! — the very extremities that should be treated, not with negligence and cruelty and contempt but with care and tenderness and massages.

Just what is the seduction of these sandals, men? I implore you to cry out to God for the freedom of your souls …. and your soles. The Lord will forgive you even if I do not.

Repent ….

Or read on and see your sorry future.

Now …. I didn’t know that The Devil shops at Ikea, but here he is even so. I DID know that he’s a wrathful, wicked sort, so I’m not surprised to see him railing at a hapless salesgirl. We’re over by the linens and I am quietly but blatantly eavesdropping. The salesgirl is just a young and tiny thing, perhaps 16 or 17 years old. The Devil looms above her, the hollows of his cheeks fierce, crimson pools, and hisses:

“I am VERY angry! This is NOT okay with me!”

The poor salesgirl mumbles and scurries off like a wee frightened bunny. I purposely dawdle by the Dorflaks to hear what in hell is wrong with The Devil.

Now another salesgirl, also a little bunny, approaches. Bunny 1 and Bunny 2 shake as The Devil snarls:

“This sign on this bin says $15.99, but they charged me $34.99 for it at the checkout!”

He waggles the item in question above their heads.

“Well, sir –”

“THEN I had to walk all the way back here to prove to somebody what the price actually is! I am SO MAD! Are you the manager!?”

Bunny 2 squeaks out a “no.”

“WELL, I WANT THE MANAGER. BRING ME THE MANAGER NOW!”

I’m barely containing myself. Moments later, Head Bunny arrives and The Devil launches into his diatribe again. The Bunnies seem unable to eke out a single word.

“Can’t you see what this sign says!? I’m not paying $34.99 for this!”

I venture out from behind the shelves where I’ve been lurking. From my vantage point, about 10 feet away, I can clearly see a $34.99 price tag dangling from the display model of his item. It’s inches from The Devil’s elbow. How did he miss it?

Because he’s The Devil, that’s how.

He’s still ranting, red-faced and irrational. Shoppers are now giving the scene a very wide berth, gaping as they pass by. The Bunnies are losing, becoming mush, bunny stew. Finally, some foolhardy impulse to protect The Bunnies overwhelms me and I can take it no longer.

I step up, point to the tag, and speak:

“Sir, there’s a tag right here that says $34.99.”

When am I going to learn that you NEVER talk to The Devil??

He twists his head my direction. Unnaturally far, if you ask me.

“WHAT?!”

“Well, sir, this price tag has the same name as the item in your hand. And it’s $34.99.”

The Bunnies back away, wide-eyed. The Devil breathes fire at me.

“Well, I didn’t look at THAT! I LOOKED IN THE BIN!!”

The bin, you see, has an entirely different item in it which, amazingly, has an entirely different price tag than the one in his hot little hands. Somehow, The Devil seems to think that simply because HE CANNOT READ, he’s entitled to a price nearly $20 less than the actual price of his item. He also seems to think that he can continue to harass frightened little Bunnies until they thump away, crying, and he gets his way.

Somehow, I don’t know how, I remain outwardly calm.

“Well, sir, there seems to be a different item in the bin.”

This perfect “duh” moment passes by in crackling silence, unappreciated. The Devil spins completely about to face me and spits:

“YOU NEED TO GET LOST!! GETTTT LOSSSTTTT!!”

The words echo through the store, hanging there. Then instantly forgetting me, he whirls back towards the poor Bunnies, who are cowering at his outburst. All righty, then. He’s insane, but I’m stupid, and that’s worse. I’ve been NO help at all, have probably made the situation worse, even, and he’s not done with his rampage. I float my cart away from him, scanning the area for the nearest, largest, MALE Ikea employee. Finding one, I tell him:

“There’s a very unstable man around the corner harassing a few of your female co-workers. Do you think you could go help them? I think there needs to be another man there. And before you go, you might want to call security.”

Duh. Finally, something sensible comes to mind.

As I stand watching — at a distance now — two little, silver-haired ladies tiptoe up to me. Patting my arm, one of them says, “Oh, you are a dear.” (That’s charitable.)

