Rumor control, continued

After I posted about Facebook this morning, some new information came to me which needs to be added to the previous post:

  • The name “Facebook,” said backwards, sounds like, “Kubsafe.”
  • Kubsafe was a goat-headed god worshiped by some of the indigenous people of West Africa, as well as by some of their descendants in the Caribbean islands and along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.
  • It is said that if a person walks into a dark room, faces a mirror, and says the name of Kubsafe three times in a row without pausing, the face of the god will appear in the mirror. Under certain circumstances, that figure in the mirror may try to harm the person who has invoked him.
  • People of a certain age (or a certain level of maturity), having read this information, will try that very experiment tonight.

You have been warned. J.

Advertisements

Rumor control

I received an urgent Facebook message from my cousin this week. She had received a friend request from me which she knew was spurious, since we are already Facebook friends. She proceeded to instruct me how to warn all my Facebook contacts not to accept a new friend request from me, since someone is obviously using my name and picture for no good purpose.

I thanked my cousin for her warning and told her not to worry—most Facebook users are savvy enough not to refriend someone who is already a Facebook friend. When she repeated her warning, I sent her a link to a Snopes page about Facebook pirates, and she then told me that she felt better and less worried.

When I was in high school and college we did not yet have Snopes. We had to rely on something which we called common sense. Mimeographed sheets were passed around schools, churches, workplaces, and the neighborhood with warnings about sinister plots in the world. The Procter & Gamble company, maker of soaps and toothpastes and many other household items, was actually a satanic organization, which could be proved by studying their corporate logo. Rock musicians were hiding nefarious messages in their popular songs by recording the messages backwards. Atheist Madalyn Murray O’Hair had persuaded members of Congress to introduce legislation that would ban all Christian broadcasting from American radio and television. None of these messages was true, but without Snopes to discredit them, these messages continued to be shared and believed.

Somehow in the twenty-first century Facebook has become the target of these kinds of rumors. Facebook is going to start charging users for its services. Facebook has claimed ownership and intellectual control of anything its users have ever posted, even if they have deleted those posts. Facebook pirates are using the identities of Facebook users to hack into other users’ accounts and cause terrible harm and destruction.

Snopes has addressed all of these rumors and found them to be incorrect. (Of course if you Google the phrase “Snopes tool Illuminati,” you will receive nearly 42,000 hits in less than half a second.) Facebook users shouldn’t have to check with Snopes before accessing their accounts. Some old-fashioned common sense should dispel any rumors about Facebook, as I will now try to demonstrate:

  • Facebook makes a lot of money providing its free services to its users. If it was not profitable, Facebook would not continue to exist. But it’s not your money that Facebook is earning, so why should you even care?
  • Facebook does not claim ownership of the material its users post. On the other hand, everything posted on Facebook is available all over the Internet to every kind of user. Stalkers and other creepy people can see what you post on Facebook. So can people who have a more legitimate reason to care what you post. Never post anything on Facebook that you would not want seen by your parents, your children, your neighbors, your current employer, or any possible future employer. Use Instagram for those embarrassing posts.
  • Some of the people you encounter on Facebook will have beliefs and opinions that differ from yours. These people include relatives, old high school friends, and even members of your church. They will post statements that you believe to be wrong. They will disagree with things that you post. They will sometimes be rude about these differences. Life happens.
  • If you do not read the things you post before you send them to Facebook, you will sometimes be guilty of silly and embarrassing typos, misspelled words, and improper grammar. A quick run through what you have written will help you catch those mistakes, and this can affect the opinion other people have of you. Save your typos and other mistakes for Twitter.
  • Facebook is not the world. It does not deserve more of your attention than your job, your household, or your relationship with the Lord. It is possible to turn off Facebook and step away from the computer. It is possible to go an entire day without looking at Facebook. Some people live normal and happy lives without even having a Facebook account.

I hope this information has been helpful. J.

Haunted Eureka Springs

With two family members I went up to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, recently. I say we went up because Eureka Springs is high in the Ozark Mountains of northwest Arkansas. Eureka Springs once billed itself as a health resort; it is now very much a tourist destination. Packed with small shops and historic sites, a trip to Eureka Springs is in some ways a journey into the past.

