Ghostly Insomnia

Ladies and Gentlemen, last night I was sleeping soundly, but thirst got the better of me and I woke to wet my parched mouth. The room was noticably warmer than when I went to sleep. No wonder I was thirsty. I rolled over to drink from the cup I had sitting on the night stand. As I did so, I saw a shadowy human shaped figure dart away--emphasis on the shadow part. I woke several times that night, always thirsty, always hot. I only saw ghostly movement once more. The other times I kept my eyes shut. I didn't want to deal with it. Clearly, this ghost is almost certainly Oliver Cromwell who no doubt shut off the air conditioner because he seems to hate all things technological.

Look, Mr. Cromwell, that kind of behavior is uncalled for. England is located roughly between 50 and 60 degrees latitude. Mississippi is sitting smack dab at thirty. I don't think you realize, oh ghost of -ocracies past, what a difference that makes temperature-wise. I've been to England this time of year. It can be kind of nice. But guess what, sunshine, our low temperature today is right where your high is. That's right. You're looking at a low 48/high 67. My place has 67 degrees for our low temperature for today. Mind you, this is presented in Fahrenheit because if you're going to go cutting off my A/C in the middle of the night, I'm not going to exert the effort needed to convert to Celcius for you. Plus, you kinda died before Celsius was established. Granted, you kinda died before Fahrenheit was established as well. How convenient that you should die before science established any reliable temperature gague beyond the Freezing-Cold-Cool-Luke Warm-Warm-Hot-Screw This I'm Going Swimming. Let me guess, all of this death before thermometers was done simply so you could pretend to be ingnorant when you turned off that vital cool air in the middle of the night and then in the morning, be like, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know what those numbers mean. I'm a ghost. Oooooo!"

I'm hip to your little games, Cromwell.

You have been informed.

Science Outpaces Intelligence!

Ladies and Gentlemen, as we continue our effort to make up for lost time, I share with you this disturbing bit of news. For ages, man has feared that the pace at which science and technology grows exceeds the pace at which man's wisdom and intellect, man's ability to make ethical decisions grows. They thought we had reached the outpacing point when we developed the atomic bomb. We'd built a bomb that could level a city, but were we ready to wield that awesome power, to make the kinds of decisions needed to use those bombs responsibly? Instances like that really make us do a cost-benefit analysis on science and technology, but they pale in comparison to the gap between science and reason in this latest technological development. In the past, the question was "Are we morally ready for this innovation?"

Now the question is "Are we intelligent enough to invent this technology in the first place, let alone use it?"

The answer, in this case, is a resounding no. We have officially technologically outpaced ourselves.

I submit to you for your consideration the Big Dog robot.



We've built an advanced robot that looks and moves nothing like a dog and called it a Big Dog. We needn't ask if we're ready for such a robot. The answer is clearly no. These scientists evidently don't even know what dogs look like, and we let them build robots? If anything, it looks and sounds like a bug, and moves like a deer. If these scientists were intelligent and intellectually ready for an innovation like this, they would have named it the Big Bug Deer. But they called it the Big Dog.

And then they kicked it, so clearly they aren't ready for it. They weren't intelligent enough to name it properly, and then they kicked it, showing they clearly don't realize it's unethical to kick a dog, even if it is robotic. Not to sound like a Luddite or seem like I'm siding with Oliver Cromwell or anything, but I think it's time we put the kibosh on technological discovery until we can at least identify common animals and stop abusing robots. After all, robot abuse is always the first step toward robot enslavement/annihilation of humanity.



As further proof that robots are becoming increasingly self-aware, we have reference above to the robo-boogie and this video of robots dancing.



And we all know that according to my modified version of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, dancing is an essential step to self-actualization, the epitome of self-awareness.

Tread more cautiously, science. You're treading in dangerous waters that you aren't mentally ready for.

You have been informed.

Wireless Internet is Dead

Ladies and Gentlemen, my internet was being appallingly bad yesterday. I was trying to use Skype in the dining room for my own nerdy gaming purposes but couldn't get a wireless signal on the laptop. A couple steps over into the kitchen and the signal was just fine. I found it strange the way the signal seemed to stop dead at the door between the two rooms. It puzzled me that the signal could travel through several walls to get to the kitchen, but couldn't move two more feet through an open door. Perhaps Oliver Cromwell had something to do with it. After all, even in the best of spots, the internet cuts out for seemingly no reason.

