On a Little "Guilty" Pleasure: Star Trek Voyager

I’ve been watching a lot of Star Trek: Voyager lately.  I’ve been rather addicted, in fact, opening Netflix for something to do as I eat dinner or to unwind before bed (typically a few hours longer than I intend).  I’ll often play spider solitaire while I watch to keep my hands busy (and off of food).  Fortuitously (or not), an unfinished game gives me an excuse to watch another episode, and an unfinished episode gives me an excuse to play another hand, and in this manner, I very enjoyably (if not very productively) pass many hours.

                Some may scoff at my choice of viewing material.  Shows like Castle, Once Upon a Time, and Downton Abbey are more popular, socially “acceptable” series to watch--and these three are, indeed, among my favorites.  Voyager, however, is lighter material for an evening’s entertainment and a pleasant break from reality and from mental exertion.  Another part of its charm is its familiarity and nostalgia; I watched these episodes with my family as a kid, and watching them again lends me an inclusive pleasure not unlike that of understanding an inside joke.  Sure, the show can be corny, predictable, and preachy about everything from evolution to individuality.  Despite that, it’s oddly satisfying.  The crew’s triumphs and happiness become my own.  I am also of the opinion that a little (mostly) wholesome diversion such as this provides (well, probably at less than my current binging rate) can be cathartic and encouraging.

I know others understand this feeling: In the Castle episode “The Final Frontier,” the team investigates a murder at a sci-fi convention--more specifically, on the set of an often-mocked space-faring show.  When Kate Beckett’s coworkers discover she’s a secret fan, they tease her mercilessly.  Later, when she and Castle are alone, talking after hitting a snag in the case, she says, “You’re right, okay?  It was a stupid show.  It was cheesy and melodramatic.  I mean, a handful of academy cadets on a training mission and suddenly the Earth is destroyed and they’re all that’s left of humanity?  I completely understand why you hated it. BUT, Castle, I also understand why people loved it... It was about leaving home for the first time--about searching for your identity and making a difference.  I loved dressing up like Lieutenant Chloe. She didn’t care what anybody thought about her--and I kinda did at that time.  I mean, she was a scientist and a warrior, and that was all in spite of the way she looked.  It was like I could be anything and I didn’t have to choose.  So don’t make fun--okay?” 

I believe the script writers hit that proverbial nail squarely on its proverbial head.  (So, there!)

On the Deplorable Misuse of Commas

I recently “bought” a free Kindle book.  The characters and situation intrigued me, but I kept putting it down in frustration because it was rife with grammatical errors--misspellings, awkward wording, fragments, and run-ons.  In particular, the frequent lack of proper commas slowed my reading, created confusing sentences, and jarred me from the action, thus detracting from my overall enjoyment.  I was dismayed.  Such a great story!  Where was the author’s editor?  How did the author manage to publish it in that state!?  Oh, yes--by not charging anything.

I confess that I didn’t fully understand when to use commas until I became a tutor and had to teach others when to use them.  After studying them properly, I realized how essential they are for the readability of a text.  Yet more and more, I’ve seen an increase in the number of writers--from students to Amazon authors--who disregard their importance and willfully disdain to learn their rules.  As for why, the ease of releasing text messages, blogs, online novels, and so forth has inundated us with poorly edited language, so much that I suspect we’ve become inured to it.  We now find comma-related errors in everything from church bulletins to newsprint to bestselling books.  In my work as a tutor, I’ve even heard some students declare that correct grammar looks “wrong.”  (I could comment here on the state of public high school education, but it would sidetrack from my point.)  In short, the proper usage of commas in every medium has been going downhill, and I find it deplorable.

I am not keen to debate the respective merits of descriptive and prescriptive grammar here. On a topic such as this, however, one would do well to keep in mind these different perspectives: Descriptive grammar simply describes how people currently use a language, without saying whether it’s right or wrong.  Prescriptive grammar is the opposite--the collective “rules” of a language, devised by “experts” from current or previous grammatical trends and enforced by editors and teachers on both nonstandard dialects and succeeding generations.  

Any sensible person would agree that a certain amount of “prescription” is necessary in education for students to cultivate a common tongue and clear communication.  Still, a “living” language continually changes; we do not now write in the style of Chaucer or Shakespeare or Ben Franklin or Hawthorn, or even Mark Twain.  With language in constant flux, people will continually debate which changes should become part of our language’s prescriptive grammar, and which they should discourage from continued use.  For example, we’ve thankfully done away with the prescriptive rule about not splitting infinitives, which was misguidedly based on Latin rather than English grammar, and I wouldn’t be surprised if “they” will one day be accepted as the singular, neutral form of “he or she,” considering its frequent (currently "incorrect") use as such in both speech and writing.  

