BMG book recall

The Bertlesman Group (BMG) issued a recall today of approximately 1000,000 books.
As of press-time, our agency has received unsubstantiated reports of books bursting into flames when placed next to caustic household objects, such as bleach and ammonia.
At a press conference this evening, the VP of marketing for BMG, Samuel Chryst, approached the subject with caution, urging customers not to overreact.
"It seems as if there is a chemical reaction occurring when the books are exposed to bi- trimethyl - godammit, I'm not a chemist. Please, just don't store any books printed in the last two months in your fucking chemical closets," Chryst said. He then immediately asked an aide, "do people even have chemical closets anymore? What kind of idiot stores books in a closet, anyway?"
The books appear to be contaminated with an substance that ignites when placed in an enclosed area alongside common cleaning materials and then exposed to sunlight.
"I was reading the newest edition of 'Going Rogue', sitting in my sunroom, when I started smelling smoke. I thought the roast was burning, but it was the book smoldering in my lap," 80 year old Margaret Vills said. Vills claims that the book kept burning even after she doused it with the garden hose.
It is unclear how this recall will affect the company's sagging sales. A rise in internet viewership and the arrival of electronic books, or e-books, on the scene is crippling BMG's ability to compete in an over-saturated market. To further complicate the matter, the US Postal Service (USPS) issued a statement warning customers not to return the books by mail due to their hazardous nature.
"I don't want want these things starting fires in our sorting facilities," an anonymous USPS employee said late Wednesday. "We have enough problem with idiots bringing fucking guns in here."
Preliminary reports show that all books printed by BMG or its subsidiaries since December of 2009 are contaminated.
A call to the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to inquire if the contamination was possibly a terrorist plot went unanswered.
"All I wanted to do was learn how to program my new Mac," Delaware resident Jason M. said. "But my 'Idiot's Guide to Macs' just burned my house down. Now I need a new Mac and a new house. Somebody's gonna fucking pay for this."

on specialization

Specialization, in a profession, field of research, field of study, or in a blog such as this one, seems to be the name of the game. Some bloggers write about something with which they have frequent contact, like whale watching. Others blog about their illness, their children, or clever ways to make money. Family blogs allow widely dispersed kinsmen to stay in touch.

My blog, LieSmith, is a vehicle for me to express my feelings. I can attempt to be witty or insightful here. I post portions of my book that wallow in the aether, seen and read by none. Is it because I am a scatter-brain? Is it because I do not yet see the need to maintain separate blogs on different subjects?

Perhaps once by book takes off, I will have a blog to connect with readers, another to express my feelings, and another to write about random stuff, such as this post, that pops into my head at midnight on a Friday in January.

In order to make more money in your profession, you obtain education that allows you to fill an niche in the market. As a researcher, you choose one area of study and immerse yourself in the minutiae of that particular field.

Is this trend toward specialization necessary because there are so many more people on the planet? Are there so few jobs to go around that you have to focus on one area and become its master? Arguably, the great polymaths of the past were self-made men who exhibited boundless drive and curiosity. Gone are the days of Ben Franklin, publisher, inventor, statesman, humorist. We are hard pressed to find today a Newton, or a Socrates. Would Charles Darwin, a man of myriad talents besides naturalism, be able to combine his various interests into the seminal novel that founded the theory of Evolution? Or would he have focused in on one area, for example ornithology, and ignored all the things that crawl and swim?

Is specialization a bad thing? A technician with many years of experience making electronic displays will, when faced with the challenges of making a new idea work, know the fundamentals of the field and be able to skip a lot of blind groping. A researcher will know how certain chemicals react with certain materials, and will be able to complete her project more efficiently.

The goods we use and the lives we live are made cheaper and better because of specialization. But are we losing today's great minds to the demands of shrinking margins?
Perhaps the time of the generalist has passed.
Perhaps we can find ways to expand our expertise in more ways than one.
Let a million flowers bloom (without, of course, the subsequent executions).

Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP

an iron beast in my home

There is a beast in my home. It fumes, sputters, creaks and groans. Vapor rises from the plate atop its head, and it has an insatiable appetite for dried plants. Its surface is too hot to touch, and it requires daily cleaning.
This beast, if you have figured it out (and I hope you have, since I am not very good at being subtle), is a wood burning stove.
After researching the telltale signs of creosote buildup, and climbing up onto the roof a half dozen times and shoving my head inside the chimney, I have fired up the faithful old beast. The house used to be warmed (briefly and inefficiently) by forced heated air. After watching the oil level in the big steel drum in the basement fall steadily, and, rather than spend money on buying more fuel, I risked the chance of a chimney fire and fired up the beast.
The tally of mummified animals at the base of the chimney - four. One partially decomposed rat and three fully decomposed blackbirds. The byproduct of their decomposition had piled up to a stately six inches, a soft, fluffy material resembling insulation. For lack of a proper place to store this curious and painfully slow experiment in mummification, I have placed it in the wastebasket.
For anyone seeking a warm, crackling hearth and pleasant companionship (I will be away for the next few days but some very nice people are stopping by later), do feel free to pay a visit.
from the Bamboo Bowl,
many affectionate greetings. JP

The Cat That Does Not Laugh

Memory is a terrific function. Memory has at once the power to preserve and to torment. I remember with accuracy one night in Germany when I was watching TV alone but for the cat. I can still feel the room‘s temperature (toasty warm). I can still see the time of day (magic hour, just after sunset). My breath catches when I remember my eyes flashing in the reflection in glass of the balcony door (a combination of internal lighting, external darkness). In my memory, something funny happens on TV. I laugh and turn to see if the other person in the room is laughing too. There is nobody else in the room, just the cat. The cat looks at me and closes his eyes and starts purring. I can still now feel the disappointment that no one was there to share the humor, and that the cat didn’t laugh.
My father laughed when I told him this story, aptly titled The Cat That Didn’t Laugh. He died recently, of unknown causes. His death was sudden, but not a complete surprise; he had been engaging in unhealthy activities all his life. He smoked. He drank. He worried constantly. He worried so much it would wake him up at night. Worry became obsession, and other people began to notice. One day about a year ago, he announced to me that he was replacing worry with concern. His vague explanation was that he read in a magazine that worrying could kill you, so he reasoned that being merely concerned would prolong his life. I remember the twinkle in his eye that told me he was joking. I remember his wide eyes and grasping hands when he needed a cigarette (I rolled them to cut costs and control consumption). He reminded me of Gollum obsessing over the Ring, that one thing that would forever hold him in its sway.
The memories I bear of my father are so strong that sometimes I think he is still alive, and that I can ask him things. Has the chimney been swept in the past decade? Dad will know. How old is the pump that draws water from the well? Dad will know – I will call him right now. I am slightly shocked every time I catch my mind filling in the blanks with “Dad will know.” He probably would have known if he had not smoked, drank, and worried himself into an early grave. My hand reaches on impulse for my phone when I want to talk to someone about life’s difficulties.
I very soon remember that Dad is dead. He cannot return my calls. His ashes are in a box deep underground. There is no one around to share in my laughter, my joy. I cast about for him but he is gone, forever.
Dad is now the cat that does not laugh.

Requiescat in pace, GHWR.