News You Can Use? III

Attention uber-parents: You can now receive refunds for all those useless "Baby Einstein" videos you bought. ("No Einstein in Your Crib? Get a Refund") In a tacit admission that the videos may not, in fact, turn toddlers into Nobel laureates, the Disney corporation is now offering parents full refunds on Baby Einstein products purchased over the last five years.

Whatever.

We wonder if Disney isn't overreacting. After all, a baby exposed to these videos in 2004 is now, at most, 5 or 6 years old. Just because none of those children has yet entered Harvard or solved the Riemann Hypothesis doesn't mean that one of them won't. It should be noted that Einstein himself would not necessarily have been labeled a "Baby Einstein" due to the speech difficulties he suffered at an early age.

Even if your little Ignatz is currently struggling with advanced first-grade mathematics, it doesn't prove deficiencies in the "Baby Einstein" products. Conceivably, without exposure to their dubious programming, Ignatz would never have passed intermediate naptime in Kindergarten.

How do you explain to your offspring the decision to seek a Disney refund? "Sorry, Honey, these things don't work. See, you're a moron."

Personally, we are no fans of the insane school of hyperparenting that assumes you are dooming your children to a lifetime of unskilled labor if you fail to expose them to Shakespeare and Monty Python in utero. At the same time, the phrase caveat emptor comes to mind. If you're gullible enough to believe that plunking your kids down in front of the TV for hours at a time is the equivalent of just spending time with them, playing with them, reading stories to them, well then, in this case certainly, you get what you pay for.

The Tipping Point

We're going to get in trouble with Honeypiehorse and Borealkraut for this one, but here goes:

We accept avoiding certain foods because they are fattening.

We can accept avoiding certain foods because they cause cancer.

We accept avoiding certain foods because they have been treated with nasty pesticides.

We can even accept, in theory, avoiding certain foods because they contain genetically modified organisms.

But now things are getting silly.

As if all of the above were not enough to permanently put one off one's feed, people must also now worry about whether their dinner is destroying the planet. ("To Cut Global Warming, Swedes Study Their Plates")

In Sweden, major food manufacturers and fast food chains trumpet the relative environmental virtues of their wares by including a measurement of the CO2 emissions associated with their production. At Max, the Swedish McDonald's, consumers are informed that the consumption of a hamburger entails the production of 1.7 kilograms of carbon dioxide, as opposed to the more earth-friendly 0.4-kilograms of CO2 released in the production of a chicken sandwich.

We hope Swedes enjoy carrots on those chicken sandwiches, as the hothouses needed to grow Swedish tomatoes will likely destroy the ozone layer and melt the polar ice caps.

Enough, already!

Extremism in the pursuit of virtue is a vice. We can all do our part to save the planet, and we should all be as conscientious as possible. But with every new restriction, every new warning, every new admonition against eating or drinking or driving or. . . or dancing (who knows?), our reserves of good will and social conscience dwindle.

Everything is a trade off. If we stop eating beef, then cows will reproduce exponentially and cover the earth! And consider that one of the Swedish government's recommended substitutes for red meat is beans, which, of course, pose greenhouse hazards of their own.

It's enough to make one throw up one's hands and drive the Hummer across the street to McDonald's where one can fill up on a nice, juicy, Amazon-deforesting Big Mac. If, in the long run, we're all dead, we might as well get there with plaque-filled arteries and a healthy sunburnt glow!

Plinky (We're in a Rush)

Not much time, today. Thus, a Plinky response.

"Name something that is inappropriately named."

Well, that's easy: Palindrome.

We're sure all our hyperliterate followers know that a palindrome is a word or phrase that reads the same backwards and forwards: Anna, Otto, "Madam, I'm Adam," "A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!"

We think that the word for a palindrome should BE a palindrome: 'palindromemordnilap' (PAL-in-dro-muh-MORD-ni-lap), perhaps. We feel the word should represent the phenomenon it describes, just as, for example, the word 'onomatopoeia' represents the phenomenon IT describes. Onomatopoeia, of course, is "the formation of a word . . .by imitation of a sound made by or associated with its referent." In other words, it's when you make a word out of a sound, like 'splash' or 'boom.'

'Onomatopoeia,' of course, is an approximation of the strangulated sound made in the throat of a person trying to say 'onomatopoeia.'

Conversion: It's Not Just for Heathens, Anymore!

