Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (JK Rowling)

 I'm rather ill this evening, so I'll allow my friend, Cornelius Applebottom, to do this post, in interview style.

CA: What did you think of the fifth Harry Potter book?
APS: It was good, thanks.  Very good.  But, I felt this one fell victim to something common in highly successful series- it grew to be too long.  The 870 pages still flew by, but I was left feeling "over-full."  A good friend once told me to always leave the people wanting more, and this time, I just wanted it to end.

CA: Length alone is not a crime- I suspect there's a deeper reason.  Other than length, why did you want it to end?
APS: Insightful question.  The initial thing that really, really made me mad was the character of Dolores Umbridge.  Anger, of course, was the point, but it really struck a chord in me, and at one point, I wanted to stop reading. 

CA: On that note, is it true that you even picked up Pride & Prejudice at one point, rather than read on?
APS: I'm not answering that question.

CA: Further, is it true that, though you read only 2% of P&P, you actually enjoyed it?
APS: Shaddup.

CA: I'm going to need your man card.
APS: Look, we're getting off topic.  The other thing that bothered me seemed to be the plot- it grew long, and ended with some untied ends.  I'm sure they'll be tied in the next book, but it seemed that Rowling let this one get away from her just a tad.

CA: It sounds like you didn't enjoy it.
APS: No, I really did- just not quite as much as the first four books.  I am a tad concerned the series has peaked- my favorite so far is book three- but it's still worth reading.

CA: But you'd rather read Pride & Prejudice.
APS: I'm going to bed.

Rating: A

Shadow Games (Michael Reaves)

Shadow Games by Michael Reaves (and someone else with a really long name) is another disappointing Star Wars book.  It's set right around the time of Episode IV, and stars Dash Rendar, who first appeared in the excellent Shadows of the Empire book.  This time around, though, the adventure falls flat.  The premise starts out as highly unlikely- Dash, who is a pilot, just happens to be broke and hanging out in Mos Eisley Cantina.  For those unfamiliar, pretty much everything in Star Wars happens in Mos Eisley Cantina.  Anyway, a famous pop star, Javul Charn, is feeling threatened, so she hires a bodyguard- Dash.  Now, Dash is a pilot, but apparently reviewing resumes isn't Charn's strong suit, so she meets him, trusts him instantly, and decides that a bodyguard is pretty much like a pilot, so they have an adventure, where Dash finds out Javul has many enemies.  Big whoop.

The plot has some mild twists, but none are over-interesting.  It doesn't feature anything really relevant to the Star Wars saga- it's just a minor footnote in it.  So, what's the point?  It's okay, but really not necessary.  Spend your time elsewhere.  One of these days, I'll review a Star Wars book that I do like- I promise.  I've read over 80 of the things, after all- just none of the recent selections have panned out.

Rating: C

My Take on the Raven

image from here

The Super Bowl is soon upon us, and I wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate the Ravens' inclusion in the contest with a poem.  Most people know that the Ravens were named after the poem by Edgar Allan Poe; I took Poe's cadence and rhyming scheme, and modified the words to make what you see below.

There are a few inside jokes that only work folk would understand, and the occasional reference to things that may not be familiar to you; if you have questions, ask away.  Enjoy!

- JMM

John Mark McLean's The Ravens

One dark day in Yorkshire dreary, while I pondered Mike McQueary,

and his witness of Sandusky’s deeds which all good men abhor;        

while I thought on Penn State’s season- perservering through the treason-

suddenly, for no good reason, someone yelled outside my door.

“Tis some communist,” I muttered, “lurking at my office door.-

Likely this, and nothing more.”

Still this Bolshevik persisted, so my work I soon desisted

And a base instinct resisted, to shout curses through the door

“What want thou, fiend!” I soon was screaming, interrupting colleagues’ dreaming

And disrupting valued teaming between the workers on the floor

“Yield immediately your purpose; should you not forthwith outpour

You’ll get demerits here for sure.”