At that moment, lightning struck my brain.

At least metaphorically. Or rather, metaphorically in relation to the lightning, not the brain. Let's try that again.

At that moment, metaphoric lightning struck my real brain. (true, it lacks the panache of the first attempt, but this is clearer, and clarity does not obscure the truth).

Wireless internet connections are ghost powered. It makes so much sense.

Facts About Ghosts:

1. Ghosts can walk through walls.
2. Ghosts emit an electro-magnetic frequency.
3. Ghosts are bound to the items, people, or locations they haunt and cannot go beyond a certain radius of that item, person, or location.
   
4. Ghosts, specificaly Oliver Cromwell, are against technology, specifically my technology.

Facts About Wireless Interent Connections:

1. Wireless signals can go through walls.
2. Electronics, including wireless devices such as routers, emit electro-magnetic frequencies.
3. Wireless signals are bound to the item that generates them, and thus you cannot get a signal beyond a certain radius of the router.
4. My wireless signal fails all the time, suggesting it's against being a properly working piece of technology, specifically my technology.

Do I really need to spell it out more? It is abundantly clear and painfully obvious that wireless router "factories" are actually filled not with blue collar workers but cabals of technowizards who bind spirits--possibly spirits of communicatiosn experts, but really there's no way of telling without a Ouija board or going to the factory--to an access port in a router. The router is plugged into an ethernet cable. The ghost, being bound not to the cable, but the port cannot go running wild through the 'net. So what does it do? It seeks out other ports within a radius of its haunting place--the router--trying to find a way to be free. Perhaps the other port that it found will release it. Alas, no. So the ghost spends its days moving at the speed of though back and forth between all the wireless ports it can reach, trying to find the one that it can escape from. Meanwhile, every time it reaches a new port, he is forcibly injected with raw data, almost certanly an uncomfortable experience. So the next port he comes to, he purges this data into the other connection site, only to find it forcing more data back in. That's how wireless intercomputer communication works. And sometimes the spirit gets frustrated and refuses to run around anymore. Further, being a ghost, Oliver Cromwell could interact with it physically (well, physically for the ghosts at least), meaning he could actively attempt to stop the ghost from providing signal to my computer. After all, he overthrew a monarchy. Surely he could stop a ghost from running in circles.

It makes so much sense that I'm shocked I didn't discover this sooner. After all, we even have an expression about there being a "ghost in the machine." Why didn't it occur to me that it could be--and in fact is--a literal ghost?

You have been informed.

The history buffs won't let me sleep...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I haven't really had a good night's sleep since August of 2007. Suddenly, I began waking up constantly in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. And not once. Multiple times throughout the night. Every hour or two. A good night's sleep is one where I only wake up once or twice. I'm exhausted all of the time and I've decided to figure out why.

• I had slept moderately at the MANsion (what my roommates called my old abode), though I occasionally had sleepless nights.
  
• At the very end of July, I moved in with some friends and my sleep became irratic.
  
• In August of last year, I started a semester of almost nothing but history classes.
• In August of last year, i started my final year of college.
• In August of last year, I was supposed to have started my student teaching.
• In January, I moved out and lived with a few other people for the next several months.
  
• During my student teaching the following semester, the sleep problems grew worse and my eyes would twitch very frequently.
• Having graduated, my sleep is still bad but not as bad as it used to be.
• Having graduated, my eyes rarely twitch, but that doesn't mean they don't twitch at all.

Here's what it looks like to me. When living in the MANsion once I woke in the middle of the night and thought I saw a ghost. When I moved in July, the house the ghost must have followed me. After all, I was the only original resident of the MANsion left when I moved out. So the ghost follows me. It knows I'm taking history courses because it must have sat in my room planning my schedule for the coming semester. The ghost is into history. Plus, as the only college student remaining at the MANsion, it knows without me, it doesn't have access to classes. When I move, it follows.