The three of us stayed in a motel on the main highway. I know I shouldn’t complain—our lodgings were probably better than those of half the world’s population—but the place was rather decrepit and poorly-run. The one lock on the main door to our room was hard to work—even the motel manager struggled with it. The door to the bathroom closed but did not latch shut. Both the heater and the refrigerator were loud, making it difficult to fall asleep once the lights were out. The cleaning service left a plastic cup on the floor behind the toilet and a slipper on the floor by the dresser. The complementary breakfast was missing, except for a little breakfast cereal and a pitcher of milk in the mini-fridge. Worst of all, the room we were staying in was haunted.

Let me immediately interrupt my account to say that I do not believe in hauntings. The Bible says that when a believer dies, his or her soul is immediately taken to Paradise; when an unbeliever dies, his or her soul is immediately taken to Hades. Human spirits do not linger on this planet. Accounts of hauntings are due to a combination of wishful thinking (or dread), imagination, exaggeration, occasionally deliberate fraud, and unexpected events that fool the senses into seeing or hearing something that is not really there. The fact that I do not believe in ghosts does not prevent me from enjoying a good ghost story. I’ve even written a ghost story, which you can read here if you wish.

The Crescent Hotel, high atop a hill in Eureka Springs, is claimed to be haunted. It opened as a hotel and currently operates as a hotel, but in between it has been a girls’ school and a hospital. The proprietors encourage legends of ghosts in the building and even provide a tour of the hotel to allow guides to talk about the history of the building and the ghosts that supposedly remain there. For example, one ghost lives in a certain room of the Hotel and generally leaves guests alone. If they are loud or quarrelsome, though, it has been known to take the clothing the guests hung neatly in the closet and drop them to the floor.

The three of us stopped by the Crescent Hotel, not to take the ghost tour (which all of us have taken before), but to look at Christmas decorations. We also drove around the city to look at other decorations. When we returned to the motel, we hung up our winter coats and sat down to play a card game. The hangers in the motel, like those of many budget motels, are not ordinary hangers with hooks on the top. Instead, they have pegs which fit into slotted knobs on the hanger rod. I guess this keeps guests from stealing hangers from the hotel, since those peg-topped hangers would be useless anywhere else. Like everything else in the motel, the peg-topped hangers and slotted knobs were worn with age and with frequent use.

So we were playing a card game—not being particularly loud or at all quarrelsome—when one of the coats across the room dropped to the floor. Its owner picked it up and hung it again. Soon the same coat and another both dropped to the floor. At various times each of us had to rehang our coats, although mine dropped only once. We congratulated ourselves at experiencing a ghost in Eureka Springs without having to pay the fee for the ghost tour of the Crescent Hotel.

During the night I was startled awake by a voice that called my name. It was a young woman’s voice, although not that of anyone I recognized. We agreed the next morning that I must have been addressed by the same ghost who played with our coats, and another of us had to search for her socks in the morning, as they were not where she remembered leaving them the night before.

If anyone wants to stay in the haunted motel room in Eureka Springs, I can tell you the name of the motel and the room number. But don’t expect to sleep soundly or to be fed breakfast in the morning. About all they have to offer is their ghost. J.

PS: Due to trouble with the modem that serves my home computer, I am having to reach WordPress at the library. As a result, you can expect some irregularity in the posting of my Advent thoughts.

It’s beginning to sound a lot like….

My youngest daughter jinxed my car radio this week.

We were traveling together Tuesday afternoon, and I was listening to my favorite radio station. It’s an “Adult Contemporary” station which plays hit music from the 80s and 90s up to the present—usually with a minimum of talk, although the morning drive hosts do tend to chatter, and they have give-away contests with listeners phoning in to get their voices on the air. But I digress….

I made a comment about the song that was playing, and my daughter remarked, “You’re lucky they haven’t started playing Christmas music wall-to-wall,” to which I agreed. That was Tuesday.

Wednesday they started playing Christmas music “24-7” as they periodically announced, “from now until Christmas Day.”

