Twitter Science Experiment
Sunday March 11th 2012, 12:30 am
Filed under: Attack Of The Internet!, Who Knows?

What happens if I try tweeting a tweet with a link that Twitter says it will shorten, but that doesn’t fit before shortening? http://www.reidlevin.net/?p=4180

Your Tweet was over 140 characters. You’ll have to be more clever.

Hmn. Okay. That’s too bad.



A Happy Hanukkah… Or Was It, You Putz?!
Wednesday December 21st 2011, 8:54 am
Filed under: Who Knows?

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Christmas is almost upon us, and we Jews always feel a little bit left out of all the commercialized merriment. So we super size an event of our own, though it’s no birth of our Lord–in fact, it’s not even in the Torah–but it’s a nice, light holiday based on a 25-year-long bloody war between the Syrian/Greek Seleucid Empire, which ruled Judea and outlawed Judaism, and a Jewish guerrilla army, fighting for the right to practice their religion and–aw, to hell with it, let’s just light candles and open presents.

Happy Hanukkah! Well, at least we say that now. But I’ll bet that after the initial satisfaction of retaking the Second Temple in Jerusalem from the Seleucid Greeks wore off, the Maccabees were probably less than happy with the situation. Why? It’s a familiar story in the Middle East: oil.

Of course, we all know that even though the Maccabees only had one day’s worth of oil to keep the Temple’s ner tamid (eternal flame) lit, there was a miracle, and that oil lasted eight days, which was all well and good. But on that first night, they didn’t know that was going to happen. There was no way to know or predict that. All they knew was that they only had one day’s worth of oil. So they probably logically assumed that on the next day, the oil would run out and the flame would burn out. But the thing that must have really bothered them most about that situation? All of them? They’d been fighting the Greeks for three years with the goal of retaking the Temple… where they intended to relight the eternal flame… and yet, no one thought to bring more than one day’s worth of pure olive oil? Really? Judah? Jonathan? Simeon? Eleazar? Yochanan*? Anyone? Bueller?

Wow, for such an amazing military force, so small, yet able to take on the army of an empire, they didn’t really have all the planning down that one might expect. New supplies wouldn’t be available for eight days and, certainly, no one was expecting any kind of miracle to occur. Now, I’m no Rabbi or theologian or Talmudic scholar or clergyman or historian or professor or anthropologist. But I am qualified, I believe, to speculate that, instead of celebrating, the Maccabees probably spent their first night of what would become Hanukkah shvitzing and plotzing over who was going to deal with this business of obtaining more oil and who was ultimately responsible for not having brought enough oil along in the first place.

–Reid.

*Dude, Yochanan, it was really hard to find non-Latinized version of your name on the Internet. Turns out Christians use the name “John” in place of your name. I never heard it before, and frankly it sounds kind of strange. I’m sure it will never catch on. Just stick with Yochanan.



Geeking Out and Ranting! Just Breathe, Reid!
Monday July 25th 2011, 11:59 pm
Filed under: Liberty!, Me, Myself, and Reid, Technobabble, Who Knows?

Today was a 4. Despite some migraines, I got a lot done today.

I never figured out what I wanted to add to my to-do list yesterday. I can only imagine that whatever it was is now floating about, directionless, like so many other there-and-gones. Someday it will bump into someone, and for reasons they cannot explain, that person will have the uncontrollable urge to write “give away more socks” on whatever is right in front of them. It will probably be their boss’s shiny bald head or some kind of small dog, like a Yorkie.

I did manage to knock off several things that had made it to my to-do list from my to-do list. I’ve been using Gmail’s built in to-do list app, which is very straightforwardly named “Tasks,” since it was added to Gmail in December 2008. I had to look that date up, by the way, it wasn’t like I knew it off the top of my head. I’m not some kind of Google date memorizing guy or anything. Uh, the thing about Tasks that always bothered me was that I had to be in Gmail to access it, and even then, it was easy to lose it and forget about it. Recently, though, I discovered an official extension for Google Chrome (my web browser of choice) that lets you view and edit your Tasks any time. I’ve found it to be very useful.

Some really cool people pimp their cars, and some really pale people pimp their web browsers. *Ahem*

Right. Anyway, I got a lot of stuff done, which felt really good. It’s nice to get more than one thing on my list done in a day.

