And to think that this Mystery Can isn't even the real feature of today's So You Don't Have To:



Oh, and I'd just like to ask, for the record:

WHY THE HELL AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF?
I MEAN, DIDN'T I LEARN MY FUCKING LESSON LAST TIME?



Oh boy. Yet another product from the shelves of an Asian market that says "KEEP REFRIGERATED" but has probably never been any colder than room temperature.

At least these are sealed, and not just loosely covered in paper in a styrofoam box. I think that's a good thing. Is that a good thing? Oh god, somebody help me.


Roll up your sleeves and prime your gag reflexes... )
Bonus points for the person who correctly identifies the wooden box thing behind Jason in my last post.

b
This is my brother Jason:



He's a lawyer and lives in Quincy, Illinois. One of my other brothers, Matthew, sent him some cards from the Fairmont Empress hotel in Vancouver, British Columbia. They're blank on the inside but feature the hotel's "Heraldic Badge" on the front.

Said Jason, "I felt so ridiculous sending them from home, so I began redecorating them."

As such, here's what arrived in our mailbox on Saturday:


I love my family.

Unrelated: Sara is sick again. We think it's just a cold. If it goes away quickly, I hope to acquire tuburculosis soon. You see, I'm feeling nearly all better from my previous sickness and we'd hate for people to stop thinking that we're a plague house.

b

Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you my brother Jason's story:

Sir Reginald and the Church Basement

by Jason P. Stone

---------

        Contrary to his custom, Sir Reginald was abroad before breakfast. A construction foreman, a McFeeney, or McSurely, or McSomeoneorother had asked him to come to St. Philomena's at 6 a.m., but under no circumstances was he to tell the priest. The mystery of it all attracted him, though he had a hard time imagining that any sort of worthwhile mystery could be connected with union labor.


        St. Philomena's was a heavy and imposing, if somewhat ordinary, Romanesque revival pile of white limestone and a gray slate roof. Behind it, a new parish office building was being constructed up against the church. As he approached the gate in the chain-link fence, the foreman offered him a hard hat. Sir Reginald declined.

        As they walked to the excavation, the foreman described how the day before they were opening a doorway into the church basement. Sir Reginald wondered if he could avoid having to remember the man's name. Evidently, it had been an exterior basement door that had been bricked up and backfilled, and the architect wanted it re-opened to connect the two basements. They came to the edge of the excavation, and the foreman pointed to the doorway. It was a doorway. It was slightly arched at the top, and a pile of bricks lay just inside the basement.

        "I see," Sir Reginald said. Remarkable, he thought, that the stained glass windows in the apse should extend as far down as they did.

        The foreman led him through a side door into the sacristy and down the basement steps. It was an interesting basement, but a basement nonetheless. It was only partially excavated, with a dirt floor and a long passageway cut into the dirt, which was about shoulder-high. Other passageways branched off from the main one. Three turns later, Sir Reginald was standing before the same doorway and the same pile of bricks.

        Sir Reginald looked through the doorway. Perhaps this would be worth missing breakfast after all. Instead of an excavation, he saw a lake tossed by the wind and forms that looked strangely human lowering small soft objects into the water or fetching them up again. He took a brick and tossed it through the doorway. It landed, and one of the forms turned to look, then went back about its business.

        Sir Reginald cocked his head and put his fist to his mouth and thought. He was disturbed by the voice of the foreman.

"I think it's P—Purgatory."

"Purgatory?" And after a moment, "Ah, yes. Gerontius and all that." After another pause, "Has anyone gone in there?"

        "N—no. We all got wives and kids, Mr. . . ."

        "Sir Reginald."

         "Sorry, Sir Reginald. What should we do, Sir Reginald?"

         "We? Hadn't you better tell Father?"

         "No!" The foreman was horrified. "If I told him, he'd have to tell the bishop. Then, the bishop would come with a troop of monsignori at his heels. Loose lips sink ships, you know. One loose lip, and a whole parade of pilgrims descends on my construction site looking for their dear departed."

        Sir Reginald thought about clapping with one hand, and the man continued: "We'd never make our deadline, and that'd cost us money."

        As Sir Reginald began to rearrange his chi in hopes of clapping with one hand, the foreman stepped around in front of him. "Can't you exorcise it or something?"

         "Exorcise Purgatory, my good man? One can hardly exorcise a place with no demons in it."

        The foreman glanced nervously at his watch. At 7 a.m., his crew would arrive, and the first Mass of the day would be said. He had to get Sir Reginald out of the basement before the priest arrived in the sacristy.

         "We've got to do something."

        "What you've got to do is brick it back up. From the outside."

        "Can't you make it go away?"