We were struck today by a story about the Roman Catholic Church: "Vatican Bidding to Get Anglicans to Join Its Fold." As more and more disaffected Catholics leave the church over quibbles like priestly child molestation and medieval attitudes towards homosexuals, women, and other disreputable groups, the Vatican is reaching out to disaffected Anglicans who may wish to leave their communion over its more enlightened attitudes towards homosexuals, women, and other disreputable groups.

We can't wait to see the advertising campaign: "Roman Catholicism: Now with 78% more tolerance for the less tolerant!"

It's nice to see the Vatican following the lead of Islamic fundamentalists and the Republican Party, hunkering down and clinging to outdated modes of thought, expanding its base by appealing to xenophobia and prejudice. Frankly, we think the Anglicans should welcome this turn of events: It gives them an opportunity to rid themselves of the more backward members of their flock without feeling like they're abandoning these folks to spiritual perdition. If you can't beat 'em, let 'em go join another team.

A note, though, to any Anglican priests contemplating a conversion to Catholicism: Child molestation is optional, not mandatory.

And to Understand 69. . . .

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single test, administered to a heterogeneous bunch of students, must be rife with bias. In other words, an SAT question that makes reference to a string of polo ponies (or 'poLOPonies,' if you're Ed Norton (the "Honeymooners" character, not the actor)) will be unfairly cryptic to those raised in the slums of Chicago.

Maybe so, but what is to be done?

One remedy would be to change the test. Another would be to expand the horizons of students who take standardized tests--in other words, students--so that they have a vaster mental database of cultural referents from which to draw. Several schools are doing just that. ("A Moo-Moo Here, and Better Test Scores Later")

At the Harlem Success Academy, for example, young students take a field trip to a farm (or maybe it was a farm trip to a field--we have trouble keeping these things straight) so that they will not panic when confronted on a test with questions of a rural bent. In principle, we have no objection to youngsters getting out into the fresh air and mingling with turkeys and ducks. But we wonder about the efficacy--or, frankly, the logic--behind this experiment.

Sure, a student from Harlem might have trouble with, say, a reading comprehension passage that revolves around the proper care and feeding of yak. But the impetus for this project seems to be a concern that students might have trouble with math problems like the following:

"How many cornstalks are in a field that has 46 rows of 32 stalks each?"

Do education bureaucrats think exposing city kids to farm life will make them more familiar with the concept of '32'?

Awhile back, we read an article in Harper's Magazine, a selection from some controversial classroom material: In a crime-ridden urban school district, teachers had put together a handout with math problems that made reference to bullets, gang members, illegal drugs, etc. The community was outraged, but it seems to us that the teachers were simply trying to make the math problems relevant to the students' lives. If the goal is to improve students' understanding of mathematical concepts, and we all agree with the premise that one way to improve this understanding is by making math "relatable," then is developing such questions really any different than taking city kids out to play with pumpkins?

We worry about where all this might lead. Consider those time and distance questions we've all had to wrestle with: A train leaves New York City traveling west at 80 miles an hour. At the same time, a train leaves Cincinnati traveling east on the same track at 100 miles an hour. How long until the trains collide?

To make that question relevant, should we load Mrs. Talbott's 8th graders onto a train and set it off on a collision course? Parents, you might want to ask some questions before you sign those permission slips.

By the way, as an aside, the above-mentioned Times article also talks about how schools in rural areas also try to introduce their students to urban settings: "In Jemez Pueblo, NM. . . . educators . . . have started taking the school's 59 students on trips to major cities, like Calcutta and Washington."

CALCUTTA?!?!?!?

How We Learned to Stop Worrying and Accept the Fact That Cats Rule Our Lives

Yes, Sloppists, it's come to this. We are writing about the Cats of Solipsist.

Since COS (Cousin of Solipsist) and FOS (Friend of Solipsist) are already taken, they will henceforth be referred to as POS (Pets of Solipsist).

The Solipsist has many cats, primarily because WOS suffers from OCD: Obsessive Cat Disorder. She's never met a cat--or, really, an animal--she doesn't like, and she has a tendency to get suckered by a feline face gazing plaintively into her eyes.

Originally, we had a relatively sane two cats (the NUMBER was sane, not the cats; there is no such thing as a sane cat): Kendi and Mocha.

Taco, was an accident: We trapped a kitten and intended to give it away to a friend. WOS, however, quickly grew attached. And then there were three.