What else? My weekly standing Tuesday appointment of the last three years officially became my weekly standing Monday appointment today. That went well. After that, I got two separate migraines. Not due to the appointment switching days. Unrelated to the appointment in any way. I’m not sure why I got them at all. I really, really cannot wait to be off all my chemo-era pain meds so that [Reason #436]: I can take migraine relief medication that’s stronger than Excedrin, but isn’t a narcotic. Those are my two current options.

I also watched way too much of the manufactured political drama Debt Ceiling: Battleground 2011 that everyone’s been talking about. It seemed good at first. There were great characters, high stakes, and killer dialogue. Then there was some awesome compromise, and it seemed like everything would be resolved–but that fell apart. Man, it made for great TV! But then they just repeated that same formula over and over in every episode. It was like, “it worked once, why not keep doing the same thing?” Now there’s zero reason to follow it anymore–you’ve seen one of these story arcs, you’ve seen ’em all.

Ugh. What a really, really, pathetic state of affairs. I’m not happy with anybody right now. Not the President, not the Congress, not the media. And while I’m not happy with any of those institutions, I’m actually mad at the Tea Party, who I think are largely responsible for holding the country’s future hostage right now. I hate the divisiveness. I hate that compromise now means, “do it my way.” I hate that reelection takes priority over common sense, working together, and standing up for one’s principles. Not to mention making real, significant, lasting change for the good of the country.

Oh, what I would give for a politician like Teddy Roosevelt, who announced in 1904, after trouncing his opponent in the presidential election, that he would not seek another term. He was wildly popular and could have easily won another term, but instead, he pursued many policies and programs that he believed in, even though they were not politically popular. And guess what? Due to the success of those policies and programs, he left the Oval Office more popular than ever. There’s no one in Washington today that I’d compare.

Okay, I’m fairly sure I know what caused my migraines. Hoo. Wow. Breathe, Reid. The debt ceiling can’t hurt you tonight. Just breathe.

And, of course, we finished up the day by watching television on demand. We watched the second episode of a new Syfy show called Alphas. It’s kind of like Heroes, except stuff actually happens.

Wow, all that ranting and geeking out drained me good. I’m out.

–Reid.



The Window Well Saga (16 Days To Go! 2 Methotrexates To Go!!)
Thursday April 28th 2011, 1:15 am
Filed under: Family, Leukemia, Who Knows?

My bedroom is in the basement. In my basement bedroom, there is one very big window that is about 4’6″ by 4’6″ (3,000 kilos). Immediately next to the big window in my basement bedroom is my bed. Outside my bedroom basement window is a bay that boasts big steps to be used as an emergency exit in the event of a fire, but is usually filled with beautiful botanics planted by my mother. A sort of botany bay, if you will. I’ll just call it a window well.

Two nights ago, at approximately 4:30AM, I was awakened by a crash in my window well. When it first startled me awake, I had the totally irrational fear that what had fallen into my window well might be a coyote pup. Then, as I woke up and came to my senses, I became certain it was a coyote and that if I fell back asleep, it would burst through the window and maul me. So I did what any self-respecting 27 year old man would do and I called my dad. He told me to go sleep on the couch.

This plan seemed to make a lot of sense to me. I grabbed my pillows and my most precious personal items and I moved into the next room. I made sure to close my bedroom door tight, just in case the coyote did manage to break through the window. That way, I would remain safe, because canines lack opposable thumbs and thus cannot open doors. My dad actually came downstairs to see what, if anything, was in my window well. Although he couldn’t see anything, he assured me he believed me, he told me he hoped it wasn’t a skunk, and he went back to bed.

I knew it wasn’t a skunk. Skunks are too small for the sounds I’d heard. No, there was something massive in my window well, probably stuck because it was so humongous and trapped in such a small space. I could feel its deadly gaze following me, through the walls, able to see my fear.

By the time I woke up, the sun was up and my spine had contorted into a position that, had it been maintained, would surely have have made me modern art. Coyote be damned, I needed to sleep in my bed. I fell asleep for a while, but was again startled awake by the sound of a body moving around on the other side of my window. I did not dare look through my blinds, for fear that if I made eye contact with the grizzly beast, I would only enrage it and cause it to crash through the window and chomp me into a fine pulp.

Apparently having heard me rattling about, my parents came into my room. They wanted to see what sort of monster lay beside me, separated only by a glass pane and some thin wood blinds. I believe they were perhaps skeptical that anything was in the window well at all, although they didn’t say so. They were polite, having learned years ago, from the Mr. Bat Incident–a bat had flown into my sister’s room in the middle of the night 20 years ago–not to dismiss crazy claims of wildlife in or around the house. Also, my chemo medications have been known to make me hear things once in a while, so I felt they were showing incredible restraint.

