While cropping and uploading Jim's wedding pictures last night, I was reminiscing about my days as a wedding photographer -slash- advice columnist for Wednet.com.  I read a lot of bridal guides and a lot of books on wedding photography, so I got to see the so-called Wedding/Industrial Complex from both sides.

Bridal guides would tell you that you should ask a photographer what brand of camera he used.  Hasselblad was the best, they said.  Most expensive, absolute best optics.  Why, it was the camera that the astronauts took to the moon!

Wedding-photography manuals would tell you that you were going to deal with a lot of brides who thought you should have a Hasselblad, so if you could afford one, you should probably have one.  However, most brides would be devastated to see a raw print of themselves that had been shot on a Hasselblad.  Every blemish on her face, every puckered seam on her dress, every lipstick smudge -- all would stand out in high relief.  It's a scientific camera.  It's designed specifically to show details.

Ergo, the manuals would have a whole chapter on the filters to screw onto your Hasselblad lenses to dumb it down to the level of a Nikon lens.  That way the bride would be happy with your camera and also happy with her pictures.  It almost goes without saying that you could feel the hostility toward the putative idiocy of women radiating out of the pages of these chapters.

This isn't even my favorite ridiculous Hasselblad story.  The bridal guides were right; the Apollo 11 crew were issued several Hasselblads.  Armstrong and Aldrin took theirs down to the surface.  The cameras were left behind to reduce mass on reentry (there are a total of 12 Hasselblads on the moon now), but nine film magazines were brought back to earth. One of Buzz's magazines -- the one containing all the pictures of Armstrong -- was "accidentally" left behind.  On the moon, so it isn't one of those "We can still make it on time if we turn around now," situations.

Every picture you have seen from the Apollo 11 mission that depicts a man standing on the surface of the moon is not a picture of Neil Armstrong. There aren't any of those.  They're all Buzz Aldrin.  And you may not have known that before, but Buzz has known it for over forty years and has been laughing up his sleeve the whole time.  

But (I hear you saying, because you too love the moon missions and are reluctant to believe Buzz to be capable of such shenanigans) maybe it really was an oversight.  They had a lot to think about up there.  I'm almost certain it was on purpose, though.  Aldrin may not harp on this much, but he's somewhat bitter that he was not the first person to walk on the moon.  I'll tell you how I know this.  Years ago, Buzz wrote a sci-fi novel, and a friend of mine wanted his copy signed.  Aldrin was appearing at the local Barnes & Noble, but my friend had to work.  He asked me if I would take his copy down and have Buzz sign it.

This was to our mutual benefit, because of course I wanted to meet Buzz, but you couldn't unless you bought the book.  The line to meet Buzz coiled through the entire store, naturally, so I was in the queue for quite a while.  I started to read the novel.

The main character is the second child born on Mars.  He HATES being the second child born on Mars.  The first child born on Mars is celebrated as a HERO even though there's nothing SPECIAL about him and being the SECOND CHILD BORN ON MARS IS JUST AS GOOD!  DAMMIT!

I still love Buzz.  When I shook his hand, for a split-second I thought I had picked up a static charge from shuffling across the Barnes & Noble carpet for an hour and a half.  Then I realized that no, I was charged up with space fever.  I've shaken hands with other celebrities, but Buzz was the only one who gave me that famous I-don't-want-to-wash-my-hands-now feeling.  I had hitherto thought people were making that up.

My cat Oswald is an orphan who's been in my care since he was 48 hours old.  He was the first orphan that the Progressive Animal Welfare Society had entrusted me with, and having no idea what I was doing, I bought a copy of "Hand-Raising the Orphaned Kitten."  I still have it; the edges of its cover are perforated with holes from when he was teething.  It wasn't quite instructive enough for the volunteer vet who saw him when I brought him in for shots.

Oswald was crying on the exam table, as he is still wont to do, with the odd, ape-like noises he is still wont to make.  The vet looked at me sharply.

"Have you been meowing at him?"

Unsure how to parse the question, I replied, "... no?"

"They learn how to vocalize from their mothers!  You're the only mother he has." An exasperated sigh.