I may be a curmudgeon, but I don’t hate all Christmas music. I am fairly tolerant of Christmas music at the right time and the right place. I once knew a man who was retired and who played Christmas music twelve months a year in his basement while he added to his model train landscape and tinkered with the trains. I think that if and when I retire, I might get into model trains. I’d listen to my own favorite music, though—classical one day, Beatles the next, and hits from the 80s some other days… and in December, Christmas music. But, again, I digress….

I will say one good thing about the music I’ve heard on this station Wednesday and today: they are mixing a few carols in with the secular Christmas songs. Christ the Savior is being proclaimed along with Frosty and Rudolph and Santa Claus. My patience with Christmas music is generally exhausted when only the secular songs are played.

There truly are two holidays called Christmas. One marks the coming of God’s Savior to rescue and redeem the world. The other is about gifts and decorations and the winter solstice. Because they happen around the same time, people tend to blend them together. But the tradition of the Church since ancient times has been to celebrate the holiday of Christmas with twelve days, beginning on December 25 and extending to January 5. The four weeks before Christmas are called the Advent Season. When observed in the traditional way, Advent is known for somber hymns and for Bible readings about why we sinners need a Savior. This year Advent begins on Sunday December 2. Tomorrow is not yet even Advent yet: it is the Last Sunday of the Church Year, also known as Christ the King Sunday and as the Sunday of the Fulfillment. We will not be singing about the baby in the manger or the herald angels for another month inside the church.

Yet because of the blending of the two Christmases, the tree will be going up early in December even in the church building; and the children’s Christmas pageant will be in the middle of the month, before school dismisses and families begin traveling to other places for the holidays.

On the second day of Christmas, the radio station will return to its usual music. By the sixth day of Christmas, many families will have taken down their decorations and put them in storage until next November. In our house, the tree and other decorations will remain out at least until after the twelfth day of Christmas; some of the more durable decorations will stay up until Candlemas, also known as Groundhog Day. But once again I digress….

The Last Sunday of the Church year is a time for the Church to consider cosmic eschatology: the glorious appearing of the Lord, his Judgment, and the dawn of his new creation. One of the hymns we will sing tomorrow is the harvest hymn, “Come Ye Thankful People, Come,” which begins with talk of the worldly harvest and then shifts into a discussion of the harvest of the earth on the Last Day. When this hymn is sung on Thanksgiving or the night before, people tend to focus only on thanksgiving for earthly blessings. Sung again on the Sunday of the Fulfillment, people will change their focus to that final harvest that awaits us all. Then we are ready for Advent, another way to regard the coming of our King. We will not let the world rush us; we will leave time in the hands of the Lord. J.

Oak leaves

Forty years ago, the developers who built the neighborhood where I live decided to construct houses in an oak forest without ripping out all the oak trees; they preserved as many as they could. So we have all the benefits of living among oak trees: the beauty, the shade, the wildlife. We also have the costs of living among oak trees: the falling leaves in autumn, the allergies. For me, the benefits far outweigh the costs. I don’t complain about the oaks or their leaves; I am distressed whenever a homeowner decides to remove oak trees from his or her property.

The city owns a giant vacuum cleaner truck that travels around the various neighborhoods, reaching each neighborhood two times every autumn, to pick up leaves from the curbside. They only pick up leaves within six feet of the street. Many homeowners rake their leaves to the curbside and let the piles sit there until the truck comes and takes them away. The city shreds the leaves and uses them as mulch in the city parks. I strongly approve of this policy.

My house is at the end of a cul de sac, one of five whose driveways lead into the circular turnabout. As a result, the property is a trapezoid rather than the traditional rectangle: tiny little front yard; expansive back yard and side yard. Because of this arrangement, I don’t have much of a curb for depositing leaves; the driveway consumes half of the curbside and the mailbox takes up another quarter, leaving four or five feet for the weekly garbage and biweekly recycling pickup. Some years I’ve tried piling leaves on those few square feet available, but my property receives far more fallen leaves than will fit in that area. Besides, putting leaves there leaves no room for the garbage and recycling containers. So, like many other people in the neighborhood, I bag my leaves and leave them to be picked up on Monday morning, not by the giant vacuum cleaner, but by the regular truck that carries lawn and garden waste to the dump. Unlike many other people in the neighborhood, I put my leaves in biodegradable paper bags rather than plastic bags. In two or three years, even in the city dump, my leaves and their bags will have become fertile soil that eventually will find its way into the city ecosystem to the benefit of other trees and various plants. Mrs. Dim’s leaves, on the other hand, will still be encased in plastic when her grandchildren have reached her present age, providing no benefit to anyone or anything.