Zephir answered with a bellow, lacking courage- therefore yellow,

And this rather seedy fellow then burst through the op’ning door

“what a game!” he was exclaiming, cheering Flacco and proclaiming

“We’re the best!” and thus was claiming Ravens victory for sure

“Friend,” said I, bemused and smiling, “please tone down the raucous roar”

I then stated: “still one more.”

“Eagles suck!” he then retorted, while new Ravens gear he sported

And to more insults resorted, feigning decency no more

“My team rocks and your team’s sucky- every win they get is lucky”

He continued, throwing mucky claims and sayings as he swore

Yes, this man was cruel and tactless, but he had ignited war

Such treatment I could not ignore.

“How quickly you are forgetting, as you throw this verbal netting

Gloating while the rest are getting tired of this loathsome bore:

“I well know, and can assure you, getting there is quite the virtue

But losing still can rather hurt you- sting like nothing stung before

Yes, a bitter loss at finish can bring sorrow to the fore”

I repeated: “still one more.”

“Plus, I said, “you must consider, gloating now increases bitter

Feelings which are bound to litter ‘round you, covering the floor;”

Should in fact the Ravens blow it, and they might- what man can know it?

if they do, your friends will show it, happily bringing up the score

Yes, friends will return the favor, picking on your team for sure

I said finally, “still one more.”

Matt became exasperated as my words he contemplated

But soon he felt exonerated, and tried to pass this mental chore

“Help me, Steve!” He soon was asking, as I moved on to other tasking

(though I secretly was basking in my words so wise and pure)

Yes, I think Matt fell down smarting, terrified of me for sure

Confident he was no more.

With other Ravens fans he pleaded- help was what he sorely needed

Perspiration plentifully beaded on his head, and fear he wore

On his face, it showed quite plainly; then he coughed and smiled wanely

And spoke out somewhat inanely “I can’t take this anymore!”

He turned again to Steven Turner, pleading as he’d done before

“Help me please!” he did implore.

“Sorry Matt, I can’t be working, while my next assignment’s lurking”

(Though it should be noted that a year remained on Turner’s tour)

Matt then asked Mo, but he was frisky, drinking down some hidden whisky

(keeping that at work is risky, but it beats sobriety’s bore)

Yes, it seemed he had no helpers; facing me he must endure

Alone, forgotten, and unsure.

Rather than accept my saying, he retorted “least they’re playing”

and threw in some insults, spraying vitriol all around the floor

Then, at last, he started sobbing, and his head, it started bobbing

As he accused me then of robbing, taking joy from him once more

Yes, he seemed the most downtrodden as he started toward the door

“Wait!” I stated- “let’s talk more.”

“Look,” I said, “here is the issue,” while I handed him a tissue

“Should this screaming fit continue, you’ll find a foe in me for sure.

It’s okay to root for Flacco, while you chew that vile tobacco,

And cheer for him like a whacko, till you can’t speak anymore

But these things are best done nicely, so respect you will ensure

And your friendships will endure”

“If the Ravens end up winning, it was them from the beginning

Your devoted underpinning altered not the final score

So sir, please forego this bragging, and stop this incessant nagging

And on others’ teams stop ragging- it’s childish and immature

No matter how devoted, fans do not for their own team procure

Wins that only players secure”

“I hope the Ravens get the victory, so your words aren’t contradictory

And your pronouncement valedictory, listen to my point once more

It’s best to enjoy a victory quietly, humbly in state of sobriety

Or you’ll find a notoriety at your reputation’s door

Yes, you’ll see that closest allies drift on to a distant shore

If you are a winner sore”

I felt my point at last was graven; Matt acknowledged me a maven

I, in turn, forgave this craven- all was right at work once more

We agreed to stop the roasting, and soon parted with a toasting

Promising to end our boasting, and lay our differences at the door

Yes, I know we’ll both be watching, hoping that the Ravens soar.

Let’s all hope a win’s in store.

The Interesting World of Sports Fandom

image from here

The Super Bowl is soon upon us- next week, the Baltimore Ravens take on the San Francisco 49ers for the NFL title.  The match-up is exciting, but leaves me in a dilemma- do I root for the team I want, or do I root for my own well-being?