She was so irritated about this that I actually felt guilty for a moment.  That rapidly flipped over to the indignation that everyone feels when they are being chided about something that is a) not obviously foreseeable and b) inconsequential in any event.  What, was Oswald ineligible to hold public office now? Were his grades going to drop?

"I didn't know that, okay?  Can you please at least acknowledge that it's not universally known that cats aren't born knowing how to meow?"

No.  No, she could not.

Now Oswald lives with me and Cat Gus.  (I didn't wind up keeping him because PAWS couldn't find a home for a cat with a speech impediment.  Why he's mine is a story for another day.)  Gus chases Oswald around the apartment. Oswald protests with a string of sounds most accurately rendered, "Ah! Ah-rah-rah!  Eh!  Eh!"  I'll watch them thinking, Oh, Lord.  He does sound just like me.

If you ever find yourself beginning a sentence with, "To play devil's advocate..." stop yourself.  You are about to say something that can be accurately summarized below.  Preserve your interpersonal relationships and save valuable time.

"I've noticed that you seem to care about this topic. Personally, I have no stake in it, but apparently you do.  There is no one in the general vicinity who could honestly find fault with your position.  This is probably because your position is logically and ethically sound.  At heart,  I don't even disagree with it, but perhaps that's because I haven't really thought about it much before.  Perhaps if we dig a little deeper I can establish that you are dumber than me.  That makes the topic worth pursuing.

"We could talk about something else, something that I do care about.  But if we did that, there's a chance that you might find an irrationality or misapprehension of mine that would make me question my mindset about that other thing. I don't like the feeling that I might be wrong.  I do, however, enjoy inflicting it on others.

"Instead, I'm going to adopt a hypothetical viewpoint.  It's a viewpoint you've heard before, because you couldn't have reached your position without familiarity with the counter-arguments.  As I said before, though, your position is grounded in apparent logic and ethics, so my counter-argument is going to sound insane and evil.  So insane and so evil that I'm not just going to call it satanic, or just the work of a lawyer.  This is a counter-argument that Satan's Lawyer would use.  I insist you take it seriously.

"Now you have to defend yourself against me, this person you were having a friendly conversation with a minute ago who has suddenly sprouted the mouth of a demon.  The demon's mouth is issuing a case that you have previously heard spoken by people who despise you and what you stand for.  It is entirely foreseeable that this conversation will be upsetting for you, but I am choosing to have it anyway.  I'm an ass.  We shouldn't hang out anymore."

I posted an E.E. Cummings poem earlier. Although he generally eschewed capitalizing the first-person singular "I," he did, I remembered, cap his proper name.  As I tapped out the attribution, asking myself why I knew this to be true, I recalled seeing a letter he'd signed.  Was that accurate, I wondered, or was this one of the many things I've been egregiously wrong about my whole life?  Google brought me here, on a search for "e e cummings signature":

It's a fascinating little exchange, and this is my favorite part of it: 

"Whether Mrs. Cummings is making a mountain out of mole hill is beside the point: that she says it is an error is the crucial thing, and not whether she is upset about it or should be upset about it. That Mr. Moore favors cummings and that he is a distinguished critic and scholar is of course taken for granted: the point is, however, that one's reputation can only be enhanced by one's willingness to admit a mistake."

Context:  The author of the above passage is Cummings's editor Norman Friedman.  The issue he's addressing is that Harry T. Moore had written a preface for a posthumous Cummings collection that reads, in part:

"FIRST: if I don't use capitals for e. e. cummings, it isn't just a stunt. He had his name put legally into lower case, and in his later books the titles and his name were always in lower case. [...] So be it—all this goes with the iconoclasm of the twenties, with its unpunctuated, uncapitalized Poetry. The lower case is a kind of continuing talisman of cummings, though it doesn't embed him in the twenties."

None of that is true.  Cummings never legally changed his name, and he did, in fact, use capitalization and punctuation in his work often, just in a nonstandard fashion.  ("i thank You God," for example; "D-re-A-mi-N-gl-Y," to name another, has a final line that is nothing but a string of commas, periods, colons, and semicolons.) Friedman sent a galley of the book with Moore's introduction to Cummings's widow, Marion Moorehouse -- referred to throughout as "Mrs. Cummings," to add insult to injury. Her reply included the line, "[Y]ou should not have allowed H. Moore to make such a stupid & childish statement about Cummings & his signature."