As my dad slowly raised the blinds, I let out a sigh of relief. The beast must have woken up and jumped out of the window well, hungry, to go seek breakfast somewhere else. And then, my mom spotted it.

“There it is,” she said, “Something did fall down here.”

I looked around, confused, seeing no gigantic fangs dripping with blood, no massive sharpened talons, no glowing eyes peering into my soul.

“I think it’s a baby rat,” my dad said.

“Or a gerbil,” mom offered.

I moved in for a closer look, convinced that what they were seeing was merely an appetizer for the great beast’s main course of an entire heard of cattle. Its tail was a mere nub, likely bitten off by the beast, as it sampled its–

“I think it’s one of those voles I keep saying are in my yard. It’s actually kind of cute.”

Ugh.

The vole, as it turned out to be, was all of three and a half inches long and chubby to the point of being nearly spherical when it sat down. It scampered around the window well as if it were its own personal terrarium. It came up to the glass, looked at us, and stood fully erect on its hind legs, as if to say, “Good morning, chaps, lovely day!” No foul monstrous beast has ever, in the history of the world, been said to scamper or to use the word “lovely.”

So it wasn’t a horrible mutated coyote; it was a vole, a creature just as deadly considered fairly bothersome. After some research, we found that voles have babies at three weeks old. They completely take over yards and devastate all plant life. They are pests. But cute gopher/gerbil looking pests. We realized it was likely a she, as she began building a nest and it became apparent that she was so round due to being filled with babies. Something had to be done.

Now we did not want to kill the vole, whom I dubbed Lady Voledemort (it was that or Voletaire), but we really could not have a vole army sprouting up in the yard. But she was cute so we couldn’t bring ourselves to think of her totally as vermin (in fact, rearrange the letters of the name and it spells “I AM AN ADORABLE PEST”). The decision was made that the vole must be transfered to some offsite location. But it couldn’t be someone else’s yard, because we don’t dislike anyone that much. So a suitable dropsite had to be determined.

Meanwhile, my dad tried to catch Lady Voledemort with various non-vole catching pieces of equipment such as a pooper scooper and a hockey stick. My mom and I made him stop for fear he would hurt the small rodent. He dropped some cheese into the window well, by Lady Voledemort simply ran and grabbed it and kept running. Next, my mom constructed a bridge leading out of the window well. Lady Voledemort continued, unfazed, with her nest. As it began to rain, plans of moving Lady Voledemort were put off for the day.

Finally, earlier today, my mom went down into the window well and chased the fair lady around with a shoebox. I believe both my mom and the vole were scarred, but that both knew this had to be done. Voledemort was extremely fast, and any time my mom would seem to have her corralled into the box, she would escape and bolt to the other side of her window well terrarium. We caught a lucky break when Lady Voledemort, to our amazement and certainly to her own, shot up my screen window, her fingers and toes barely hanging on. My mom placed the box over her and I nudged the screen, causing her to fall harmlessly into the box.

My mom quickly secured (put the top on) the shoebox, climbed out of the window well, and ran off to dump the vole in the predetermined location. There had been talk of releasing it in the tall wild grass and bushes just down the hill from the school near our house, but my mom decided that emptying some undetermined object from a shoebox near a school and then running off might seem suspicious. She found another suitable location, opened the box, and Lady Voledemort shot out, never to be seen again.

While I never did see a hideous, ferocious beast, I was happy to have met a little lady instead.

Lady Voledemort

–Reid.



Tweet: Awesome Window Well Saga Preview (17 Days!)
Tuesday April 26th 2011, 11:41 pm
Filed under: Tweet Tweet, Who Knows?

I fell asleep tweeting. “4:43AM: Something’s in my window well, it sounds big, hope it’s not a skunk 5t#./” Complete saga tomorrow! 17 Days!



Tweet: If Not For Modern Tech, I’d Know None Of This
Sunday April 10th 2011, 9:37 pm
Filed under: Tweet Tweet, Who Knows?

Slept poorly all day. Not sure what went on in the world. Heard Qaddafi agreed to terms to end war. Oh, and I ate a grilled cheese sandwich.



Sleep Is A Conspiracy, Just Like The Moon
Monday March 28th 2011, 11:57 pm
Filed under: Who Knows?