Let me explain.  Ignoring other variables, I'd be cheering for the Ravens, no question.  I'm a Philadelphia Eagles man first and foremost, but the Ravens are my second team.  After all, they wear purple, are from Baltimore, and are named after one of the greatest poems of all time.  Here's the problem, though: many of my friends are Ravens fans, and whenever Baltimore wins, I get to "enjoy" no small amount of heckling from them.  I get picked on to no end when they do well.  It leads me to the point of this post: the world of fandom.

In a perfect world, I'd root for my favorite team, and be happy for my friends when their favorites did well.  This isn't a perfect world, though, and one way that manifests itself is in the ownership we take in choosing sides.  We pick a team to enjoy watching- no problems there.  But then, we hitch ourselves so closely to them that their performance dictates our mood and enjoyment of the game.  We take something that has nothing to do with us- a team's performance- and decide to own it.  That's the first problem.  Then, we add another issue- we harass people when their teams do poorly, and we shamelessly gloat and act superior to others when our teams do well.  Why do we do this?  What's the point?

I've thought a lot about this recently, as it's something I've struggled with my whole life.  To this day, I have a hard time watching the Eagles play, because I get so easily worked up.  Why?  It's because, for some reason, I've so invested in the outcome that it determines my mood for the week.  I have decided to take ownership in something that's not mine.  When the Eagles win, I somehow feel as though I've won; when they lose, I smart as though I just came up short.  And, I always know how my friends' teams perform, too, so I can compare them to my team and gloat or wallow in sorrow accordingly.  The net result is that I find myself rooting against my friends' teams, just so I don't have to feel inferior.  That's pretty sad, when you think about it, and is worth more examination- again, why do I do this?

I think the answer to my situation is two-fold:

1) humans enjoy taking the accomplishments of others and treating them as their own
2) humans enjoy feeling superior to others, and will find any means necessary to do so, even it they must rely on things entirely outside of their control.

To support claim 1), let's look at our heritage as an example.  "I'm proud to be an American," goes the popular song.  And it's true- I am proud.  I take great pride in the accomplishments of my nation, even though my nation is what it is today through nothing I've done.  I didn't win the war for Independence.  I didn't fight in WWII.  I didn't participate in the industrial revolution.  I boast about my heritage, but I contributed nothing to those achievements my country is known for.  I may make some contributions during the course of my life, but they will be infinitely small in comparison to what's already been done.  In short, I'm taking credit for something that's really been won for me by others- I'm standing on the accomplishments of others.  Why do we do this?  I believe it's because we aren't happy with our own personal accomplishments, so we look to those of others for feelings of worth.  We know we fall short, so we look for someone successful to hang on.

Looking at claim 2), I think this one is obvious.  Kids tease other kids because they want to feel better about themselves.  People bully, harass, and hurt each other because, deep down, we all feel inadequate, powerless, and like failures, and one way we divert those feelings is to attack others, and look for ways to be- or at least to feel- superior. 

Put 1) and 2) together, and we have my problem, and the problem of many others out there.  Basically, we're inadequate and inferior, and we know it, so we invest in the success of other humans, pin our hopes on that success, and compare it to others, looking for the opportunity to feel superior.  How desperately sad!  And, predictably, this leads to nothing good.  Instead of enjoying games, regardless of outcome, we put too much into them.  Instead of supporting friends, and being happy for them when their teams are doing well, we silently (or openly) root against them, so that we don't feel inferior by comparison- misery loves company.  We take something good- athletics and competition- and we twist it into something harmful that sucks the joy out of the game.

If we take this one level deeper- and this is as deep as I'll go, I promise- I think it shows that we as humans look at the world around us, see the problems and despair, and then look desperately for something to make us feel complete and secure.  I should find that in God- that's where the only true security and completeness is to be found.  If I did that perfectly, I could enjoy victory and defeat, both personal and in my teams, without undue emotion or sense of loss, knowing that no matter what, God is still there, and He still accepts me because of what He has done.  But I don't do that perfectly, so I look for fleeting things outside my control to hang my hat on.  That never ends well, does it?

