I recently found this HUGE obsidian great knife. Just thought you’d like to see it. I’ll post age and other info as I learn more about it, but here’s the pics:

Happy 4th from Charlie Chap! - More bloopers are a click away

Happy 4th from Charlie Chap - Video.

While all colleges have their share of customs and rituals, some of them indeed quite strange, Yale’s deep roots in traditionalism has given this Ivy League school the title of Weirdest of All Time. Here are 8 of the oddest, strangest, craziest Yale Traditions ever:

Freshman Hazing:

Yalies took this to extremes. The Sophomore Class yearbook listing often included the title: “Nos timeunt Freshmanes” (Freshmen Fear Us). The school itself had a code of ethics for Freshman, which basically required the incoming class to pay complete deference to upperclassmen to the point of complete absurdity. A new student would often be awakened by banging on his door while those outside shouted, “Let us in Freshie, if you don’t want to die.” Once inside the room, the lights would be dimmed, and the student ordered to sit or stand on a table. He was then required to make a speech, sing a song, recite a Euclidean proposition, or some other silly request. If he refused, he was beaten with canes. If he defended himself, he was covered with a blanket and “smoked out”, where all those in attendance would blow tobacco smoke under the blanket until the student either became sick or passed out.

It was also not unusual for a select freshman to be picked out for “trimming”. The lucky student would be taken out into the wilderness, stripped, and would then have his hair cut off. He was often marked on the cheek with a symbol (using a chemical compound which would make the mark visible for days), humiliated in other ways, which some witnesses would only describe as “unmentionable”. With hands tied behind his back and a gag in his mouth, he would either be left to find his way back to civilization, or if lucky, merely dropped inside the locked gates of the Yale cemetery, where he would be found by the campus police in the morning.

Wooden Spoon Presentation and Promenade:

A 9 member student committee (called the Cochleauriati, literally meaning “spoon crowned with laurels”) would elect the year’s Spoon Man. This individual would be presented with a 2″ gold spoon pin and a three foot long black walnut spoon with their name and class inscribed upon it. A large banquet was held, after which the participants would storm around the campus, waking everyone they could, and chase them with wooden spoons. A good time was guaranteed for all.

The Burial of Euclid

Every year, at the completion of the Euclidean Geometry course, an elaborate “burial” ritual was held, complete with devil costumes, shining swords, and a procession of silent “mourners” who would march while pointing to their destination, a building called “The Temple”. Silly songs that played on geometry terminology were sung, such as:

He’ll try angling with the lines that bored us,
In the Stygian wave.
His accounts all squared, He hath departed
From his earthly sphere.

We’ve described the space of his existence,
In these given lines.
And we’ll burn old Euclid in the distance,
Beneath the waving pines.

The textbooks were piled up, a red hot poker was then driven through the pile. The books were then solemnly carried to a distant location, accompanied by the banging of a broken drum. As an effigy of Euclid was buried, the books were doused with whiskey and set alight. All in attendance would moan loudly until the books burned to ashes. The ashes were then gathered into an urn, which would then be placed in a prominent spot.

Bottle Night

This tradition began innocently enough, when a freshman dropped a bottle of ink from his window in an attempt to scare two arguing drunks below. This turned into Bottle Night, an annual event in which students would hurl bottles of water out of their dormitory windows. I have no idea why.

The Pass of Thermopolae

Freshmen were annually forced to run a gauntlet of two lines of upperclassmen that lined a narrow passage between two buildings. The idea was to avoid having the crap beat out of you.

Plaster Night

In 1923, some plaster fell from the ceiling of the newly repaired Timothy Dwight residential building. The faculty administrator threw a banquet, complete with stupid songs to commemorate the event, calling it “The End of the Plastercine Age”. It became an annual celebration. Go Yale!

Bladderball Day

Mass quantities of alcohol were consumed at breakfast. Everyone would crowd into the freshman courtyard, where the campus police had closed and locked the gates. They would stagger around, waiting for the 5 foot diameter “bladder ball” to be dropped. They would then attempt to maneuver the ball over the gate to score a “goal”, after which the gates would be opened, and all in attendance would run out into the streets and chase the ball, all the while screaming and stumbling over one another. Kind of like the Running of the Bulls, but without any pomp or circumstance.