Now, what of commas?  From a descriptive point of view, for whatever reason, most modern writers do not use them consistently nor in accordance with the “rules.”  Shall we say, then, that prescriptive grammar should follow the majority and let some of the comma rules slide into oblivion?  Who decides which ones are unnecessary for clarity?  For as many cases in which a comma must be used to avoid confusion, other examples for the same rule may demonstrate that the sentence comes across clearly without one.  I, however, believe our current rules are valid and should be promoted as they are.

The uninitiated may not quite realize how, without proper commas, we are often forced to reread to capture the right meaning.  Upon sensing an error in our understanding, our eyes and mind dart back through the text, reinterpret the sentence, and continue on their way, rarely dwelling on the passage long enough to comprehend why they stumbled over the sentence the first time.  Other times, however, the confusion is so grave that we’re jolted unpleasantly out of the story and must study the sentence multiple times to guess at the author’s intended meaning.  The culprit may be poor wording or, just as often, a missing or misplaced comma.  For instance, “That night lights inside her apartment shone bright as day.”  “Night lights” at first seems like the subject of the sentence, but if so, “that” ought to read as “the” or “those,” so it’s surely incorrect.  A comma after night would clearly separate the setting (“that night”) from the subject (“lights”), helping the reader comprehend the sentence correctly the first time through.

Despite the likelihood of confusing readers, many authors insist on using their “natural grammar” in opposition to prescriptive rules and even logic.  For instance, many would rather place commas wherever they take a breath--even though a hasty or overly-careful reading may result in very peculiar pauses indeed.  (For instance, “Don, was tired.”)  Using a comma when a reader should breathe is useful advice for a fourth grader, perhaps, but terribly inaccurate and misleading for an older writer who is capable of a greater understanding and more consistent usage (assuming said writer does not suffer from dyslexia or any other number of issues that make writing more difficult than usual).  Continuing to follow such a flawed concept into adulthood strikes me as naive and presumptuous--an insistence on one’s own, untutored preference over what would be most convenient and efficient for the reader. 

One must understand that comma correctness is primarily necessary to prose.  Poetry is a different matter--in part because ambiguity is an artistic technique and writers may want the reader to dwell upon and reread the lines in various ways to find some profound meaning for themselves. Grammatical ambiguity in fiction, however, should serve only as a means for humor or as a plot complication between characters, never as a possible stumbling block for readers.  One might also make an exception for an intentional digression, though I can think of no suitable examples.  Furthermore, should an author wish to break a rule to achieve a literary effect, sense dictates that said author should first understand the rules and the possible consequences of breaking them.  The rest of the prose needs to state ideas clearly.  Using commas correctly will by no means diminish the author’s ability to write creatively or vividly and will likely enhance the piece by allowing the text to flow unnoticed below the action occurring in the reader's imagination.

I'll leave the particulars of various comma rules for another time.

On Snow

(Or as Joel quipped... "On  sNOwTABLE  Days.")

My earliest memory involving snow occurred when I was less than five--I can mark the time since we were in my parents’ Toyota truck, which they later replaced with a car.  The family was likely on its way to church, and in the middle of the Topeka Boulevard bridge, we lost control and spun a complete 360.  After a few seconds, upon realizing we were all unharmed and facing the correct direction, we gratefully continued on our way, but the fear and excitement of that moment engraved that experience into my memory, though time has faded the details quite a bit.  There were other times, later, when Dad spun the car purposefully in a clear parking lot for our enjoyment.  My brother, Daniel, begged for such rides more than I, especially as I became old enough to recognize the danger in such stunts but not to recognize the sense and caution my dad used when choosing a safe spot and controlling the spin.

I recall some rather impressive drifts once after a snowfall during my elementary school years.  The snow lay thinly along the open ground--a few inches, perhaps, having been half shoveled by the obliging wind into drifts several feet deep.  We got a snow day from school, as I recall--granted by Mom if not the school board since she didn’t know when we’d next get to experience and enjoy such a deep snow.  My brother and I burrowed into the drifts pushed up against our row of pines, creating snow tunnels and a pseudo-igloo.  Our excitement spurred us to work past the painful cold, and by the time we’d accomplished the bulk of our plans and shown the product off to Mom, our little hands and knees were reddened with the warning signs of frostbite, and we were more than happy to retreat indoors for some cocoa and hot baths.

My childhood saw other accumulations of an inch one day, a few inches another--decent, at least, for sledding and snowmen and snow angels and snowball fights, but rarely enough to cancel school, much as I might wish it would.  Ice more than snow determined our days off.  Even so, I remember vividly a certain hill during my junior high bus ride that was dreadfully steep even when it wasn’t slippery, and on one memorable, snowy morning, the bus slid backward for several frightening seconds, nearly into the ditch.  Our bus driver’s skill, God’s protection, or more likely both kept the bus upright and everyone safe, and the driver’s third (or perhaps fourth) essay of the hill succeeded.