         "Look, man, it was fine for a hundred years inside a brick wall, and it will be fine for another hundred once you put the wall back up. I can't believe you brought me here to tell you that!"

        The foreman was dumfounded. As soon as he recovered his panic, he asked, "What are we…I…going to tell the architect when he says open it back up again?"

        Sir Reginald was annoyed. 

        "Oh, make something up."

        Another glance at the watch. Time was running out, and the foreman was too nervous to think. Sir Reginald, meanwhile, was trying to clap with one hand again.

        "I don't know what to tell him."

        "Tell him anything,” said Sir Reginald, losing his patience. “Tell him the portal…er, the doorway…was unstable, and you had to fill it back in."

        Fr. Schneidemann was a good, punctual German, and he had already arrived in the sacristy. Noticing the open door to the basement, he followed the sound of voices to the portal. He might have admired the accuracy of Cardinal Newman's description of Purgatory, or he might at least have spoken to the men. Instead, he simply exclaimed, "Mother, is that you?" and rushed over the bricks and through the portal before either man could stop him.

        "Poor man. Portals like that are always one-way."

        The foreman was beside himself. "There's a Mass in ten minutes! The Bishop is coming next week! We've got to get him out of there!"

        "That would take a plenary indulgence.  And I haven't got one."

        The foreman made a noise as if to speak, but Sir Reginald held his finger to his lips and slowly said, "Brick it back up."  And he turned to leave.

        On his way to breakfast, Sir Reginald made one last effort and gave up.  Who ever heard of an Englishman clapping with one hand, anyway?

------------------------------------------------------


And there you have it. Now I totally want to convince as many family members as I can to write Sir Reginald stories.

benjamin

PS: Jason has included the following as a bit of a lesson after reading, 'cause he's like that.
More proof that my family is somewhat mad. You see, my brother Jason--the lawyer who wrote the incredibly detailed quasi-rebuttal to my political explosion the other day--now gives us his next masterpiece. He plays the organ for the Episcopalian church in Hannibal Missouri, and last week he sent me this. Stick with it:

-----------------

Ben--

This Sunday, my postlude is:  Marche Solennelle, by E. Ketterer, whoever that was.

It's a piece of turn of the century fluff, and not particularly solemn.

It starts off solemnly enough:  1 triplet 3 4; triplet triplet 3 4; 1 triplet 3 triplet; 1 triplet 3 4.  Solemn, if somewhat gallumphing.

Then it goes into 1    3  4; 1 2 a 3 4; etc. with the accompaniment going 1 and 3 in the pedal and 2  and 4 in the left hand.  A solemn boom-chick.

Then, the boom-chick goes into double-time, on the and's of the beat, underneath the melody.

The other day, I finally figured out what it sounded like.

Hippos on parade.

Big, fat, blue, animated hippos.

Swinging their behinds in time with the boom-chicks.

And then getting up on their hind legs for the double-time boom-chicks.

All the while smiling big happy hippo smiles.

Then, into the trio, and the hippos are back on all fours.

Then the D.C., and the madness starts over.

Then into the coda, where bedlam ensues, which, mercifully, has been hidden from my merely human eyes.

Get this straight ! !

I

DON'T

WORK

FOR

TOONS ! ! !

J

Jason P. Stone
Quincy, Illinois
In response to this post I made about modern politics, he had one of the most intelligent responses possible.

Agreeing yet disagreeing, and doing so brilliantly. And yeah, he's a lawyer. A really damn smart one. :)

Read what my brother has to say:

---------

And now for something completely different.

After your emphatic post yesterday, I remembered a Supreme Court case I read in a Constitutional Law class I had as an undergrad. Ex parte Quirin, 1942, 317 U.S. 1. The Case of the Nazi Saboteurs. (I think the only reason I remembered the name is that I didn't think "Quirin" sounded like a German name.) I have attached it. Among the members of the Court at the time were Hugo Black and William O. Douglas, the great liberals, Felix Frankfurter, the great scholar, and Robert H. Jackson, later the chief American prosecutor at Nuremburg.

The point here is that trying unlawful combatants by military tribunal is neither unprecedented nor even abnormal.

I may be mistaken on this point, since this really isn't my area of law, but I read the language you quote as nothing more than a limited suspension of the writ of habeas corpus, which is provided for in the Constitution. The writ of habeas corpus is a judicial means of determining the lawfulness of someone's detention. It is not an appeal (a direct attack on a conviction) but a collateral attack, generally after the appeals have been exhausted. Ex parte Quirin appears to have been a petition for writ of habeas corpus begun before trial, to challenge the trial before a military tribunal instead of in the civil courts.