Saturday morning Mrs. Dim was busy blowing her leaves into piles with a loud leaf-blower, shredding them with her mower, and then emptying the mower bag into large black plastic bags to leave on the street. She is one of several in the neighborhood who handle leaves in that fashion, so Saturdays are often accompanied by chorus of blowers and mowers from dawn to dusk.

Saturday afternoon I got out my rake and my “bearclaws” and my paper bags. (Bearclaws are like rakes without long handles. They fit over each hand to enable the user to scoop up copious amounts of leaves and drop them into a bag.) In about one hour I was able to clean leaves off the deck, the front lawn, and the driveway, filling nine bags. I stopped after that hour of work for three reasons. First, only eight bags fit on the curbside, two rows of four. Second, I generally refuse to spend more than an hour each week on lawn work. Third, an hour of raking and lifting and bending is about all my back and my allergies can handle. So the leaves in the back yard and the side yard will have to wait for another day—perhaps later this autumn, perhaps not until spring.

When I started working in the front lawn, Mrs. Dim was washing her car on her driveway. Mrs. Dim has a routine system of washing a vehicle with great attention to detail, often taking two hours or more to complete. She bellowed at me—Mrs. Dim never talks; she always bellows—”Hey, J., who do you think is going to win the War of the Leaves?”

I looked upwards. “My money is on the trees,” I told her. They’ve had a lot of years of practice, and they’re good at what they do.”

“I know,” she said. “I raked this morning, and look—you can hardly tell that I did it.” I could tell that she did it; there were a lot of black plastic bags piled on the street, but it was true that a few more leaves had fallen since the morning. “I’m going to wait two weeks before I rake again,” she announced.

“I think that’s a good plan,” I responded.

After that we both worked in relative silence. I enjoyed the shushing of the leaves as I raked and gathered them. I enjoyed the crunching as I walked through sections I had not yet raked. Unfortunately another neighbor was using his blower to clear his back yard, so I could not completely enjoy a peaceful afternoon, but it came close.

I imagined a further conversation with Mrs. Dim. I imagined her asking me why I was putting my bags of leaves back by the shed instead of leaving them at the curb until Monday morning’s pickup. I imagined me telling her that no one likes to look out their front window and see a pile of bags. I imagined her agreeing and saying that she always puts her trash next to the driveway so she doesn’t see them from the house. “I’ve noticed,” I would say, because her driveway and her trash are what I see when I look out the front window of my house.

That’s the price of having a trapezoidal lot with an expansive back lawn and side lawn and a tiny front lawn. When Mrs. Dim washes her car, it’s as if she’s doing it in our front lawn; it’s right outside our living room windows. When Mrs. Dim blows her leaves or mows and trims and edges, her noisy tasks are happening right in front of our house. When Mrs. Dim carries on a conversation with another neighbor or with someone on the telephone, her words are broadcast throughout our house. What can you do? It’s not criminal behavior you can report to the police; it’s just one of the nuisances of having neighbors.

I should have a clever concluding paragraph to wrap up this rambling account, but nothing comes to mind. Feel free to add a conclusion of your own devising. J.

Watch your language!

Some people believe that the world has become more crass and vulgar in recent times. I have recently noticed evidence to the contrary. In fact, one might consider these two incidents to be examples of delicacy (or perhaps political correctness) run amuck.

The first example comes from the grocery store. I am making a German dinner this weekend, featuring sauerbraten. The recipe calls for a cut of beef called “rump roast.” I discovered that the grocery store now describes this cut as “bottom cut roast.” “Bottom cut” instead of “rump”—seriously?

A few weeks ago, right after Burt Reynolds died, two DJs on the radio were talking about movies he had made, and one of them mentioned “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” which also starred Dolly Parton. Except that the producer of the show bleeped out the first syllable of “whorehouse” every time one of the DJs uttered the title. Noticing this, the DJ expressed his surprise that the name of the movie could have been advertised back in the 1980s.