Friedman went to bat on the issue with the publishing house, who apparently rolled their eyes at how uppity Moorehouse was being in pointing out their error:

"Certainly, Mr. Moore's Preface is very friendly toward E. E. Cummings' work. ... I think it can be said that Mr. Moore regards the point to which Mrs. Cummings appears to have objected as a minor point of punctuation. Obviously, he meant no harm. Mr. Moore cannot recall offhand his source of the statement, but with so distinguished critic and scholar as Mr. Moore one can feel sure, I believe, that there is an original source. Perhaps one should search it out. In any event, the decapitalization of Cummings' name has been commonly accepted over a period of years."

Classic!  Just classic.  The publisher doesn't counter by actually producing a legal document that proves Cummings had his name officially decapped.  Instead, they have a few other points to make: 

a) Moore meant well, so maybe the widow should get over herself.

b) This isn't that big a deal, it's just punctuation.  (Note that the preface is specifically about the profound difference these stylistic choices make.)  

c) Moore is a distinguished critic and scholar.  That broad who's side you're on is nowhere near as accomplished (because universities don't admit women yet, so there, ha-ha.)  Therefore, his vague memory of something that someone told him or that he maybe read somewhere trumps her knowledge of her own husband.

d) "Perhaps one should search it out." Who are they saying should go track down this court order?  Not them, it seems, since they don't say "we," they say "one." Moorehouse?  What happens when she comes back and says she can't find it?  Are you going to get all distinguished and scholarly and tell her, Madam, one cannot prove a negative?  It's really a shame these events transpired so long ago that I can't take wagers.

e) Even if we're wrong, it doesn't matter, because people are going to think we're right.  The appearance of being correct is just as good as the truth.

I cannot tell you how many exchanges I have had with a certain subset of men, wherein I was provably right and they were provably wrong, have gotten derailed exactly this way.  If I could give one piece of advice to every young woman out there, it is this: the discussion cannot shift from the facts to your attitude without your complicity.  If you are right, it does not matter if you are in a bad mood or didn't tell some guy he was wrong in a way he deems deferential enough.  All that matters is fixing the problem.  Ask yourself: when was the last time was you saw a man upbraided for not behaving meekly in a professional situation?

Don't let them make it about you.  Keep the focus on the issue.  If some guy asks you, "Why are you so upset about this?" act like he didn't say anything and reiterate the facts that make your case.  Why not?  Doesn't that guy act like he can't hear you pretty much all the time?

A lot of anti-choice advocates try to make their position more palatable by saying that of course they believe in exceptions for rape survivors.  I have less respect for this stance than any other stance in the abortion debate.  I believe my contempt is best expressed in the form of a Socratic dialogue.  The characters' names are taken from an extremely persuasive Socratic dialogue by Galileo Galilei.  The pro-choice part will be played by Salviati.  I considered allowing the anti-choice part to be played by Sagredo, but Simplicio really fits the bill.

Salviati:  Do you believe that life begins at conception?

Simplicio:  Yes.

Salviati:  So a fetus is a child.  Nay, you take it even further.  An embryo is a child.  A zygote is a child.  Is this your view?

Simplicio:  Yes.

Salviati: Thus abortion kills a child?

Simplicio:  Absolutely.

Salviati:  Is it morally acceptable to kill a child because her father is a felon?

Simplicio:  Goodness, no!  Are you insane?

Salviati: And you don't think that should be legal, killing a child because her father is a felon?

Simplicio:  Of course not! 

***

This doesn't add up.  I failed Quantitative and Symbolic Logic and even I can tell this doesn't add up.  

It's not that I want to live in a country where women are forced to bear the children of their rapists.  I just want to live in a country where people are capable of reason.

Sometimes people ask me, a person of Irish descent, about St. Patrick's Day traditions. Here is one that I don't commonly see practiced in the states, but  encourage people to participate in regardless of their heritage.