Ladies, Gentlemen, and sneaky Internet people of all ages,

This brief essay may cause some of you to brand my a kook. Many of you have already done so. You can brand me anything you want (metaphorically), I am fully prepared to take the beatings of your sticks and stones (metaphorically). You are absolutely free to disagree with me. I’m simply stating the unequivocal, absolute, flawless truth. Do with that information what you will.

Sleep, the one thing (this is a PG rated essay) you do when you go to bed, is a massive conspiracy perpetrated on the people of this awake-loving planet. Human beings do not need to sleep and, in fact, for many like myself, it is quite an unnatural practice. Yes, you are absolutely right in thinking that this is just like all those crazy cover ups about why vampires are really so popular right now. And all those moon conspiracies. Yes, about The Moon. And…

What, you didn’t know that The Moon was a huge conspiracy? Man. Okay, I didn’t want to have to do this, but please allow me to assange:

Fact: “The Moon” is just the invention of high level government officials who I cannot name, but who totally have names. And they definitely made up The Moon. It doesn’t even have a name! For one of the most important extraterrestrial bodies in our solar system, you’d think it would have a name, like all the other planets’ moons. Also, it mysteriously goes away for hours at a time! How do you explain that factual evidence?! You can’t because it is fact. So don’t even try or stop to think.

As those in the know know, the Moon is a 24″ round sphere made of styrofoam, the image of which is projected into the sky with a complex series of mirrors that are maintained precisely by no less than the Vice President of every major industrialized county.

Fact: Yes, all countries have Vice Presidents, and every single one hates their job. They would gladly swap careers with you.

Fact: I forgot what I was talking about.

Fact: Oh, I remembered.

Fact: Sleep is a government conspiracy. I have gone entire nights without sleep, like this past one, and I’m just fine. Stop looking at me like that! Oh wait–sorry–that’s my reflection in the monitor. Huh. Anyway, I haven’t slept well in years. The reason for this is clearly that

…Hey! What happened? I lost consciousness for three hours there. And there were… strange… images… in my head. I see what’s going on. Before I can finish assanging this, they are going to shut me up. If they have the power to knock me out and plant thoughts in my head from some undisclosed location, I’m just going to give them a thumbs up and… wait, just one minute…

Okay, I’m all setup in bed. Go ahead! Do your worst! Hit me with that thing! Make me sleep!

…that’ll show… me.

–Reidzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz



The Epic Quest For The Secret Of The Wound Team
Monday March 14th 2011, 9:16 pm
Filed under: Denver, Family, Health (Not Cancer), Who Knows?

For over three years I’ve had a gaping hole in my back, a very deep and wide radiation burn. The words “gaping hole” might sound gross, which I hope they do, because it is gross. It is a hole in my back. It used to be very big, now it’s smaller. Ancient events catchup over.

A couple of weeks ago, my burn started bleeding profusely for no apparent reason. It hasn’t hurt. In fact, I was only the first one to notice it the first time. And then it happened again. And then again. The first two times were in doctors’ offices, totally by chance. The third time no one said anything about it, which was weird, because it happened in the middle of Bonnie Brae Ice Cream (which for you uninformed non-Coloradans, is the finest ice creamery in all the land). It was absolutely packed (as the finest places in the land always are), so I would have expected at least a, “Dude! I believe you to have been shot! Now I am taking a phone picture with my picture phone!” or maybe, “Pardon me, you are gushing blood on my fine Italian loafers. I expect full recompense,” or even a good ol’, “Excuse me, are you okay, Man Who Is Bleeding Profusely?” Recent events catchup over.

Man, this thing is already as long as the Yellow Pages. Ouch! Sorry, too soon? Ha ha ha, but seriously folks. Is this thing on?

Today I had a great consultation with the enigmatic Children’s Hospital Wound Care Team about my radiation burn. They were surprisingly hard to track down. Last week, I met with some nurses and a doctor in the hospital’s Burn Clinic. The Burn folks checked my back out and gave some recommendations. One of them, who (I am not making this up) asked to remain anonymous, whispered to my mom and I that we were in the wrong place and that I should be seen by the Wound Care Team. It was incredibly unprofessional (and unfortunately not the worst of it), but it was also the beginning of:

The Epic Quest For The Secret Of The Wound Team!