It's ghosts keeping me up all night, for sure. The house did creep me out a little. And it was always pretty cold. Ghosts make the air cold, right? However, I was living with a bunch of people (at one time I had five other roommates). Therefore, the ghost woke me up, but not often, because it had several other people in the house to disturb. It had many people it could follow to classes. Still, I slept terribly, so I assume the ghost was most interested in history, something only I was really studying at the time. Great.

In January, I move in with someone else. Just one person. The ghost follows me, hoping for more history. I am after all licensed to teach history in this state. Perhaps the ghost hopes I will be teaching history during my teacher candidacy. I don't. I teach language arts and literature instead. The ghost is not pleased, and as such makes sure I don't sleep well for the entire sememster. I get all of the attention because the roommate is neither college student nor history buff. All of the ghost's attentions are on me. No rest for our scholarly shade, so no rest for me either I guess.

I graduate. I move out. I'm living with a couple of people, but still, I'm the one who reads history books, so the ghost keeps his attention on me. Even so, my sleep isn't as bad as it used to be. I assume this is because my old ghost is now distracted by Oliver Cromwell. After all, if you're a ghost who is into history, who would you rather hang out with? A student of history or a historical figure? So while he's getting his primary sources for his afterlife PhD, I'm sleeping mildly better, though not wonderfully. I guess the ghost still needs access to that contemporary historical critism.

Lately, though, my sleep has been really bad again. Perhaps because I've been coming down so hard on Oliver Cromwell, he's decided to back off a little, leaving my history ghost with no one to talk to and nothing to do... except bother me. I never thought I'd say this, but come back Mr. Cromwell. I miss you. That or our ghost is a hardcore restorationist and wasn't happy sharing a place with Cromwell, and because Cromwell began acting up over the past couple months, Mr. Restorationist Ghost is acting up too, which in turn is keeping me up.

Oh ghosts... will you never let me sleep?

You have been informed.

What I learned in my Absence

Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologize for my absence. Yesterday was the first day since starting this blog that I was unable to share a little truth with you. My internet was down all day and nothing I did would change it's mind and make it cooperate. I even tried water-boarding, and while it was fun to hit the beach for a while, I seriously do not understand how that's supposed to make someone spill a secret. Maybe the idea is you keep them in prison for a long time, and then you say, "Hey buddy. Me and some of the guys were gonna go hit up the beach. You know, have some barbeque, play some volley ball. Maybe surf some waves. You wanna grab a board and come along?" And then after having such a fun day after years of torture, they're like, "You know, you cats aren't so bad. Tell you what. The secret plans are buried under my basement." I guess. My router, however, sucked on the surfboard, so I had to break up with it and get a new one.

But I did learn some truths in my absence.

1. Leonardo da Vinci started painting the "Mona Lisa" in 1400 B.C. (or B.C.E. if that's how you get your archaeological jollies off). No, he isn't an immortal like Duncan McLeod or Dorian Gray or fruit cake. He's a time traveller, as any well educated child of the 1990s can tell you. The fact of the matter is that da Vinci really wanted to capture an accurate representation of the natural beauty upon which he would later canvas his subject and its contrast to the invasion of "modern conveniences" like roads. Using his time machine, he went back in time to before that road in the background was constructed and painted the flora and fauna first. Then he painted the road atop the initial landscape to exemplify the invading nature of society on the countryside. Then he painted a woman in front of it because he "really mucked up the middle bit."
2. Ninjas attacked me at work. I didn't see them, but that's because they are ninja. I am, however, feeling rather battered and bruised and don't recall being assaulted by tables or chairs, so I am forced to conclude that it was done by a clan of meeting-hating ninja. I hate meetings. Maybe I can be a ninja too.
3. Oliver Cromwell is still a jerk. Stop breaking my technology.

You have been informed, albeit somewhat late.

Cromwell Strikes Again!

Ladies and Gentlemen, Oliver Cromwell struck again. I woke this morning to find my clothes hamper tipped over, dirty laundry spilled everywhere. We all know the ghost of Oliver Cromwell resents me and my rising lower class affluence (at least in comparison to the standard of living three hundred fifty years ago). Clearly he is filled with some kind of unholy undead rage over my having so many clothes that it fills my hamper beyond capacity. Or perhaps it's not the clothes he dislikes, but that I haven't washed clothes in long enough time that my hamper runneth over. Regardless, surely there must be some way to keep this specter of Puritans past from knocking over everything I own.