First, find a wych elm tree and cut the straightest branch you can.  Gather moss from a nearby stone and boil it down till you have a thick green reduction.  Use the reduction to dye the wych elm branch a festive green.

Go to the nearest public house on St. Paddy's Day.  Wait for some young douche to approach the bar and order an Irish car bomb.  Hit him in the head with the stick until he is unconscious.

When he comes to, say, "That blow was for your cultural insensitivity."  Tell him about The Troubles.  Perhaps ask him how he would like it if Irish people came to America and got drunk on World Trade Centers.  Then give him another whack and knock him right back out.  When he comes to a second time, tell him, "The second blow was for adulterating and chugging Guinness, a beverage which should be savored as its purity is maintained."  Hit him again, but not too hard.  You have a lot of douches to hit today, and it's a four-step process for each of them.  He will come around shortly.  

"The third blow was for wasting Bailey's on this horrible concoction," you should say.  Now pull back the hand in which you grasp the wych elm branch.  Wave it menacingly over his head so that even if his vision has doubled, your intentions are clear.  This is his opportunity to apologize for ruining a perfectly good shot of Jameson's.  He should have caught on to what is happening at this point.  "Sorry... whisky..." is an acceptable reply. 

If the douche is still remorseless, you have reached a decision point.  You can continue to beat him until your wych elm snaps, or you can move on to another douche.  

Look, there's one right now!

  ACT I  

Local: Hey, new co-worker.  So, did you just move here?

Out-of-towner: Hi!  Yeah.

Local: Where from?

Out-of-towner: [Some metropolis or, less likely, small town.]

Local: Oh, cool, [and other pleasantries.]  I've lived in Seattle since college.

Out-of-towner: Really?  How can you stand it?  Everyone dresses like they're homeless hikers.  It rains so much that no one wants to go out.  There's nowhere to park, like, anywhere.  I can't find a decent bagel or Mexican food.  What is with all the Thai restaurants?  Why aren't there more Chinese places?  

Local:  Yeah, a change of scene is always an adjustment.  Moving all by itself is so stressful, even if it's just across...

Out-of-towner: In [this metropolis or town that I came from], people are impeccably styled, the weather is pleasant, parking is plentiful, and I can get bagels and flautas and cashew chicken so good you'll think you've died and gone to heaven.

Local: Sounds great!  I hope I get to visit someday [if I haven't already.]  Call me if you need anything -- my number's on my Facebook profile.

ACT II

Out-of-towner: [Does not call]

ACT III

Local [later, to friends at a bar]: We have a new hire.  I tried to get to know her, but my God, the whining.  She didn't have a single positive thing to say about anything except [the place she came from.]  I thought about asking her to join us tonight, because I think she's lonely. But I've literally never seen her laugh at anything and I was afraid she'd bring the room down with her, and then you'd all be aggravated with me.  Like that time my friend from high school was in town and she was so obnoxious we were asked to leave the tavern.  You're just never gonna forget that, are you?

ACT IV

Out-of-towner: That jackass in creative development never asked me out for coffee or anything.  It's like I moved to Seattle and everyone's lives are going on exactly the way they did when I wasn't here.  That is not right.

ACT V

Local: Hey, how's it going, Out-of-towner?  Sorry, I've been meaning to check in with you for a couple of weeks, but we're just swamped this time of year.

Out-of-towner: I can't believe how Seattleites cover their innate hostility with a thin veneer of politeness.  Passive-aggressive dicks.

Local: ... what?

Out-of-towner: Everyone is just so unfriendly, except to their friends.  It's unlike anywhere else on the entire planet that way.  

Local [in her own mind]: She knows she's talking about me and the people I hang out with, right?  Is she calling us rude slobs right to my face?

Local [aloud]: Well, that hasn't been my experience.  People... did... already have friends when you moved here.  I don't think that's... unique, though.  I'm sure you'll find your niche.  At least half my friends are from...