The Skull and Bones Society

One of the most secretive of many secret societies, The Skull and Bones had their own share of creepy, funny, or completely unfathomable customs. Conspiracy theorists have long held that the Skull and Bones are the central players in the Illuminati, a close knit group bent on population control and world domination. The fact that Presidents William Howard Taft, George Herbert Walker Bush, and George Bush Junior are prominently featured on paintings within the inner sanctum of the Skull and Bones tends to directly contradict any proof of such world-dominating capability. They are, however, enamored with the number 322, which happens to be the year that the Greek orator Demosthenes died (322 BC). The S&B believe this to be the day that Eulogia, the goddess of eloquence, ascended into heaven, where she remained until the year 1832, when she decided to take up residence in the Skull and Bones temple at Yale (It appears that George Bush Jr. missed his appointments with this goddess of eloquence).

Consequently, it is a written Skull and Bones law that whenever a Bonesman hears the words “Bonesman”, “Skull and Bones”, or “322″, he must immediately vacate a room. It is rumored that a rather well known Washington reporter considered testing this theory out during one of Bush Jr.’s press conferences, but never worked up the nerve. There are, however, many accounts of women who dated Bonesman, where either on purpose or as a joke, one of the forbidden phrases were uttered, and those who were members of S&B immediately vacated the premises, no matter the event or location. One enterprising roommate of a bonesman often whispered “322″ at the door of the shower if his roomie was taking too much time.

It’s a shame that reporter never tried it out on the President.

Ah! The Borg. In an odd way, it makes sense that they would show up on Star Trek: Enterprise. I mean, they did warn us that they would assimilate everything, which I guess includes TV shows. I have it on good authority that they have indeed infiltrated the sets of House, CSI: Miami, Hanna Montana, and even American Idol. Consider that House referred to his last batch of students as numbers, or that the crime lab in Miami has equipment far beyond modern-day capabilities. Borg-itis certainly explains the wooden acting of just about every Disney show, and as far as Idol goes, I have 2 words for you: Ryan Seacrest.

But I digress. We’re talking about Star Trek here. You see, there’s this thing called continuity, which is usually something assigned to one or two people on a production team. They do things like making sure that a clock in the background doesn’t jump several hours in the span of a 5 minute scene, or that glasses or other table objects don’t disappear, reappear, or magically refill themselves. They usually also point out errors in a plot that might contradict an established history. Many people make a game out of watching shows and movies repeatedly just to find these gaffes and throw lavish parties whenever they discover one. I guess they do this as a means of proving themselves worthy of becoming a member of the Entertainment Police, or some other secret society bent on world domination.

Anyway, It appears that the film crew of Star Trek: Enterprise was so distracted by T’Pal’s on-screen Vulcan hotness that they completely missed the fact that no one in Star Trek: The Next Generation had even heard about the Borg, and had no idea of any imminent threat from the Delta Quadrant that would be showing up around the time that Picard was flying around space showing off his Shakespearean acting props. Data didn’t even know, and he was a HUGE Hanna Montana fan. Whoopi knew about the Borg, but then again, Whoopi knew everything, which is why she is now a host of The View. She also wore very large hats and served alcoholic beverages. I’m not sure how that ties into things, but I’m nearly certain that there’s a conspiracy lurking somewhere in there.

Or perhaps it was simply due to the fact that the Federation was just getting started at the time, and regulations were a little lax, and that scene was cut from the final episode. Maybe Captain Archer simply forgot to mention it to Star Fleet, or thought, “Hey, that’s 300 years from now. I could either do a bunch of paperwork, or spend time with T’Pal… It can wait.”

So, thanks to Scott Bakula’s hormones, the Borg have now nearly overrun Hollywood. If I haven’t convinced you yet, consider the fact that you NEVER see the back of Ryan Seacrest’s head, which is where his Borg Implant lies. That’s also the real reason Paula Abdul is always so freaked out and incoherent. She doesn’t want to become a part of the Collective, and I, for one, can’t blame her.

Spunky was her name. She was a cat. Nothing fancy, just a gray, longish-haired domestic house cat that lived with my fiance. Those who have owned cats will understand why I say, “lived” instead of “owned by”, for one does not own a cat. One is simply allowed the pleasure of being regularly in the presence of the cat that graces you by occupying the same dwelling. I, of course, did not truly comprehend this at the time. Spunky, to me, was merely a collateral object that came with the total package. I was merely indifferent about cats in general. That is how it started, anyway.

She was rather unassuming as cats go. She didn’t make a lot of noise, seldom meowing, with a quiet purr that was felt under your hand rather than ever being heard. At times she could be skittish, especially during thunderstorms. This was due to the fact that she had spent the first six years of her life in the company of large dogs whose loud barking she never quite got used to. My wife told me that when she went to adopt her, she was under a bed where she spent the majority of her time, according to the people who were giving her away. She also had stubby front paws, having been declawed using an “old style” procedure. In other words, Spunky didn’t have a particularly grand life early on.