“What a horrible man,” the other one joins. They begin speaking on top of each other, rapid fire, with no pauses between comments:

“he is so rude!” — “yes, rude” — “we heard what he said to you” — “oh, he is awful!” — “I think he’s crazy” — “we saw him at Lowe’s” — “yes, Lowe’s” — “and he was doing the SAME thing” — “yes, the VERY same thing” — “he makes me so MAD!” — “oh, I know he’s crazy” — “yes, CRAZY!”

Then, stopping their verbal volleys, one of them snorts with contempt:

“I noticed he is NOT wearing a wedding ring.”

Her friend sniffs, “Well, what a surprise. Just look how happy he makes women!” They laugh and snort again and walk away from me, saying, “Bye-bye, dear.”

Turning back to the scene, I watch as security finally escorts The Devil out of Ikea. I sigh and leave the store with my prized Trofkes and Prutas in tow.

But out in the parking lot, I admit … I glance over my shoulder a few times.

(Our story continues with part 3-A:)

THAT’S IT. I am sweaty. I am stressed. I am annoyed! All thought is abandoned as my two-week-long fantasy simply springs out of my head full grown, like Athena, only evil and stupid. I whirl upon the little Floor Roller:

“Of course you did, you beastly, beastly boy!

The air hangs heavy with the words.

Words I didn’t really say, but did I have you going for a second?

All right. Rewind.

I don’t “whirl” upon the Floor Roller. Actually, I take a moment to close my eyes, testing to see if my ears close with them. Maybe I didn’t really hear that. Maybe I don’t really see my husband and brother talking sideways, plotting Joey’s death before my very eyes. Maybe I don’t really see my Go-To Kid taking these precious, pre-show moments to hyperventilate himself purple.

The Floor/Arse Roller/Twiddler speaks again. (Put in that order, we may simply call him the Little Fart.)

“Mrs. Tracey, I — ”

Rats, I do hear him. Now I have to look at him. Smoothing the frown that comes at the mere maddening thought of him, I turn around.

Well, at least he’s standing.

“Yes, Little Fart. You forgot your costume.”

“Uh-huh,” he whimpers.

I keep waiting for him to collapse to the floor. I was unaware he could speak standing up.

“Well, Little Fart, that just means that –” you know what that means, Little Fart?”

“What?” sniffles the Fart.

“– you will have to wear what you have on.”

“But I need a costume, don’t I?!” he wails.

“Well, but now you need what you have on. It’ll be fine.” I am brusque, fed up with this Little Fart. God help me, but I actually turn on my heel and walk away from him.

Warily now, I approach brother and husband. Still engrossed in watching Joey, they don’t even notice me until I mutter:

“What are you guys up to?”

Their heads turn towards me in unison.

“Just watching what’s going on.” My Beloved sounds casual.

“Uh-huh,” I say, narrowing my eyes at them.

Brother drips venom when he speaks:

“I thought she said there was a demonic stronghold over our whole family. Wife is probably safe, but Button Baby has our demon blood in her.”

He gestures to the two of us.

“True,” I say.

“Well,” he continues, “Joey shouldn’t get too close to her, then. You know.”

He raises his hands, rakes the air with his fingers, making the “demon sound.”

“Get away from my baby!” he hisses low.

I can’t help it. I laugh, but stop when I glance at My Beloved. He is eerily quiet, staring at Joey’s back. Now, My Beloved is a good-natured, low-key fellow, unless he perceives an injury to me. Not to himself, to me. Then there is no reserve of protective anger too deep to summon, nothing he won’t do to charge in as my champion. His quiet right now is not good. I know he is simmering.

Brother breaks the silence, speaking through clenched teeth what, I suppose, is foremost in our ugly, collective thoughts:

“I just want to kick her in the ass.”

Egad. Here we are, surrounded by all the little Christian drama queens and all their Christian parents. We’re Christians. We’re standing in a chapel, for God’s sake, but raging testosterone is creating just a touch too much swagger, a touch too much seethe that I’m scared there’s gonna be a rumble, a rowdydow, a real hubbub.

I scowl up at both of them, trying to level this house that hormones built.

“Look. Just stay away from her. Stay away. PLEASE.”

(and …… you know ….)

Life getting in the way of blogging?! Unheard of!

I’ll try to post the final installment of our sad tale tomorrow — Tuesday.

Please bear with me!

T.