Possible solutions:

• An exorcism. Cromwell was a Protestant and a Puritan and in those days, those two meant anti-Catholic, so in theory a Catholic ritual may be just the thing I need to chase him away. On the other hand, it may make him stronger and angrier if I mess it up, especially since I'm not Catholic.
• Ghost Malaria. Sure malaria and kidney stones killed him the first time, but I don't think they have diseases like this for ghosts. They don't need their kidneys anymore, so the stones thing won't work, and ghosts are kinda bloodless, so it's unlikely that a bloodborn pathogen would do the trick. Even if it is the ghost of dead bacteria.
  
• Take a vow of poverty. Nope. Not gonna happen. I was born to a vow of poverty. I'm not gonna toss what I've painstakingly accumulated. I'm a pack rat.
• Find a way to make the house haunted by the ghost of King Charles II. Sure he took the throne back from Cromwell's son Richard and not Cromwell himself, and yes, he may have enacted anti-Puritan laws upon his return, but really, that was under pressure from his constituency. He was a tolerant person. He did, after all, allow women on stage in English theatres. He probably wouldn't try to destroy my books or computer, especially if I'm acting as his modern day General Monck and invite him to take over where a Cromwell holds court. Now if only I knew how to summon the ghosts of long dead royalty. Any suggestions?

You have been informed.

Who Hurt My Ankle?

Ladies and Gentlemen, today I went to work and out of no where, my ankle started hurting. With every step, the pain that shot up my shins became sharper and more intense. I don’t recall every taking a bad step or losing my footing. I never twisted it, stubbed it, smashed it, jarred it, or dropped anything on it. No one else did either. Even so, it swelled. It hurt. It caused me pain. There are only three explanations.

1. The Ghost of Oliver Cromwell. Sure, he seems to have it out for me and I didn't see anyone, so it could have been a ghost, but he has not motive. I really haven't done any of the things that make him seek vengeance upon me lately. Plus, work is a little out of his jurisdiction. He normally only harasses me at home.
2. The Invisible Man. Well, let’s be a little less specific. An invisible man. Or person. However, if I get too vague, it’s hard to come up with any kind of justification for them. It could simply be a cruel invisible prankster, but I didn’t hear any laughter as I winced, so this seems unlikely.
3. Ninjas. I do have an interest in ninjas, which in theory goes against their mystique. After all, if I’m researching them, they become less mysterious, correct? Further, I saw no one do it and heard no laughter. Ninjas would strike imperceptibly quickly and would make now sound, not even the sweet gloating of revenge. Also, it did start hurting while I was setting the night club, which is a much darker location, giving said ninjas ample shadow to lurk in.

Given the evidence, I’m going to have to say it was probably ninjas, who wounded me for looking too deeply into their secrets, and by too deeply, I mean looking into their secrets at all.

Moral of the story: Don’t investigate ninjas unless you can take the pain.

You have been informed.

Stupid Cromwell...

Ladies and Gentlemen, at my place, we are having some work done and the construction workers were doing some painting on the upstairs window frame. They left it to dry over night. The next day, the paint was smudged and there were painty fingerprints on the roof. Now I know no one here has been on the roof since the day I had to shimmy to the balcony after Oliver Cromwell tipped over my bookshelf. Now, it seems, Cromwell has a problem with paint. Perhaps its because his long time buddy and avid supporter John Milton went blind from lead poisoning. Maybe the paint had lead in it, and the long dead English tyrant is morally opposed to the stuff. Oh Oliver... you're so silly.

You have been informed.

Dead Ghosts Hate My Books...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have reason to believe that my house is haunted by a ghost that is super conservative, longing to return to the good old days when we worked hard all day and all went to church. He wants to take us back to those golden days of yesteryear when we belonged to the land we farmed and lived under an impoverishing theocratic rule. This ghost, I believe, is Oliver Cromwell. He wants to take us back to the dark ages. How do I know this? Last night I dreamt (though about what, I shall never tell). I awoke suddenly to a cacophony of falling objects and thunderous thuds. At first I feared someone had perhaps fallen down the stairs while carrying something. But why would anyone else be home at that time? And from the sound of it, why would they be carrying so much stuff in one load down the steps. While searching the house for a potential thief, I found one door I could not open. Behind that door is my computer and my books. And my board games, but that's beside the point. Clearly I was dealing with a book theif, or so I thought. The room was locked except for the one door, which I discovered was blocked. With much effort, I was able to force my way into the room. The reason for the difficulty? My bookshelf had fallen directly across the door's path toward my computer desk.