During college, the first decent snow signaled a few, ah--interesting--traditions that I did not take part in but heard quite a bit about.  Both genders knew they ought to avoid the other dorms during this time.  For the women of McCreery dorm, where I lived, that was the night for naked snow angels (so-named, though some girls went out in bathing suits and shoes, and all at least stayed wrapped in towels before and after they made their angels), which they attempted to make at night in the soccer field without getting caught and lectured by the police.  For the men of Campbell dorm, it was the night for the “running of the bulls”--the evening many of them streaked (yes, naked but for shoes and perhaps a scarf or hat) a circuit around Campbell hall.  We would hear the next day at mealtime all the interesting incidents of men falling in the snow or almost getting seen.  And, as our college was known for its students’ pranks, it wasn’t altogether unexpected if a dorm woke the next morning to find snow shoveled high before the front doors or another such trick.

As I’ve matured (and developed a dislike for the cold that outweighs my former pleasures of playing in the snow), I’ve come to enjoy snow more for its beauty than for its entertainment value, and, of course, have learned to be wary of it while driving.  I cannot forget the destructive ice storm during the early spring of 2008--the beautiful crystalline ornaments on every outdoor surface and the numerous branches and power lines brought down by their weight.  

A couple years later, again during a spring snow, Joel and I slid into a shallow ditch on our way to Clearwater.  We were quite terse with each other as we tried to problem-solve our way out of it and eventually had to back up many yards to find a place where we could get back on the road.  Thankfully, the only harm from the experience fell on our egos.  By morning, we’d gotten perhaps six inches, and the Coon boys--Joel, Jon, and their dad, Dave--determined it to be a grand day to make an igloo.  We all pitched in to pack snow into plastic containers, upend them in position, and caulk them with more snow.  The result was taller than ideal, and the entry didn’t descend lower than the inside floor to trap the heat inside, but it was an igloo.  The three boys, with the addition of their cousin Nathan, ate a dinner of pizza inside, and Jon slept the whole night there on a cot (which was hard to maneuver inside).  Unfortunately, the poorly shape didn’t retain the heat properly, so it was a cold night for him.

Now we sit snugly in our little home as snow continues to bury the world outside.  I cannot remember ever seeing such a steady snowfall and deep accumulation.  

My first glance outside yesterday morning was greeted by the withered lawn, barren trees, and dry porch, yet tiny flakes had begun to dust the sidewalk by the time I left for work, so I swiftly changed my sneakers for boots in anticipation.  I had to brush snow off the back of the car, but my windshield wipers took care of the front without trouble.  

My desk at work gave me a fine vantage point from which to periodically note the snow’s steady descent.  The absence of a strong wind made it more pleasant outside, but I was glad when work gave me an excuse to not fetch the mail.  The college issued the alert that the campus would close at 3 pm, but I left at 2:30 pm at the end of my shift.  A half inch of snow had accumulated since the plow had last cleared the sidewalk, and I had to step over slushy black water at the edges of the street.  The heavy coat of snow on my car brushed off easily, but flakes continued to fall as I drove carefully home.  Joel was there when I arrived--he had returned safely from his surveying job in McPherson at 1 pm--so I had him fetch me the shovel while I was still bundled up.  Since I hadn’t been able to enjoy my customary walk to and from work, I got my exercise for the day scraping our front stoop and sidewalk clear.  I always regret the need to shovel since it inevitably ruins the smooth, pristine beauty of the snowscape, and this was no exception, as I had no way of avoiding the grass, leaves, and dirt clods hidden at the corners of the the sidewalk, which were then strewn in piles to this side and that upon the formerly pure whiteness.

When I came indoors, I checked the back porch, but the snow looked pristine, and we assumed the alley cats we usually fed would stay in their run-down garage rather than brave the thick snow.  However, I later peered out and spotted kitty footprints walking up the sidewalk to the back porch and away.  Noticing their empty bowl was masked by snow, I shoveled the porch and the walk and filled the kitty bowl, but the cats had apparently decided against venturing out, and hours later, it lay hidden, uneaten, under an even thicker layer of crystallized water.  

Not unexpectedly, the college announced the campus’ closure for the next day, a much-desired holiday for nearly everyone.  The weather that evening made a great day for Joel’s pork & ramen stir fry, the board game Dominion, and a new book--and so we concluded the day. 

