The Carper

“Less than one in three Americans support U.S. pullout from Iran deal” (Reuters headline).

FEWER than one in three…” would be better.

“Less” qualifies something you don’t normally count: “less sewage.”

“Few” qualifies something you CAN count: “fewer turds.”

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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“Woman With Rifle”

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“Woman With Revolver”

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Didactic Doggerel

The Drunken Forest

Oh my! I think that I shall never see
A sight as silly as a tipsy tree.

The only sight that’s funnier so far?
A forest that looks like it closed the bar.

If you think that’s a gas, consider this:
The trees have not indulged in drunken bliss.

A sinkhole caused by melting permafrost,
A thermokarst, makes them look turned and tossed.

Dead munchies for the wooly mammoth clan,
Iced down for longer than the reign of man,

Are thawing out just like a frozen veggie,
And making scientists a little edgy.

In places like Alaska and Siberia
They may not be collapsing in hysteria

(Yes, that would be a slight exaggeration),
But still there is a lot of consternation.

They say it’s getting warmer by the year
On planet Earth, and what we have to fear

Is that the trend is irreversible,
That northern lands may turn combustible

And spew out methane and carbon dioxide,
Making life still toastier outside.

The Anaktuvuk River tundra fire
Could be the start of something very dire.

The burning of the lichens and the mosses
May start a process of ongoing losses.

It’s carbon, everyone! There’s too much of it.
It melts the polar ice, but we still love it.

If carbon makes our planet lose its cool,
I’ll feel like such a selfish fossil fool.

References
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/17/science/earth/warming-arctic-permafrost-fuels-climate-change-
worries.html
http://thinkprogress.org/romm/2011/12/19/392242/carbon-time-bomb-in-arctic-new-york-times-print-
edition-gets-the-story-right/

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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Listening to…

Kizzy Crawford and Gwilym Simcock, “Birdsong” (album). The songs are in English and Welsh.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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It’s Free

[Product Description for St. Claire’s Organic Candy Licorice Pastilles on Amazon}

“A folding display box containing six tins of licorice tablets. Contains no artificial coloring, flavoring, or animal by-products. It is Wheat-free, Gluten-free, Dairy-free, Casein-free, Nut-free, Soy-free, Egg-free, Fish/Shellfish-free, Corn-free. Also 100% vegetarian and Feingold Accepted.”

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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To a Friend — Coding

Terrific article. I like the analogy to cooking. It’s been used before. One of the practice problems posed in an old book of mine was to write pseudo-code on how to boil an egg. It helps grasp the notion of explicitly sequenced instructions that don’t contain hidden assumptions.

I prefer the verb “to program” to the verb “to code,” though “coding” is kissed with sexy cachet now. Code is the fruit of programming (even if it’s rotten!). The yen to program bit me hard and early after I stumbled into the computer industry in ’85. At that time many if not most programmers, including the rock stars, were self-taught and came from other disciplines. I followed them, and look back with great affection on the various books that accompanied me in my struggles. OOP opened up my world. I miss programming every day, and count it a defeat that I didn’t manage to make a living at it.

Computer science is taught badly in the universities (as are many subjects). It’s the prisoner of career academics who inflate the subject and make it arcane in order to justify their jobs. The very term “computer science” is suspect. I equate it to renaming foreign languages “Language Science.” Programmers are not “scientists,” and for a long time they weren’t “engineers” either. They are linguists of a high order, translators even, and that’s high praise. The current terminology, like the curriculum, is full of specious overkill that misses the point: Good books, a compiler, and midnight oil can get you to programming if your gut burns with desire. (If it doesn’t, what are you doing in “computer science” anyway?) And the sad fact sought to be evaded everywhere is that such effort must precede any practical or creative application of the skills eventually acquired.

I’m viscerally at odds with the article’s thesis that “coding” can or should give way to “computational thinking.” A key quotation is this: “…The building part is often not the hardest part. It’s figuring out what to build.” No. Even a computer illiterate bass fisherman from Texas can pose a problem (such as the lost fire hydrants example). The programmer’s job is to estimate the feasibility of a software solution and, if his guess errs on the side of optimism, to write a program that may solve the problem using his tediously acquired mastery of Java (C++, etc.) syntax. Success is not preordained; it’s reached, or not, by setting out on the code journey.

The statement quoted above frays when you apply it to foreign language: “…The speaking part is often not the hardest part. It’s figuring out what to say.” Huh? After you figure out what to say, then what? Hire a translator? Google Translate? Please!

It pains me how tedium is demonized in our culture. Tedium of one sort or another underpins creativity, whether it be poetry, music, archery, painting, marriage, or programming. We’ll never generate a critical mass of “code literate” citizens in our country any more than we’ll generate a critical mass of bilingual citizens. As a society the will is lacking but for the elite. Acquiring such skills involves tedium and sacrifice, at least until such time as they may be instilled from the cradle. That would require a critical mass of intelligent parents!

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

 

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Written in the 70s — of “understanding”

of “understanding”) that remain untried.

This is a queer neck of the woods, both familiar and alien.

Jay looked at the sunlight coruscating on the ivy jumbled at the foot of the live-oak, just getting a grip. “This is me,” he said. “I wrote that.” He added, “Jay, what is the least that you hope for? How little will do?”

Pleased with the questions, he got up from his chair and went out the back door, slamming it a little. [to express exuberance.] He walked back to the barn, where he proposed to make a list of all the tools he could find, getting their names very accurately. He would memorize the list. He would learn to call a spade a spade. Jay giggled, [at this.]

In an effort to escape his clotted, adverbial thoughts Jay […]

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

70s-14
Written in the 70s, 70s-14. (Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
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“Woman Pointing”

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This Is Stag Country

Alabaster Lafferty was a Van Dam, taught in the old grammar school that stood where the Saddlebag used to stand, caddycorner to where the Sno-Cone was. Rondorian courted her for nine years. His daddy Nicodemus married them. Octavia Burwell said Grandpa Nick would thunder against dancing from the pulpit. If you’re gonna dance, step out of the pulpit, she said he said, but I think that’s a tall tale. Her brother Truman played nose guard for the Stags until he got sidelined with a torn biceps. Didn’t make it back from the war. Octavia visits Alabaster in the rest home. She’s ninety-seven years old, and flirts with the male nurses like it’s going out of style. Some fires are never banked.

(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)

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