The Incredible Thread of Silliness

Three penguins are in a shower, one penguin says to the other penguin "hand me the soap" . The penguin replies "What do you think this is, a toaster?"

When I was little, my father used to write short stories for me and my sister. Some of them were completely nonsensical, composed of made-up words, that were onomatopoeic. so you could get the storyline - some tragedy, some happiness - only you didn't know what exactly happened to who. still have them bound somewhere, he typed them on his old typewriter. he also wrote us letters that could only be read in a mirror, or that were encoded in various puzzles. or he would chop them to pieces and i would have to get together with my sister and my mom to put them together. neat stuff.

Daniil Kharms wrote children's rhymes as well by the way - they were translated in Dutch in a cute collection (but I like his literature a lot better, even tho I'm into kids books).

Wow. That must have been very special. You've had a special - heritage, for lack of a better word. Must have a lot of stories to tell. <nods>

I agree. Those are going to be tough to live up to when you have children. Was your dad influenced by Tolkien, do you think? Good Christmas present for your siblings would be to find those stories and make some nice copies. In my family that would be a fantastic gift.

Loved the Cataract of Lodore -- thanks.

This last business is wonderful...

Nope. I don't think he ever read Tolkien. It wasn't widely read in my neck of the woods, what with that silly Cold War and all that. My dad was his own creation. That's how he got my mom, too. Instead of a love letter he wrote to her a 21 page long Philosophical Treatise on the Theory of Love Letters. Some 35 years later she does weekly radio shows on family stuff - she is a psychologist and a family therapist. One of the shows was on love letters, how they change with interntet/cell phones and all that jazz. His letter finally came in really handy!

What a love story! Twenty-one pages on the Theory of Love Letters?!? That could be very romantic. I'm glad it's come in handy for your mom. Your family sounds very interesting. A radio talk show host? Neat.

Well, it's from midnight to 2am - people call in, she gives advice, that sort of thing. usually she uses me for her examples, all of my escapades from childhood and puberty. i got used to it <heavy sigh>

Dasha - I didn't know about the radio show - how funny (sorry for you!).

yeah, kick the cripple... <err, slovakism?>

I suppose not, yet ?

Kick the cripple... nah... not just a Slovakism. A sentiment known 'round the world, I think. Must have been awful to be the example on air. At least it sounds like the show was late enough that few of your friends would still be up and listening. Parents (god love 'em) can be mortifying!




I didn't say, but meant to, that this was hilarious!

For many years now, Mr. Danny Kaye, who has been my particular idol since childbirth, has been doing a routine about the great Russian director Stanislavsky and the secret of success in the acting profession. And I thought it would be interesting to stea... to adapt this idea to the field of mathematics. I always like to make explicit the fact that before I went off not too long ago to fight in the trenches, I was a mathematician by profession. I don't like people to get the idea that I have to do this for a living. I mean, it isn't as though I had to do this, you know, I could be making, oh, 3000 dollars a year just teaching.

Be that as it may, some of you may have had occasion to run into mathematicians and to wonder therefore how they got that way, and here, in partial explanation perhaps, is the story of the great Russian mathematician Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky.

Who made me the genius I am today,
The mathematician that others all quote,
Who's the professor that made me that way?
The greatest that ever got chalk on his coat.

One man deserves the credit,
One man deserves the blame,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Hi!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobach-

I am never forget the day I first meet the great Lobachevsky.
In one word he told me secret of success in mathematics:
Plagiarize!

Plagiarize,
Let no one else's work evade your eyes,
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don't shade your eyes,
But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize -
Only be sure always to call it please 'research'.

And ever since I meet this man
My life is not the same,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Hi!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobach-

I am never forget the day I am given first original paper
to write. It was on analytic and algebraic topology of
locally Euclidean parameterization of infinitely differentiable
Riemannian manifold.
Bozhe moi!
This I know from nothing.
But I think of great Lobachevsky and get idea - ahah!