[intense, dramatic organ music]

I collected my rations, my potions +2 and a party of three fellow adventurers. We set out on our quest. We defeated several Spelling Demons and obtained a Children’s Hospital Scroll of Knowledge, the online employee and clinic directory. Mysteriously, nobody was listed as working in any Wound Care Team. It was as if their existence had been cloaked by some powerful omnipotent force, or forgotten by some random webmaster. I placed a call to the Hospital (Dimensional) Switchboard and asked for the Wound Care Team, but was hit with many Spells of Confusion and Hexes of Stop Calling. After facing down the Dragon of The Switchboard, I was told there’s no such thing as a Wound Care Team and that there never had been.

DIscouraged, I considered giving up. I moped. I left my adventuring companions. I soliloquized. I moped more until I received a convenient plot point from a disembodied voice, either that of the Spirit Of The Old Children’s Hospital or a phone call nurse in the Dermatology Clinic who said she heard I was looking for the Wound Care Team. She directed me to the Tall Tower of the Plastic Surgery Clinic. I rejoined my party (who hadn’t even noticed my absence… sigh), and we climbed the tower, where we were directed me to the Deep Dermatology Dungeon, into which we descended only to be told we needed to find the Great Doctor of Myth and Legend and Myth in the Very Large and Impressive Castle of the Plastic Surgery Clinic.

Before we could reach the Great Doctor, we had to get by the Schedulers, Immortal Guardians of the Doctor, who could not schedule me until the beginning of May. I uttered the secret passcode I learned from the, I dunno, let’s say goblin or something, and The Guardian Schedulers revealed that they thought I had wanted plastic surgery on my flawless physical form, but that since I wanted the Wound Care Team, they held that which we sought all along, the final level of our quest, the boss battle to end all boss battles: an appointment to see the Wound Care Team. After a difficult conversation of misunderstanding and confusion, I was finally scheduled to see the Wound Care Team today. Unfortunately, neither Aerith and Boromir made it to see our victorious triumph of epicness.

Total immersion in geekdom complete. Returning to… wherever everyone else exists…

Today I met with the Wound Care Team, which is made up of specialists from all over the hospital. It’s sort of like a super group of superheroes or rock stars. Or maybe rock star superheroes. Yeah, that’s sweet. There’s a dermatologist, a plastic surgeon, a burn specialist, a product representative and Aquaman on the sea bass some other people. There isn’t really any official “Wound Care Clinic,” which explains why I couldn’t find it. These folks didn’t even know who I should talk to in The Great Hall of Scheduling to setup a followup appointment, so they scheduled me themselves (which is very atypical).

What they lacked in being real, the Wound Care Team made up for in their ability to treat wounds. I have a new dressing on my back holding in meta-honey, which is an amazing healing agent. They set me up with a medical supply company that will be sending dressings and meta-honey to my house. These people were really specialists in wound care, as opposed to anybody who has ever told us how to care for my burn before, who now kind of seem like they were using leaches (unfair statement for exaggerated dramatic effect).

It was a great, very positive experience. I’m very glad I met these people. I wish I could have met them three years ago. I wish they had an actual clinic. But I guess that would take away from their mystique.

When I got home, I got light headed and my blood pressure dropped and I had the feeling of electric currents in my legs and I was having leg spasms. It turned out I was dehydrated and all I needed was Gatorade to restore my electrolytes. Crisis averted.

–Reid.



Yeah, it isn’t happening tonight. (Please stay on the line.)
Wednesday February 16th 2011, 3:44 am
Filed under: Who Knows?

Thank you for visiting my blog. I am not here right now.

I haven’t been sleeping well and have been super tired all day. I was just going to go to sleep and not write anything, but after lying in bed for too long a time and not being able to fall asleep, I thought about you and the commitment I’d made to writing a blog entry. I decided to get up get to work.

Now I’m giving up. I’ve been working on a blog entry (not this one, a different one) for way too long and I’m very tired and I don’t feel good. I’m calling it quits. Just calm down, I’ll get it posted tomorrow (later today). Probably. Hopefully.

Thank you for your patience and cooperation, your business is important to us.

–Reid.



A Totally Sweet Look At The Protagonist’s Name in Rumpelstiltskin. Awesome!
Wednesday February 09th 2011, 1:25 am
Filed under: Knowledge Junkie, Who Knows?, Word Nerd

A few days ago, I asked what the protagonist’s name is in the classic fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin. Thanks for all your answers! This wasn’t a trick question, however, I think there is some valid reasoning behind two different answers. The answers come down to who the protagonist is in the tale.