Perhaps that is why she was content to just be around rather than busily engaged in most of the activities people normally associate with cats, like chattering at birds, attacking the air, tearing around the house like a lunatic, tripping you up under your own feet, demanding to be fed, demanding fresh water, demanding attention, or demanding whatever else suited that particular cat-moment. She did have the napping part down however, though even then she tended to sleep with her feet underneath her, as if she might at any moment have to make a hasty retreat.

About the only time she really behaved cattish was when someone was talking on the phone. She would then bat incessantly at the coiled cord that stretched between the cradle and the handset. She would occasionally catch the cord between her stubby toes. This would invariably lead to a bout of frantic digging in the sofa cushions, her eyes suddenly kitten-like and full of glee. Don’t ask me how the two were related. I have no idea, but I did find myself looking forward to these moments simply because they were absurdly hilarious.

That was my first mistake. I can only assume that this interest in her alerted some sort of homing beacon in her head, for, as time went by, I would often find myself unwittingly petting her as she sat next to me on the couch as my wife and I watched TV. Most of the time, I would have no recollection of how she got there, or at what point I started petting her. It just sort of happened. It soon seemed unnatural to not have her there in the evenings. So now I sought her out on the rare occasions when she happened to be elsewhere. My wife was not at all jealous about this. She took it in stride, for she knew full well that you don’t choose a cat. A cat chooses you, and I had been chosen.

At least, that seemed to be the case, for I would often get up in the morning to find Spunky waiting outside the bedroom door, whereupon she would follow me to the bathroom and wait outside while I showered. She never “talked”, scratched at the door, or in any other way insisted that I acknowledge her presence. She’d simply curl up on the hall carpet and hang around, often not even looking at me.

One day, perhaps due to her disinterest, I began singing silly melodies in cartoonish voices using her name as the lyrics while I showered. At first, she stared at me like I was some sort of idiot, perhaps that being the case. But after a few days, she started getting up when I stepped out of the shower, and would come in and wind her way back and forth between my feet as I continued to sing while drying off. We became comfortable with this arrangement, and our first routine was born.

Of course, this only made matters worse, because one routine quickly becomes two, then three, and so on, until you suddenly realize that a good part of your day is spent in the company of a cat. This invariably leads to mutual respect, which leads to admiration, and eventually, love. The truth of this only becomes obvious upon reflection, for it is through remembering and reflecting that we truly come to appreciate the moment, as I was bound to eventually learn.

And so, Spunky and I went happily on, marching through time together. I hung a stocking for her every Christmas, filling it with catnip, cat toys, and kitty treats. We celebrated her birthdays. We enjoyed the seasons as they flew by, year after year.

Even though she was growing older, I couldn’t, or perhaps, wouldn’t allow myself to see it. But the day nonetheless came when I could no longer ignore the fact that she was indeed slowing down, that her hair had lost some of its sheen, that she napped more, and that she wasn’t always there when I turned around. Still, I largely chose to focus on enjoying our time together as much as possible.

And then the morning came when she wasn’t at the bedroom door. I went to look for her, and after a good hour of searching and calling, I finally found her lying under the dining room table. Her breathing was labored, her legs stiff. My heart pounded.

“Honey! I think Spunky’s in trouble!” I yelled frantically to my wife. We gathered her up in a blanket and headed to the vet. As we waited for him to check her out and give us the news, I could only sit and wonder how I had come to care so much for this animal, this “collateral object” that I had taken into my home. When at last he came out of the exam room, his face told me everything I needed to know.

My wife and I gently stroked her and told her it was okay as they eased her suffering. My mind tells me that she looked at me, but perhaps that is only the way I wished it to be. She closed her eyes and stopped moving. She was gone.

They offered to take care of her body for us, but I wouldn’t have that. I took her home. I lined a heavy, decorated box with a white silk scarf. I covered her in rose petals from our garden, and laid her to rest in a special place in the back yard. I am not at all ashamed to admit that I cried all the while.

Time does eventually heal all wounds, or it least makes them bearable, for eventually, a new kitty named Sootie chose to grace us with her presence. She is very much the penultimate cat. She chatters at birds, bats at the air, tears through the house like an idiot, is very vocal, and constantly demands my attention, especially when she’s hungry. But every so often, I will look down and find she has somehow appeared underneath my hand without my knowing it, and I am petting her. And I smile.