Well, this has been more rambling and less focused or inspired than I'd hoped.  From now on, I'll try to do better- try to put my trust where it should be- and cheer with my friends, instead of against them. Go Ravens- beat those 49ers.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (JK Rowling)

Back to Potter.  Now, it's year 4 at Hogwarts for Harry, and this year will be like no other.  For the first time in decades, the Tri-wizard tournament will be held.  Harry's too young to participate- or is he?  The goblet of fire spits out the names of the three students who will represent each of the participating schools, but then selects a fourth name: Harry Potter.  Thus thrust into the tournament, Potter struggles through those challenges while balancing his schoolwork and the ever-present drama concerning Voldemort.  Will Harry win?  And, more importantly, who cares?

This book marked a shift in length- Rowling's first three Potter novels were all in the 300-400 page range; Goblet of Fire came in at over 700.  Still an entertaining and immensely fast read, this one started having some boy-girl hormone-induced drama, which I supposed appealed to some, but I found a little annoying.  I'm also starting to get bugged by most of the characters' reluctance to say "Voldemort," instead saying "you-know-who" or other nonsense.  But, those things aside, there was a lot of action, plot twists, and shocking events that kept this one going. Overall, I enjoyed this one- a lot.  I think I enjoyed the previous book a tad more, but this is still top-notch.

Rating: A+

The Master and Margarita (Mikhail Bulgakov)

First things first: I'm going to stop putting descriptors, like "book review," in the title of relevant posts, and instead rely on labels, as that's what they're there to do.

Okay, on to The Master and Margarita.  Written in the 1930s by the Soviet Mikhail Bulgakov, this work is hailed as a masterpiece of modern literature.  Google the title and you'll find many websites are dedicated to just this book.  So, needless to say, I was really anticipating this one.  And . . . thud.

Maybe I'm uncultured, uneducated, or just not in tune with Russian thought, but this book did nothing for me.  The basic premise: the devil and a small personal retinue (which include a giant black cat, two odd-looking men, and a naked witch) arrive in Moscow, and wreak havoc in a land whose people are taught that neither he nor God exist.  Among the people affected by this unholy presence is the Master, an ostracized writer whose recent work on Pontius Pilate has received poor reviews, and his devoted lover Margarita.  There's more to it, but that's the gist.

Unfortunately, I just didn't get it.  It was labeled as contemplative, poignant, and humorous, but I experienced almost none of these moments.  A few odd things, yes, but the only reason I completed this was because I was hoping the end would have a huge payoff that would render the whole experience worthwhile.  It didn't.  I was left wondering what the point was.  A work of theology?  No.  Humor?  Partially.  Anything else?  No idea.  Oh well.  I'm confident the other Russian selections would be more in line with my interests.

Rating: C-

The Birth of Natalie

image from here

This week, our little Natalie turned three years old, and it seems like the perfect time to recount how she came to us.

I'll start by saying that I can think of few better means of conveying the value of abstinence than visiting a maternity ward.  It's a place of horrors- screaming, crying, blood and other unsavory fluids everywhere- and that's when things are going well.  Kids today would do well to tour one every year or so, from age 15 onwards.  But I digress.

Early in the morning of January 11th 2010, I went downstairs at 5am to find my wife, Beth, sitting at the kitchen table.  "My water's broken," she said.  "Huh," I replied.  We called the hospital to alert them, gathered the relevant toiletries, and started our journey towards the facility.  On the way, I had one thought foremost in my mind: my daughter's birthday would be 01/11/10.  Symmetrical, and binary- I was so excited.  Also, the prospect of having a child- an undoubtedly beautiful and obedient daughter- was nice, too.  "This is going to be great," I thought, as we arrived at the hospital.