Basic courtesy toward other people causes many of us to avoid crude and insulting terms in our speaking and our writing. Even the Bible warns us to be careful how we speak. Modern translations of the Bible always use the words rooster and donkey when naming those creatures, although some traditional hymns and carols still include the one-syllable synonyms for those names, terms that were included in the Authorized Version of the Bible (the King James translation). Since I remember the nervous giggling those terms provoked in teen Bible class years ago, I do not mind the newer words.

But—again—“bottom cut”—seriously?

One wonders what the main cut of white meat from chicken and other poultry will soon be called if this trend continues. J.

She speaks, yet she says nothing–what’s with that?

Language is a strange and wonderful thing. Whereas Pythagoras believed that reality at its most basic level consists of numbers, the Bible reports that God spoke the universe and all that it contains into existence. Moreover, when the Son of God entered creation to redeem and rescue it from evil, one of his followers identified him as “the Word” and wrote, “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.”

On the other hand, when a group of people defied God and sought to build a tower as a symbol of their defiance, God overturned their rebellion by causing them to speak different languages. Humble and loving people could have overcome this opposition by learning to communicate with one another, but arrogant people like the tower-builders each insisted that he or she was speaking the only proper language and that those who spoke another language were wrong. As a result, the tower was never built.

Since that time, languages have changed, mixed, spread, and in some cases disappeared. English is largely a blend of Germanic and Latin vocabulary and grammar, with some Celtic and other influences stirred into the mix as well. As a result of that mixture and of centuries of change, English contains many mysteries, such as the contradictory pronunciation of the words “tough,” “though,” “through,” and “thought.” New words regularly appear. The word “inflammable” means “likely to burst into flame.” At some point in the twentieth century, someone feared that people would misunderstand the word “inflammable” and shortened it to “flammable.” Now both words are in the dictionary, with identical meanings, even though it appears they should be antonyms rather than synonyms.

A friend of mine thought she could obtain an easy A in high school by taking classes in Spanish. After all, she spoke Spanish at home with her family every day. To her disappointment, she discovered that speaking Spanish at home was not the same as understanding Spanish. Her grammar was not up to her teacher’s standards, her spelling was incorrect, and her vocabulary was smaller than she realized. Getting a good grade in her own language turned out to be far more difficult than she had expected.

This week another blogger took me to task for referring to the meaning of the Greek prefix “anti” in the title “antichrist.” In the Greek of the New Testament, as written in the first century A.D., the prefix “anti” means “taking the place of,” not so much “in opposition to,” as it signifies in contemporary English. The blogger’s rebuttal of my comment surprised me so much that I did not respond, and now it’s water under the bridge, too late for a meaningful discussion. If I offended anyone by seeming too proud of my knowledge of Biblical Greek, I apologize. But the blogger’s suggestion that knowing Greek and Hebrew are not helpful for understanding the Bible carries things a bit too far.

On the one hand, to learn the commandments of God and to see that we have not kept those commandments does not require any knowledge of Greek or Hebrew. The English translations convey that message quite well. To recognize Jesus as the Son of God who redeems and rescues sinners through his sinless life and sacrificial death also requires no special language skills. Once again, the translated Bible conveys that message effectively. To know of his victorious resurrection, his guarantee of eternal life in a new creation, and his ongoing presence in this world also requires no Greek or Hebrew studies. In this case also, the basic message is communicated flawlessly in any translation of the Bible.

Anyone who presumes to teach others about the Bible should go beyond these basics. Even if he or she does not learn to read Hebrew and Greek fluently, he or she at least should be capable of consulting reference books on the Bible and understanding their application. Not only does the Bible need to be translated from ancient languages into contemporary languages; information about the cultures in which the Bible was written needs to be learned as well. Misunderstandings of certain verses and conflicts between different interpretations of the Bible are reduced (but, alas, in a sin-stained world, not eliminated) by consulting the Bible in its original languages and contexts rather than trusting contemporary translations to convey the full meaning and nuance of each word, each sentence, and each paragraph.

