Ken's Blog

Every once in a while you run across a story which is so incredibly stupid, embarrassing, and “hit me in the face with a brick” idiotic that it becomes weirdly transcendent.

Such a story happened the other day, when Tim Torkildson lost his job at the Nomen Global Language Center in Provo, Utah, because his boss, Clarke Woodger, sacked him for posting a lesson on “Homophones”.

As everyone who reads this blog knows, a homophone is a word that sounds like another word. You can’t really teach English without covering this essential topic. But Mr. Woodger, apparently, thought that teaching about homophones would promote a gay agenda.

Around this point, you are probably thinking that I’m making this up. But no, I swear, this is actually what happened.

I suppose I could try to say something clever and funny about this. But what could be funnier, in a tragic sort of way, than what actually happened here?

Today I went to the opening of the “Evolution of Gaming” exhibit of old computer games at the Centre for Digital Media in Vancouver. Unlike many other exhibits of historical computer games that date back half a century or more, this one lets you play with the originals.

In order to accomplish this, the organizers searched on eBay and other places, to find original games from the ’80s, ’70s and earlier that had just been languishing in garages and basements for decades. Where needed, the games were put back into working order, and now the experience of playing them has been opened up to the public.

There were lots of little kids roaming around the exhibit today, trying out such classics as Pong, Asteroids, Space Invaders, Pac Man and, well, Evolution. It’s wonderful to see these kids take to such games with true excitement and enthusiasm. They weren’t counting pixels and polygons, and they didn’t seem to care that there wasn’t a modern GPU in sight.

It’s good to be reminded that some things are timeless — like good game design.

Third attempt:

“Words cannot express how much I love you.”

Success!! 🙂

Second attempt:

“My Darling, I do not deserve you — you are so much more than I am. If I am but a brief moment in time, you are eternity itself. If I am a mere housefly, you are a winged eagle. If I am one of those little holes in a postage stamp, you are the Grand Canyon. If I am an insignificant atom, you are a planet. If I am a planet, you are the Sun. If I am the Sun, you are the Milky Way galaxy itself!!!”

“What?”

“No, I wasn’t trying to say you look fat.”

“To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say, and to finish without knowing what you have written.” — Jean-Jacques Rousseau

First attempt:

“I miss your eyes, bright like the lights from inside a refrigerator full of yummy food, I miss your lips like two pomegranates ripe enough to eat but not, you know, so ripe yet that they start to smell funny. I miss your nose that sticks out of your face so proudly, telling me that you are here well before the rest of you does. I miss your elbows, your knees, that little mole you have that I noticed one day but never told you about because it is in such an embarrassing part of your body. I love every part of you, and I just, well, um, wanted you to know that.”

Pita knew that his offer would not be refused — since everyone knows that the Baba Ghanoush loves music. And so Pita began to play upon his baklava.

And it was a sweet pastry of music indeed, composed of layers upon layers of delicate melody, sweetened and held together by notes of pure honey. For nobody could play the baklava like young Pita.

Eventually his listener, lulled by the magic of his playing, fell into a deep reverie, and began to doze off. And that is when the young man saw his chance. For he knew that this was not the true Baba Ghanoush, but the Foul Mudammas in disguise.

Taking out his trusty shish kebab, Pita plunged the sharp blade into the stomach of the sleeping monster. And lo and behold, fatoosh! out came Hummus, alive and well, if somewhat the worse for wear.

Once they were sure that the monster was well and truly dead, together they traveled back to the cottage, where their Dolma wept with joy to see them. She was glad to find that they had brought with them the coin purse of the treacherous Foul Mudammas, which indeed contained a fortune.

“Ah my sons,” their Dolma said proudly, “I knew you would come back to me, and that you would turn our tzatziki into a fortune. But tell me Hummus, how did it feel, to be trapped inside the belly of such a foul monster?”

Hummus looked at his Dolma, and he looked at Pita. Then he shrugged. “To tell you the truth, it falafel.”

fini

After several days, their Dolma began to become worried. “Pita, we have not heard from Hummus. I am afraid all may not be well with your brother.”

“Never fear, Dolma dear, I will see to it.”

“Ah, you always were a clever boy,” she said. “Here are the other ten tzatziki. I am sorry that I have nothing else to give you, other than my blessing.”

“There is no greater gift,” said Pita solemnly. With that, he kissed his Dolma goodbye, strapped his baklava to his back, and strode confidently out into the world.

Pita was smaller than his brother, but he was very bright. Fortunately, he was blessed with the confidence of the clever, and so he was sure he could turn ten tzatziki into a fortune, and help out his brother as well.

About a mile down the road, he ran into the Baba Ghanoush. “Greetings, Baba Ghanoush,” he said.

She looked at him with her one good eye. “Young man, I see you have ten tzatziki. Would you like to turn that into a fortune?”

Pita was intrigued to see that Baba Ghanoush was wearing her eye patch on the wrong eye. “It is rare indeed,” he thought to himself, “for someone to change one good eye for the other.”

“Is everything all right?” asked the Baba Ghanoush, seeing that Pita looked concerned.

Pita thought this over for a moment. “Oh yes, everything is just fine, Baba Ghanoush. But what is the rush? For I have brought my baklava, and everyone knows that you love music.”

Alas for Hummus, he was not a very good Tabouleh player. One by one, the young man saw his tzatziki disappear into the rather large coin bag of the Baba Ghanoush.

Seeing his concern, the Baba Ghanoush made him an offer. “Tell you what,” she said agreeably. “I will give you a chance to get back your money, and then some. Let us play one more round. If you win, you can take anything that is mine. If I win, I can take anything that is yours.”

Eyeing her large bag, Hummus eagerly agreed. After all, he had nothing else, so what did he have to lose?

In a few minutes it was all over — the Baba Ghanoush had won the final round. “And now, I take my prize,” she said, smiling. And before his eyes, she changed shape.

“Baba Ghanoush,” said Hummus in surprise, “you look just like the Foul Mudammas!”

“That is because I am the Foul Mudammas!” she said menacingly.

Hummus turned pale at this unexpected turn of events. “But what can you take that is mine to give?”

“You!” she said, smiling, as she opened wide her scaly jaws. In a mere moment, fatoosh! she had swallowed him whole.

One fine spring day Hummus and Pita came home to find their Dolma waiting for them.

“It is time,” she said, “that you boys learn to make your way in the world. Hummus, since you are the eldest, you need to lead the way. Here are ten tzatziki. Go use them to make your fortune. But beware the Foul Mudammas!”

Hummus was a fine strapping lad, but none too bright. Fortunately, he was blessed with the confidence of the stupid, and so he was sure he could turn ten tzatziki into a fortune.

About a mile down the road, he ran into the Baba Ghanoush. “Greetings, Baba Ghanoush,” he said.

She looked at him with her one good eye. “Young man, I see you have ten tzatziki. Would you like to turn that into a fortune?”

Hummus was pleased to see that opportunity was coming so quickly. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “How do I do that?”

“I suggest,” the Baba Ghanoush said pleasantly, “that we play for it. Perhaps a round of Tabouleh?”

Hummus loved games, and so they had a go of it.

(to be continued)

Vancouver on a summer evening
Is nothing like New York’s crazy hot neurotic
Shifting energy.
When you walk down a Vancouver street
In the summer coolness,

The open sky above is huge
Filled with clouds that paint pictures in a palette
Of gray and blue,
Pictures that always seem to lead
To the mountains beyond.

The traffic here is different too.
Even on a busy street, sometimes, without warning
The cars disappear
And for a moment there is no city at all
Just the stillness of night.