At this point it bears mentioning that our daughter was born in Germany.  This was a practical decision on our part, as we lived in Germany at the time.  Anyway, upon arrival at the hospital, we were shown to our room.  We had paid for a private suite, so I could stay with Beth, and in the process guarantee that she wouldn't have to share a room with a potentially large and/or ill-tempered German woman.  Things were looking bright indeed.  As we walked into the room, the previous occupant was leaving- a woman who had delivered twins the day before.  She looked tired and crestfallen.  We introduced ourselves, and asked about her experience.  "I needed drugs," she said, succinctly and sadly.  There was no hiding the shame in her eyes- she had failed.  Now, if you're an American reading this, you might be thinking "failed at what?  Plenty of people have epidurals in America."  You don't understand- in Germany, perfection and toughness is expected- nay, mandated.  Her requiring medication was a clear sign of weakness, and as such, she'd probably be banished shortly, and her children confiscated by the state.  We nodded grimly at her statement, fully understanding the implication of her pronouncement.  "Too bad for her," we thought, "but Beth won't be needing any drugs, no sir!"  We had a plan, and we were going to stick to it.

The plan was pretty simple:
1) go to hospital
2) have baby
3) go home
I was excited, as it looked like I was needed only for steps 1 and 3- I could kick back and relax during 2.  Beth, wouldn't be relaxing, of course- but that wasn't my problem.*  Beth was determined to have a completely natural childbirth, unaided by medication of any kind, so it wouldn't be easy for her, but she was convinced it was best for all, and I wisely agreed, having already learned the most important lesson of marriage for men: you can agree now, or give in after hours of arguing about it.

Things started easily enough- we were told to stay in our suite until the contractions were five minutes apart.  We had arrived at the hospital around 7am; that evening, we were still in our room, measuring the time between contractions.  Beth was intensely interested in this.  Every time Beth had a contraction, I'd dutifully record the time, and perform a quick analysis of the frequency of these events.  That wasn't so bad, for the first dozen or so hours, but I was getting tired, and the contractions were remaining distantly spaced- couldn't Beth see how hard this was on me?  Why couldn't she record the times?  Huh?  My involvement in the task was unnecessary, and I had that thought often- increasingly so as we approached one o'clock in the morning.  But again, exercising seldomly-used discretion, I kept my mouth shut, and eventually, my eyes followed.

The next morning, there was still no progress.  I was heartbroken- now my daughter would be born on 01/12/10, which was neither symmetrical nor binary.  Also, I was getting mighty bored.  Beth had been in labor 24 hours, which is the point in America where they induce or deliver via c-section.  But, remember, we were in Germany, where they typically let women labor for the better part of a month before any action is taken.  So, the hours ticked by, and relatively little happened, save for a soft moan from Beth whenever she had a contraction.  This comment bears further mention- my wife is extremely concerned for other people's comfort, even when she herself is in the throes of agony.  So, after each contraction, she'd apologize for making noise.  That she did so is a testament to her character- my reaction would have likely been more along the lines of screaming and cursing- but there she was, alternating between quiet groans and profuse apologies.  I would have found it amusing, if I wasn't starting to get worried.

About 34 hours in, Beth still hadn't had any sort of medication, but something had to be done.  They gave her pitocin, which is a drug invented by communists to make already-horrific labor pains instantly worse by several orders of magnitude.  It's also supposed to coax the baby out, or something, but the only effect we noticed was the former- labor got a whole lot worse, and the baby wasn't coming.  It was around this time they noticed meconium.

I was (and am) very ignorant on most aspects of the birthing process, but unfortunately, I knew what meconium was- our neighbor's son had inhaled meconium during his birth some years before, and had nearly died, requiring a months-long hospital stay and suffering mild (but permanent) health conditions as a result.**  When the doctors told us about it, they said they'd have to do an emergency c-section.  Then they all left.  All of them.  I was alone with my wife in the room, more scared than I'd ever been in my life.  Beth had been in labor for 35 hours now, and had not eaten anything in that time.  She was so tired breathing became difficult.  The baby's heart rate would drop every time Beth's breathing slowed, and I'd have to gently encourage her- "Beth, honey, breathe.  Breathe.  That's good- good.  The heart rate is going back up.  Hang in there.  It won't be long."