When we were moving out of our apartment, Kudzoo started following the Solipsist around. He was extremely friendly, and, despite our best efforts to shoo him away, he decided to curl up in a basket and go to sleep. And then there were four.

Kudzoo with ???

When we arrived at the house into which we were moving, a kitten was waiting for us in the front yard. She came into the house. We told WOS we really couldn't keep this many cats. Later that night, while we were stretched out on the floor watching TV, the kitten, Kupu, reared up and, for no reason, bit the Solipsist right on his butt. The Solipsist squawked and grumbled, "We're NOT keeping that cat." When WOS stopped laughing, she replied, "Oh, yes, we are!" And then there were five.

Kendi passed away about a year later, and it seemed like the household would stabilize at four cats. After we moved again, an orange cat took to spending time on our deck. WOS would feed it and, eventually, coaxed it into the house. Before Orange had time to react, WOS slammed the door behind her and that was that. And then there were, again, five.

One day, Orange ran away, but, before we could re-acclimate ourselves to four cats, a kitten "ran" into the house. Well, at least WOS told us the kitten ran into the house. Subsequently, WOS let slip that the cat was actually minding its own business down on the driveway until WOS encouraged the cat--by grabbing it and hugging it--to enter. Gremlin quickly endeared herself to the Solipsist by sneak-attacking while we were eating ice cream. Well, OK: Orange was gone, Gremlin could stay. And then there were five.

Orange came back. And then there were six.

Then, one Sunday morning, WOS and Solipsist came home from an evening getaway. Solipsist was engaging WOS with some typically riveting sociopolitical commentary:

Solipsist: Blah, blah blah. . . .

WOS: Shhhh, I hear something.

Solipsist: Blah, blah blah. . . .

WOS: SHHHHH!

Solipsist: Blah, blah, blah. . . .

WOS: SHUT UP!!!!!

We shut up.

Sure enough, we heard a frantic squeaking. We went into the bedroom. We looked into the clothes hamper, from whence issued the squeaking and saw what looked like an exploded cat. In fact, it was just Gremlin. Gremlin and her five newborn kittens!

No, we don't have eleven cats. That would be insane.

We gave one kitten away.

Now, Theseus, Heidi, Leo, and Bobo--plus Mr. Hans von Schnerval, an understandably neurotic guniea pig--round out the menagerie at Solipsist HQ. Some call us crazy cat people, but, really, once you've got three cats, it really doesn't matter any more: Your life is over, so you might as well take in more. Ultimately, they're pretty endearing little creatures.

Next, we're going to start collecting turtles.

What Ethical Dilemma?

We've been seeing a lot of commercials for "The Box." This Cameron Diaz vehicle is about a couple that receives a mysterious gift (wait for it!): a box. A mysterious stranger who looks like Frank Langella tells the couple that, if they push a button in the box, they will receive $1 million. The catch? Pushing the button will cause the death of someone they don't know.

This is a moral dilemma? Push the freakin' button!

The way we figure it, many people we don't know--dozens even--die every day. Almost none of these deaths, however, provide us with any remuneration whatsoever. A million bucks? You sure you only want us to push once?

It's reminiscent of "Indecent Proposal" (1993). In that film, Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson play a young couple in dire financial straits. They are approached by a millionaire who, in exchange for one night with Demi, offers the couple one million dollars. (Try saying it like Dr. Evil--pinky to the side of the mouth, over-emphasis on the 'mill' in 'million': It adds a whole new dimension).

By the way, the millionaire is played by Robert Redford.

Now, look, we certainly wouldn't force or even attempt to coerce WOS into such a "compromise." But if she were game. . . ?

Y'know, the directors could have cast, say, Don Rickles or Carrot Top as the Vegas millionaire. Then, there might be more room for debate.

(The show "Mad About You" did a riff on the concept: In the episode, Paul (Paul Reiser) and Jamie (Helen Hunt) go to a casino. As the end credits roll, the couple are approached by a Redford-esque figure who offers $1,000,000 for one night with Jamie. She and Paul look at each other, shrug, and say, "Cool!")

In "The English Patient" (1996), Count Almasy (Ralph Fiennes) decides effectively to collaborate with Nazis in what he probably knows is a fruitless attempt to save the life of his beloved. Sure, the movie is tedious as hell and a waste of Ralph Fiennes, but THAT, at least, is an interesting ethical dilemma.

If Hollywood is trying to entice us to spend exorbitant amounts at the box office, they should offer more interesting issues than those posed by "The Box."