To cut to the chase, I am not concerned with a law treating terrorists as unlawful belligerents. They certainly consider themselves belligerents (and, in point of fact, they are), and they fail on the distinguishing characteristics of lawful belligerents: to carry arms openly, and to wear a fixed distinctive emblem.

What *would* concern me would be if the law subjected to trial by military tribunal those who are not properly unlawful belligerents. As for this point, I have not read the new law, nor have I re-read the Quirin case in detail, nor do I remember much about international law. In other words, I might be that I would find that I disagree with it, but not on the grounds that you give.

During the War between the States, President Lincoln suspended the writ of habeas corpus. After the War, the Supreme Court decided 9-0 (it may have been the Vallandigham case cited in Quirin; Vallandigham, if I remember right, was a famous Copperhead) that the President acting alone did not have the authority, but 4 or 5 of the Justices went on to say that the President and Congress did have the authority. The point wasn't necessary to the decision; it only mattered that the President alone didn't have the authority. (This whole paragraph is from memory from nigh onto fifteen years ago. It may be totally wrong, but I don't think so. As I recall, the suspension was not limited to unlawful combatants but extended to citizens.)

Art. I, sec. 9, clause 2 of the Constitution: "The privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion the public safety may require it." Would such a step call for vigilance? Absolutely. But we as a nation have proven that we can take such a step and survive with our liberties intact, safe from both foreign and domestic dangers.

The Roman Republic was a remarkable institution. It worked for several centuries, until the decadence of the Roman people caught up with it. I seem to remember that Livy is a good source for what went wrong, but I have never read him. At any rate, they had a very remarkable provision for the appointment of a Dictator (that was his title). In times of emergency, they could appoint a Dictator, who would hold the reins of civil power . . . for six months! The famous example is Cincinnatus, who was called from his plow to the Dictatorship, and when the six months were up went back to his plow, happy to be rid of the Dictatorship. Sulla was also appointed Dictator, but he reigned for five years in the early first century B.C. By then, the Republic was already collapsing, and the extension of his Dictatorship was a major violation and a sympton of the collapse.

The Roman Republic teaches us that a nation will keep its liberties as long as it deserves them, and longer, even. But it will not keep them forever after it has ceased to deserve them. I therefore find it difficult to get too worked up over the long-term effects of what the whole country must surely regard as an emergency measure (setting aside the question of whether the magnitude of the emergency demands the magnitude of the measure). Emergencies come and go, and with them, the measures (wise and unwise) that they prompt. What interests me more is how we will react to the end of the emergency. The signs I see are not good ones, and if they continue, they will bring us no end of harm: (a) thoughtless screaming hatred from both extremes of the political spectrum, and no longer just from the extremes, and (b) a population that for at least a generation (if not for nearly a century) has been increasingly fixated on pleasure for me, me, me. If we develop a population that for the most part either (a) refuses to reason or be reasoned with or (b) does not care to reason or be reasoned with, then we will will have travelled far on the road the Romans took from the Republic to the Empire. The former group (a), the Emperor will repress by force (and there will be much rejoicing, as there was then), and the latter group (b), the Emperor will keep docile with bread and circuses (or TV and Coke and Cheetoes, as the case may be).

Enough for one night.

Love,

J

(This, by the way, is suitable for your Live Journal, should you see fit to post it.)
So, time for a version of what I do for my mother every year for her birthday. She lives in Florida, so I only see her once or twice a year. Every year, therefore, I have my friends send her e-mail birthday greetings. It doesn't even matter if she doesn't know you.

My brother Jason's birthday is today, and I rarely see him, as well, even though he's only about 3 1/2 hours away. Our schedules usually don't mix well.

The point is, this is his e-mail address, and this is where I'd like you to send birthday greetings:

jpstone@adams.net

He's my oldest brother, and he's 35 today, and he's quite awesome. He's a lawyer in Quincy, IL, and lives over an Italian restaurant.
Most Saturday nights he has martinis with his friend Kirby and a Catholic priest whose name escapes me.
He also plays a mean pipe organ.
(Let's pretend we've gotten all of the "pipe organ" jokes out of our system in advance, shall we?)

If you feel like, tell your friends to participate as well.

Wish Jason a happy birthday, my monkeys, however you see fit.
Even if you don't read this until tomorrow, drop him a line anyway.

benjamin
With thanks in advance

stargazer vs. impractical joker, originally uploaded by Robokat.

Karl is brilliant. I absolutely love this thing. He's the rockstar who's illustrating "Last Shot" for me.
He's not got much to work with right now, as I'm rewriting the beginning to make it less "talking head." Too many pages of two guys talking in a morgue at the beginning of a comic kinda kills the pace.

PS -- My brother Jason did this to me at the Grand Canyon when I was about 9. Har-fucking har.

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