I have a friend in Minsk,
Who has a friend in Pinsk,
Whose friend in Omsk
Has friend in Tomsk
With friend in Akmolinsk.
His friend in Alexandrovsk
Has friend in Petropavlovsk,
Whose friend somehow
Is solving now
The problem in Dnepropetrovsk.

And when his work is done -
Ha ha! - begins the fun.
From Dnepropetrovsk
To Petropavlovsk,
By way of Iliysk,
And Novorossiysk,
To Alexandrovsk to Akmolinsk
To Tomsk to Omsk
To Pinsk to Minsk
To me the news will run,
Yes, to me the news will run!

And then I write
By morning, night,
And afternoon,
And pretty soon
My name in Dnepropetrovsk is cursed,
When he finds out I publish first!

And who made me a big success
And brought me wealth and fame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Hi!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobach -

I am never forget the day my first book is published.
Every chapter I stole from somewhere else.
Index I copy from old Vladivostok telephone directory.
This book was sensational!
Pravda - well, Pravda - Pravda said: (Russian double-talk)
It stinks.
But Izvestia! Izvestia said: (Russian double-talk)
It stinks.
Metro-Goldwyn-Moskva buys movie rights for six million rubles,
Changing title to 'The Eternal Triangle',
With Brigitte Bardot playing part of hypotenuse.

And who deserves the credit?
And who deserves the blame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Hi!

Only one thing wrong, Cav. That ditty is by Tom Lehrer, Harvard mathematician turned satirical singer, not by Danny Kaye (though I recall Danny singing it on one of his TV specials).

Oh, I knew that Merry. The intro is also Tom Lehrer's, from a live version of the song.

cav strikes again!

I strike? Never...I need the scab work.

Le Verbe Être
André Breton

Je connais le désespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Le désespoir n'a pas d'ailes, il ne se tient pas nécessairement à une table desservie sur une terrasse, le soir, au bord de la mer. C'est le désespoir et ce n'est pas le retour d'une quantité de petits faits comme des graines qui quittent à la nuit tombante un sillon pour un autre. Ce n'est pas la mousse sur une pierre ou le verre à boire. C'est un bateau criblé de neige, si vous voulez, comme les oiseaux qui tombent et leur sang n'a pas la moindre épaisseur. Je connais le désespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Une forme très petite, délimitée par un bijou de cheveux. C'est le désespoir. Un collier de perles pour lequel on ne saurait trouver de fermoir et dont l'existence ne tient pas même à un fil, voilà le désespoir. Le reste, nous n'en parlons pas. Nous n'avons pas fini de deséspérer, si nous commençons. Moi je désespère de l'abat-jour vers quatre heures, je désespère de l'éventail vers minuit, je désespère de la cigarette des condamnés. Je connais le désespoir dans ses grandes lignes. Le désespoir n'a pas de coeur, la main reste toujours au désespoir hors d'haleine, au désespoir dont les glaces ne nous disent jamais s'il est mort. Je vis de ce désespoir qui m'enchante. J'aime cette mouche bleue qui vole dans le ciel à l'heure où les étoiles chantonnent. Je connais dans ses grandes lignes le désespoir aux longs étonnements grêles, le désespoir de la fierté, le désespoir de la colère. Je me lève chaque jour comme tout le monde et je détends les bras sur un papier à fleurs, je ne me souviens de rien, et c'est toujours avec désespoir que je découvre les beaux arbres déracinés de la nuit. L'air de la chambre est beau comme des baguettes de tambour. Il fait un temps de temps. Je connais le désespoir dans ses grandes lignes. C'est comme le vent du rideau qui me tend la perche. A-t-on idée d'un désespoir pareil! Au feu! Ah! ils vont encore venir... Et les annonces de journal, et les réclames lumineuses le long du canal. Tas de sable, espèce de tas de sable! Dans ses grandes lignes le désespoir n'a pas d'importance. C'est une corvée d'arbres qui va encore faire une forêt, c'est une corvée d'étoiles qui va encore faire un jour de moins, c'est une corvée de jours de moins qui va encore faire ma vie.

Welcome...Chris....ahhhh....I can't stop laughing.

This should go in everyone's favorites.