No. LXXXI - The Montgolfier bros., Joseph-Michel (1740-1810) and Jacques-Étienne (1745-99), and their astounding flying balloons.
I have ever been fascinated by flight, but in the late couple of years most especially by the many and varied shapes and sizes of lighter-than-air craft.
Beginning next Sunday, 22 June, "The Explorers Club" will be back on its regular schedule. We've made up all the ground lost to the disruptions - most welcome and joyous disruptions - of Matrimania, and we've got some very special anniversary episodes coming up that I think we'll all enjoy immensely. Thank you all for your patience and continued interest.
Special Request: Escape Hatch
I did not tell my mother about The L.A.W. and Brother-in-L.A.W.'s offer of assistance should I elect to move to Washington, D.C. She heard about it in a conversation with The L.A.W. and came to me in a huff, demanding why I had not told her. Because, Mother dear, they have invited me to plunge into the political hurly-burly of our nation's capital; the last time I gave serious consideration to such a career was in the first years of my undergraduate education, when I regarded my political science major as an invaluable vocational tool. I was in the process of applying for varied summer internships when you, Mother dear, stated in your incredibly annoying way (it sounds like a hesitant question, but really its an edict) that such an internship was impractical, and I should get an anonymous summer job instead. Ever the dutiful son, I obeyed, and spent the summer as I spent so many others, lifeguarding.
Without the contacts I would have built during my internship, any internship, I had fallen off the proscribed path toward political minionship, and political science gradually morphed from serious vocational training to the subject in which I'd happened to accumulate a large number of credits. And yet, as I realized later, there was absolutely no good reason why I couldn't have gone to D.C. I didn't make that much money lifeguarding, and whatever expense went toward subsidizing my internship would have been far less than was spent a few summer's later on someone else's opera camp.
Why, then, did my mother not want me to spend a summer in Washington? I am not and will probably never be sure, but I have several theories. As this juncture, I am unwilling to undergo the emotional tumult necessary to enumerate and explore them all. Suffice it to say that I cannot think of embarking upon a career as an entry-level Republican operative without feeling considerable resentment toward my darling mother. So, when she asked me why I had not relayed to her The L.A.W. and Brother-in-L.A.W.'s offer, I told her this tale, to which she replied, "Well, we aren't talking about an unpaid internship now." Wow. Just, wow. She asked why I was reluctant to discuss this with her, and without any hesitation rejected out of hand my reasons. She demanded frankness, but refused to give it even a moment's consideration.
Honesty is a virtue, and virtue is its own reward.
Bring Me the Head of
I have gotten out of the habit of watching E.S.P.N.'s Pardon the Interruption after work because on Thursday, 5 June, the day after the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, P.T.I.'s only coverage of the victory was to express their disappointment that the series had not gone seven games. Serenity, now... serenity, now.... Today, more out of a desire to resume my habit (I do so enjoy habit and routine) than a yearning for the hosts' buffoonery, I sat down and watched the entirety of Pardon the Interruption. I got exactly what I deserved for cutting those curs any slack after their dread insult to the Red Wings: Wilbon said that anyone who does not love European soccer, especially the underway Euro 2008 tournament (?), is not a sports fan.
Thank you and goodnight. I feel no need to swear an oath against P.T.I. as I did against its fantasy football-loving subsidiary Around the Horn, but I cannot envision the circumstances under which I would again watch the program before the commencement of the college football season in the Fall. And even then the margin of error will be exceedingly slight; they teeter upon the edge of an abyss from which there is no return.
The Rebel Black Dot Songs of the Day
They Might Be Giants, "Where Do They Make Balloons?" from No! (T.L.A.M.)
Commentary: Balloonistan?
Montag, 16 Juni
The Honor System, "Fool's Gold" from Plea For Peace (T.L.A.M.)
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