The other blogger mentioned a case in which a man from Athens corrected a preacher who referred to some Greek word or phrase from the New Testament. Because no details were included, I cannot tell whether the preacher was truly in error or if the preacher was kind and polite enough not to insist to the man from Athens that the preacher was correct in his interpretation. Consider a similar scenario: a person in France has studied Elizabethan English in order to understand the plays of Shakespeare. Now this French person is teaching a class on Shakespeare. A man from North Carolina challenges the teacher’s explanation of a certain line, insisting that he has spoken English all his life and is better qualified to explain Shakespeare than anyone who grew up in France. (By the way, Andy Griffith performed a wonderful routine about Romeo and Juliet in which, when Juliet exclaims, “Romeo, Romeo, wherefor art thou Romeo?” and Romeo responds, in a thick Carolina accent, “Why I’m right here.”)

A Cuban-born woman once asked me the rule for when the letter t should be pronounced like a d in English. Until that time I had not noticed how often Americans pronounce ts as ds. Say the sentence “I wrote a letter to my sister” with crisp ts and notice how odd it sounds. But if a rule exists about when ts sound like ds, I’ve never learned it. By the same token, Spanish speakers often distinguish “b as in burro” and “v as in vaca” because their bs and vs sound the same.

Language is a strange and wonderful thing. When we think casually about communication, we tend to think of a single message being sent from one person to another. But there are several versions of each message: the version the creator intended, the version actually produced, and the version received by the audience. To further complicate matters, there is the actual creator and the creator assumed by the audience, as well as the actual audience and the audience assumed by the creator. When carefully studying a message, all these versions and participants must be kept in mind. It’s a wonder that two of us can communicate at all in this crazy world. J.

Five stages of waking up

Some people greet each day with a smile. They open their eyes and thank God for another day to be alive. They consider themselves blessed to be able to get out of bed once again and get started on a brand new day—the first day of the rest of their lives, they say.

Others do not wake so quickly and easily. Leaving bed is a chore and a burden. The new day holds no promise of good things to come. They would prefer to delay its beginning for a while.

In fact, recent studies have shown that the second group of people goes through five stages while waking and getting out of bed. They may not experience them in the same way, to the same degree, or even in the same order. Still, the pattern is regular enough to be described. The five stages of waking are anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

ANGER: That blasted alarm clock! Why does it have to be so loud and so early? If the alarm clock is not to blame, if the sun is shining through the window or the birds are singing, the anger is no less. And if waking is due to the neighbor mowing, the anger is all the greater.

DENIAL: It’s not morning, not yet. Someone has made a mistake. I set the alarm clock for the wrong time. And what business does anyone have getting up so early in the day? I need sleep more than I need to get up and get anything done this morning.

BARGAINING: This is why snooze buttons were invented. Just ten minutes more in bed, or maybe just five minutes. (I learned in college—without the help of professors or textbooks—the dangers of denial and bargaining when combined with a snooze button. For this reason, I always place the alarm clock across the room from the bed. I cannot switch it off before my feet have touched the floor.)

DEPRESSION: I’ll just stay in bed. The rest of the world can get through the day without me. I have nothing positive to contribute. Sleep is the only thing I’m good at. (This is no joke. People battling depression report that getting out of bed is the hardest task of the day. Counseling, awareness, and—in some cases—medication can be helpful in this regard.)

ACCEPTANCE: In most cases, the anger and denial and bargaining and depression are swallowed by the real need to start the day. The bedcovers are pushed back, the feet hit the floor, and its on to the bathroom to start the routine: brush teeth, shower, comb hair, get dressed, and whatever else needs to be done before breakfast and the first mug of coffee.

Lest perchance thou dost believe that I am inventing all these stages out of thin air, consider how William Shakespeare depicted them (although not in the proper order) in Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 5:

 

JULIET (Denial)

Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO (acceptance, depression)

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

JULIET (denial, bargaining)

Yond light is not day-light, I know it, I;

It is some meteor that the sun exhal’d

To be to thee this night a torch-bearer

And light thee on thy way to Mantua.

Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.

ROMEO (denial, bargaining)

Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death,

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,

’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;

Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat

The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.

I have more care to stay than will to go.

Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.

How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk, it is not day.