I told Beth it wouldn't be long, but I soon started questioning myself.  The minutes ticked by- where were the doctors?  What about the emergency?  What about my child?  Fifteen minutes passed- thirty.  Forty.  Lord, please don't let my daughter die.  Where were those doctors?  I'd steal away from Beth every few minutes to scan the hall for someone- anyone- to help.  When I saw a doctor, I'd ask in my limited German about the situation.  "Yes, it's an emergency.  We'll take care of her soon."  Where your child's health is concerned, forty minutes is not soon.  In fact, it was, without question, the longest forty minutes of my life.  Praying, pleading, worrying, all while trying to be encouraging to Beth.  She was, at this point, so exhausted that she seemed as though she was giving up.  I may be exaggerating, but it didn't seem like it at the time.  Finally, at the forty-five minute point, they came in, and brought her into the operation room.

I was still terrified, but it was kind of fun to put on scrubs.  Oddly, though I was fully decked out, they didn't make me (or let me) wash my hands- this will be important later.  They led me into the room, and put me right by Beth's face.  They then put up a curtain, with strict instructions, issued in heavily-accented English, for me to stay where I was.  I needed no convincing- I had no desire to see my wife's organs once they cut her open.  Beth had been given a spinal, and was euphoric when I sat down.  "Oh, this is wonderful," she said, as they cut into her and (apparently) started removing her organs.  "Oh- I feel tugging!" she giggled, and they (probably) placed her stomach on a nearby table.  I remained on edge- we weren't out of the woods yet.

The one time you want to hear your child cry is when they're born, as silence can be the sign of many bad things.  Delightedly, we heard Natalie loud and clear then they pulled her out.  She was clearly resentful of being forcibly removed from her cozy arrangement, and would take it out on us by screaming for the better part of the next two years, but I didn't know that at the time.  All I knew was that my daughter was out, and she was okay.  Thank you, Jesus.  Thank you.  Beth was okay, Natalie was okay, all was right.

They carried Nat past me to the adjacent room for cleaning and weighing, and when they were ready, they let me see her.  A dark-complected baby with a head full of black hair looked up at me, glaring, clearly angry for the aforementioned reason.  But I didn't care.  This was my little girl!  "Hi, Nat," I said, not really knowing how else to kick off the conversation.  I reached towards her and- wait a minute.  They didn't let me wash my hands.  Shoot.  I don't want to contaminate her, or something.  I was sad, but contented myself with gazing down at the marvelous creation before my eyes.  Kids aren't pretty when they're born, but you don't think that until later- you look down at the tiny wriggling mass, and, like me, think "wait a minute- where'd she get that dark skin and dark hair?"  Her mother and I are both light-skinned; I'm a ginger, and Beth has light brown tresses.   Was something amiss?

As they brought the baby to Beth, I let her have a few moments of joy before asking the tough question.  "Beth," I said, haltingly, "why does Nat have black hair?"  "I don't know," she replied, but then paled.  "Do you think we have the wrong baby?  Did they switch her with another baby?"

It's time for another digression.  Pregnancy hormones do things- horrible things- to otherwise rational women.  The stories I have from our first pregnancy could fill a mildly entertaining novel***.  In this particular instance, I'll leave out most of the details, save for a few.  Since Beth was concerned about baby-switching, to calm her down, I asked a passing nurse.  "See our new baby?" I asked, hopefully, following with "doesn't she look like us?"  The nurse squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose- "no, she doesn't look like either one of you."  Uh oh- that backfired.  My wife was rapidly approaching panic stages, and calmed only after forcing me to produce a crude attempt at a building schematic, which I used to show her that it was highly unlikely that a switch could have occurred based on the arrangement of the rooms alone.  Nat had been taken to a room adjacent to the operation room, and both rooms were sealed from the outside world.  A switch would have had to have been premeditated, with a second baby concealed in a drawer or something.  It seems ridiculous to discuss now, but yes, we did have conversations like this.

I could drone on for hours about the birth, but it's time to close for the night.  Everything was fine with the baby, and both Beth and I settled down considerably as the months passed and her skin and hair more closely resembled our own.  Now, three years later, we have a beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned daughter who looks a lot like her mom.  And, I might add, is every bit as stubborn today as she was on that first day, when she refused to enter the birth canal.  Happy Birthday, Natalie.  You were worth the wait.

*Yes, I'm kidding, settle down, people.  Sheesh.
**of inhaling meconium, not staying at the hospital
***maybe someday, they will.  Bwahahahahaha.