Out-of-towner: It's like you all ganged up in cliques when you were twenty and there's no room for anyone in your lives who didn't grow up in the shadow of Mt. Rainier or something.  You know, when I was visiting New York and commented to native New Yorkers that it was virulently filthy, my constructive criticism was welcomed.  They'd invite me over to dinner to hear more of my thoughts on the inadequacies of the city they loved. 

Local [realizing there is no way in hell she can win here, short of throwing someone she now truly dislikes a birthday party]: I have a meeting to go to!  It starts at 3:17 sharp.  Bye!

Out-of-towner: Ugh.  So passive-aggressive.  Why don't people here allow themselves to get drawn into pointless shouting matches with me instead of withdrawing from situations that make them uncomfortable?  If they hate my guts and want me to go away forever, why don't they just say it to my face?  That's how grown-ups do it where I come from.

ACT VI

Out-of-towner [on the Internet, to anyone and everyone who will listen]: I read recently that 98118 is the most diverse ZIP code in the country, but that's such bullshit.  There's no way there's a large population of first-generation Americans here when Seattle loves excluding outsiders so much.  I haven't been to the Rainier Valley to myself to debunk the U.S. Census, though, because I am afraid of getting lost. The six hundred thousand people in Seattle who converged here from all directions are all alike, though, I'm sure of it.  It defies statistical probability that the problem could be with the all of them and not the one of me, but there you have it. Not that I plan to move away. I just want my disappointment made known.

The internet: Sigh. Get bent.

Out-of-towner: SEE?  SO MEAN!

I still watch the safety video all the way through every time I fly Virgin, listening to the scattered laughter throughout the cabin from people who are new to the airline.  Here is what I love, in order:

1. The poor guy sandwiched between a man with a flounder head and a dude in death-metal makeup, who apparently only grabs the safety card because he is desperate not to get drawn into a conversation with either of them.

2. Everything about the seat-belt sequence, from the long-suffering way the announcer reads, "For the point zero zero zero zero ONE percent of you who have never operated a seat belt before...," to how embarrassed the matador is that he is among that number, to the bull's eyeroll at the matador for successfully fastening his belt and expecting adulation.  Like the bull cares whether the matador lives or dies and wouldn't, in fact, prefer the latter.

3. The mom and kid when the oxygen masks deploy.  Mom is aces at remaining calm, applying her own mask first, and breathing naturally.  Then, a couple of seconds later, we pan down to her kid frantically scrabbling at her arm because she forgot about her son and he can't breathe.  I like to think there's an earlier draft where he's turning blue and clawing at his throat.

4. The bit explaining that unlike on other airlines, the seat cushions on Virgin do not double as floatation devices.  This is illustrated showing one sinking to the bottom of the ocean while a squid blinks at it curiously.

5. The woman trying to disable the lavatory smoke detector with a clawhammer. She has a trenchcoat over her head to disguise herself, as if there were someone else in the miniscule airplane bathroom she needed to hide from.

6. The happy guy stowing his conch shell under his seat.  He evidently adores that shell.  I bet he knows exactly which shelf he'll display it on when he gets home.

7. The nun stowing all her personal electronics like a boss.

I was awake all night with my seasonal recurrent insomnia and I'm in that state where I'm so irritable I can't even wear wool.  I am going to use this space to catalog everything that annoys me until I finally close this laptop.  

1. People who use @signs and #hashtags on Facebook.  That shit never worked there.  I don't know if they're trying to make some kind of ubermeta social-media gag or what, but it just looks like they're too dumb to know that the Internet is not a singular entity, that Facebook and Twitter were developed by entirely separate companies and don't share a UI.  I'm not @kimrollins.  Seriously, stop calling me that. She is another person entirely.  I don't "tweet."  I talk and write.  Twitter is also everything that's wrong with contemporary public discourse, but this is a point I may elaborate on separately.  

2. People who refer to a pregnant woman as having a baby "in her stomach."  Not unless she ATE a baby is there a baby in her stomach.  If you can't bring yourself to say womb or uterus, such as when you are addressing a toddler, "belly" and "tummy" work.  These are terms that refer to the abdominal area generally.  The stomach is an actual organ used for breaking food down into its component nutrients.  It is not in the reproductive business.