I know, it's a far stretch from fallen bookshelf to medieval ghost. But not nearly as far as you may think. Let's look at the facts, shall we?

1. A book shelf fell over.
2. No one was in the room.
3. The only things damaged were a bust of John Constantine, a mini of the make-up bot from Wall-E, and two wooden horses, each of which lost a leg. And the bookshelf, obviously.
4. Other contents of the room include my computer and X-Box.

What can we interpret from these facts? First, clearly it was the work of ghosts. No one else was in the room. Further, the shelf has had a lean to it for several weeks, showing that the ghosts have actively been pushing against it for quite some time and only today succeeded in taking the shelf out.

Second, the bookshelf fell toward my computer and X-Box, which was thankfully too far away. Clearly this ghost is a ludite, a hater of technology. This suggests a foul presence from the past. The chest of board games was entirely undisturbed, which is reasonable considering the popularity of board games in the middle ages: Nine Men's Morris, Chess, and Draughts (or Checkers) to name a few.

Third, while only very few specific books were damaged, the entire bookshelf, boards cracked and splintered, is now entirely unusuable. This suggests that the ghost isn't just against certain genres. Or if he is, he hates how-to books, graphic novels, memoirs, rpgs, Germans and/or the German language, and Shakespeare; and he is not opposed to science fiction, satire, classic literature (excluding Shakespeare), histories, and pedagogy. But that seems to be a bit of a stretch. So I think the safe conclusion is that this ghost is opposed to books in general. After all, with no shelf, where am I to put these now homeless books? How does this support my theory of phantom from the past? In those days, literacy was a rare thing, typically possessed only by the ruling elite, namely the nobles, the clergy, and the occasional merchant. The majority of the population was illiterate, hence the angry protest against books. It must think me part of the oppressive upper class. This places the ghost in the middle ages, for were it to be younger, it would no I'm actually a member of the oppressive middle class bourgeoisie, which didn't exist in older days. That or perhaps said ghost recognizes my lower class origins and resents my literacy, which would make it the white oppressor. Either way, it places the ghost square in the 700-1600s, assuming it isn't a modern ghost that longs for said time period.

Fourth, other than the shelf itself, the only real damage was done to my statue of John Constantine and a figureine from the movie Wall-E. First, to the Constantine statue. No damage to the mane himself or the demons. No, the only damage was to the beer and the bar. Now, the damage was not done to the man consorting with devils, and why should it be? Men in the middle ages were amused by plays about Doctor Faustus, who sold his soul for power and tried to trick the Devil. One could argue that Constantine himself is something a modern Faustus. Naturally it would have a love for him. Likewise, the demons on the statue were unharmed, which were again very popular in the Middle Ages. They were often the favorite part of morality and mystery plays. People love to be frightened, so the demons can stay. No, the broken bit was the beer. This is a ghost for temperance who resents our twenty-first amendment. The ghost is opposed to the sordid, rough-and-tumble bar crowd found in major cities of the day, such as London, Berlin, and Paris. After all, taverns were frequented by prostitutes, actors, and theives.

Four and a half, the other broken bit was one of the robots from Wall-E. Which one, you ask? The make-up bot. That's right. Our ghost left the cleaning robot alone. He left alone the dog robot and the loving, caring robot, and he took out the one that promotes the deadly sin of vanity.

Naturally, given examination there can be only one logical conclusion. My house is haunted by a ghost, probably of Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell, a religious zealot who opposed drinking, theatre, sin, and all things immodest. And probably literacy. Given Cromwell's proclivity toward military violence, the destruction of a shelf seems a logical expression of resentment from such a ghost.

Damn you, Cromwell. You win this time, but the game is far from over.

You have been informed.