1) “She doesn’t have a name,” referring to the Miller’s daughter who becomes the Queen is correct. So is “The Miller’s daughter.” The Miller’s daughter is the main character of the story and is most often regarded as the protagonist of the story. In short, she is put in a bad position by her father, she makes deals with Rumpelstiltskin, she becomes the Queen and she overcomes a legal dispute with Rumpelstiltskin. If Disney ever makes a Rumpelstiltskin movie, she will get a name like Mabel or Gertrude or Sharon and she will sing songs and we will empathize with her.

2) I would like to offer up an alternative answer. Put aside all of your childhood memories and preconceived notions about the story and the characters of Rumpelstiltskin. Once you’ve safely stowed all of those notions and memories, read the following brief refresher on the story that I have prodivded:

-A Miller flat out lies to people, saying that his daughter Mildred can spin straw into gold.

-Mildred cannot spin straw into gold. This is a ridiculous claim and is clearly untrue.

-Nevertheless, the incredibly stupid King believes this to be true and locks young Mildred in a tower.

-The King orders Mildred to spin straw into gold or she’ll be executed, while her lying s.o.b. father can presumably just go on with his life as a liar whose lies got his daughter killed.

-Millie, who has no idea how to transmute matter, is visited by Rumpelstiltskin, who is some sort of short impish demon alchemist who’s always wanted to be a father, but due a genetic disposition, cannot procreate.

-Rumpelstiltskin enters into a contract with Mildred to save her life by spinning straw into gold in exchange for her necklace.

-The King, who likes shiny objects, is absolutely thrilled with all this stringy gold, but he’s also a greedy bastard and tells Mildred to spin more gold or else he’ll kill her.

-Rumpelstiltskin returns. Millie and he enter into a new contract in which he will save her life again in exchange for her ring.

-The King is so elated to have more strands of gold that he tells Milford he’s going to kill her if she doesn’t make more.

-Once again, Rumpelstiltskin saves the day. He and Milbert enter into their final agreement, in which he will save the her life a third time in exchange for her firstborn child. This may seem like a steep price, but keep in mind the following: he will have literally saved Milbot’s life three times from the bloodthirsty king; he has thus far only asked for a necklace and a ring; he’s always really wanted to be a dad; and most importantly, Milktoast entered into this agreement, fully understanding what she agreed to.

-The King, who is in a state of euphoria at the sight of all his new gold guitar strings, decides he’ll marry the fair and beautiful Maid Millman, whom he was threatening with death mere hours earlier. He is unaware that his new queen is a big fat liar and that their relationship is built on a foundation of lies.

-The Queen has a baby whom she loves. The King also has some fondness for the young lad despite not being able to throw him in a tower, demand something unreasonable of him and then kill him. This seems to be the King’s favorite activity.

-Rumpelstiltskin, dressed to the nines, strolls into the castle, beaming because he’ll finally get to be a daddy, and politely asks the Queen for his compensation for saving her life that third time.

-The Queen wants to break her contract with Rumpelstiltskin, who is heartbroken at the thought of not being able to adopt this child.

-While it would be well within his legal rights to take custoday of the baby and raise him as his own, Rumpelstiltskin offers the Queen a way out of the contract. All she has to do is guess his name.

-The Queen overhears Rumpelstiltskin talking to himself about how wonderful and fulfilling it will be to play catch with Rumpelstiltskin Jr and to go fishing with Rumpelstiltskin Jr and to pay for Rumpelstiltskin Jr’s college education with all the things he’s turned into gold. From this, the Queen surmises that her hero’s name must be Rumpelstiltskin Sr or Rumpelstiltskin the First or something. On her third guess, she finally guesses plain old suffixless Rumpelstiltskin.

-With a heavy heart, the grief-stricken Rumpelstiltskin withdraws his claim to the baby, his chance at parenthood destroyed for ever and ever. He is so sad that he flies away in a cooking ladle which he crashes into a mountain. THE END.

A protagonist doesn’t have to be the narrator or main character of a story. The protagonist can be someone we, as readers, get to know through other characters. These characters give us many different insights into the protagonist, but they also each have their own biases, opinions and perceptions, which can either help or hinder our understanding of the protagonist. A protagonist doesn’t have to be a hero, or even a good person at all. A protagonist must be someone we empathize with and someone we want to see succeed.

Based on these points and on the summery of the story above, I submit to you that the tragic protagonist’s name in Rumpelstiltskin is, in fact, Rumpelstiltskin. Take it or leave it!

Happily ever after,

–Reid.