JULIET (anger, depression, acceptance)

It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

Some say the lark makes sweet division;

This doth not so, for she divideth us.

Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;

O now I would they had chang’d voices too,

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.

O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

ROMEO (depression)

More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!

 

 

The third time’s the charm

Somehow I acquired the information that a vampire or similar undead being could only go into a dwelling place after being invited three times to enter. Some research on the internet this morning has convinced me that the three times is incorrect. That’s a shame, because the story I am about to tell would be much more interesting if it were true. As for being unable to enter without an invitation, that depends entirely on the author or scriptwriter, but it is a very common rule. Given the amount of trouble and damage these beings can accomplish, it’s only fair to limit them in some way. Of course they are accomplished at guile, deceit, and charm to get in the door when they so desire.

Garlic, silver, crosses, and other items are supposed to be effective against the undead. They do not work with telemarketers. Having your telephone number on the official “do not call” list is supposed to keep telemarketers away, but there are exceptions to that rule. Charities and political groups are exempt. Also, if you already have a relationship with a company, its telemarketers can call you to offer new or improved products.

So I was working at home one evening this week when the telephone rang. The caller was from the company that provides our television service. My family does not watch enough live TV (not counting DVDs) to get our money’s worth for that service, but it comes in combination with internet and telephone service. At any rate, this caller wanted to thank us for being good customers and was offering a special deal. A group of new channels would be added to our package at no cost for the next three months and only five dollars a month afterward. She listed the new channels she was offering and simply needed for me to say OK. Since this was a special offer for good customers, she seemed completely convinced that I’d be happy and agree to the offer.

I did not agree. I told her that we wouldn’t bother to watch those additional channels even if we had them, and I did not want to have to try to remember to cancel them after three months to avoid the higher rate. As if she had not heard me, she ran through the entire script a second time, again assuming that I was going to say OK. Again, I thanked her and told her we weren’t interested. At this point she asked what I like to watch on TV. Not mentioning the DVDs, I let her know that mostly I watched sports—especially baseball—and also kept up on local weather and news. Hearing the word “sports” she again tried to sign me up for this special offer, mentioning some sports-related part of the package. I politely declined the third time, and the conversation finally ended.

This is where I wanted to compare the telemarketer to a vampire who must be invited three times before entering the house. Since that is not the case, my analogy falls flat. Clearly, though, this telemarketer had been trained to continue the pitch until the third time she heard a “no.” That is a common sales technique and did surprise me at all.

Two nights later she called again—or, more likely, another telemarketer with the same offer and a similar voice. When she had spoken her spiel the first time, I politely replied that I had turned down that offer just the other day. In a polite voice, I added, “and to save us both time, I say again, no, and a third time, no.” My gambit succeeded: she ended the conversation very quickly and hung up.

It’s not like wearing garlic, but it works. J.

Lyin’ with the liars

Is it wrong to lie to someone if that person is lying to you?

One day last week I was working at home when the telephone rang. The caller identified himself with a certain electric power company. He told me that technicians were coming to my house within forty-five minutes to shut off the power because we were behind on our payments. I let him know that this confused me since our electricity does not come from the company he had named. (That part is true; we’re part of an electric cooperative.) He verified my name and address and insisted that the power would be shut off unless I called his company at another number, and he demanded that I write down the number.

I did write it down, then I typed it into Google. Not getting any useful information about the number, I typed the name of the company and the word “scam.” I was led to a page that described his call and said that the follow-up call would be demanding that money be wired to keep the power from being cut.

A few minutes later he called a second time, apologized, and said he had given me the wrong number. He gave a different number that was one digit higher than the first number. I said I understood, told him good-bye, and hung up.

Then I thought of the lie I wish I had said. “I need to warn you that this conversation is being recorded,” I wanted to say, “and is being shared with law enforcement officials in your area as we speak.” If scammers want to scare me, why shouldn’t I give them a scare in return?

The next time a live person (not a recording) tries to convince me that the power is going to be cut or that something is wrong with my computer or that my credit card has been compromised, I will let them know that they are being recorded and can expect the police or FBI to be knocking on their door in the next forty-five minutes. I just wish I could see their faces when I tell them that lie. J.