The snow, however, has not concluded.   It has continued to fall in everything from languid flurries to speedy, nearly invisible specks to slower, fluffy, thicky-falling flakes that seem the epitome of the ideal Christmas snow.  By my recent measurement, it now lays 10 1/2 inches deep on every unsheltered surface.  Joel’s employers declared today’s work optional; fieldwork would be impossible, and only a little work could be done in the office, so he decided not to bother digging out his car.  Though my back's not happy that I shoveled yesterday, if I hadn't, we wouldn't have been able to shove our front door open this morning--and even that, I didn't bother trying past a half foot since the snow lays so thickly.  Later, though, mindful of the guilt I'd feel if another cat braved its way through the snow looking for food and found none, I squeezed myself out the back door and cleared the porch, scooping most of the snow out of the still-full food bowl.  I also took that opportunity to measure the snow in an area unaffected by my shoveling.  
Aside from that labor, I have determined to use this delightful holiday to accomplish one of the many enjoyable tasks my daily weariness has forced me to set aside, and as motivation to get past writer’s block, I have not let myself go through my usual morning webcomics until I've written and posted a worthy or interesting thought.  This task now complete--I hope to the reader’s enjoyment--I will now continue to enjoy this day of rest with Joel, with other writing projects, perhaps with the piano, and with many other long-delayed delights.

On Coffee

"The coffee tasted like mud 

because it was ground a couple of minutes ago."

          I have long been of the opinion that coffee is an abominable plant and makes an repugnant drink--foul of taste and smell.  Even so, for decades it has somehow deceived people with its addictive and stimulatory qualities into thinking it’s delicious.  *shudder*  I’ve had to bear its stench through my childhood with a coffee-drinking mother, and must unfortunately continue to bear it through my adult life with my coffee-loving husband.  Over the years, more than one person has persuaded me to attempt a taste of this bitter beverage, and only once--with sugar and cream and Andes mints stirred in--and only for a brief moment before it spilled all over my white shirt--has it ever tasted anything but disgusting.  I can even detect that subtle taste ruining breakfast cake, ice cream, toffee and--worst of all atrocities, chocolate!  Surely we can find better uses for such a despicable plant; let it be used for anything other than consumption!
          Though coffee’s repugnant smell differs from the offensive odors of household cleaners and insect repellents, constant use has enabled us to bear the unpleasantness in the pursuit of cleanliness.  Therefore, why not relegate coffee to that realm, away from sensible palates?  It’s quite capable of fulfilling such a role; a handful of wet grounds can act as a nontoxic abrasive cleaner for pots, pans, non-porcelain sinks, non-porous dishware, grills and griddles.  It can even reduce the sooty mess while cleaning wood stoves and fireplaces.  Additionally, many creatures dislike the strong smell of coffee just as much as I do: a sprinkling of dried grounds around the house will keep ants away and will even kill them when sprinkled on their hills.  Spraying plants or dirt with a coffee solution will also deter most bugs, slugs, dogs, and cats, and if a pet will tolerate it rubbed into their fur, it’ll repel fleas.  Of course, the coffee must be reapplied after a rain or a bath.  

Aside from its household uses, coffee grounds contain nitrogen, calcium, magnesium, potassium, and other trace minerals, so they serve well in compost and as a non-toxic, fully-degradable fertilizer for most plants.  Mushrooms, roses, and azaleas, for instance, love the additional acid, but not tomatoes!  I’ll concede that coffee grounds smell at least marginally better than manure and may be less expensive than non-smelly fertilizers.  Furthermore, worms, which aerate gardens and compost, love coffee, too, and will reproduce faster with it.  A mixture of grounds and soil will also keep fishing bait alive longer and hide our human odor from fish.  (Though why they don’t flee from the horrid scent, I don’t know.  Maybe they don’t recognize it or they mistake it for decomposing matter, which I understand some breeds find tasty.)

Apparently coffee also has uses in various beauty treatments, but I can’t recommend them; what person with fully operational olfactory senses could bear that smell during the treatment, much less lingering about their body all day?  The same goes for its uses as a deodorizer in rooms, cars, refrigerators, and freezers--as well as on hands to remove food prep odors.  (Well, I confess it’s a toss up whether I’d prefer to smell like onions or coffee.)  It has one aesthetic use I find tolerable: a strong coffee solution can dye paper, fabrics, Easter eggs, and other porous materials, and a paste of it can re-dye scratches in dark wood furniture.  I might also be able to tolerate using the grounds wrapped in fabric as a pincushion--if only because the grounds will prevent the needles from rusting.
With so many uses for the coffee plant, coffee aficionados need not worry about troubling the industry and its minimal-wage employees by ceasing to drink the beverage.  Of course, to prevent strong withdrawal symptoms, such as caffeine headaches, cravings, and increased drowsiness, readers would do well to wean themselves off this addictive substance slowly.  After some years, when their noses and taste buds have had a chance to regenerate some, I’m sure they’ll wonder what ever attracted them to the substance in the first place and congratulate themselves on their escape from coffee’s deceptive clutches.

 

Read this greatly diverting segment of Girl Genius at girlgeniusonline.com.