It's one of those nights. You know, too sleepy to think. This makes me too stupid to go to bed. So I sit on the floor in the upstairs room, laptop atop my lap, typing to you people when I should be tucked away in bed propping my eyes open to read The Man in the High Castle, which is one of the books what I bought the other day. It's pretty good. Why wouldn't it be?
So I'm high-sided because I tried to help both my sons with school and wasn't much use in either case. They're getting to where they need help that's smarter than me. Either that or I'm getting dumber. I'll take the former. Now the house is quiet and too many lights are on -- two or three at least -- and an easy rain falls outside, and--
Ruff rough rowf!
Below me is the garage, and in the garage is an old comforter, and on the old comforter is a dog, and out of the dog comes these thoroughly superfluous exclamations. He has a deep big dog voice and it resonates up through the joists and the flooring and into my bottom. I know he has nothing to bark at. So I go down to tell him.
His eyes blink in the light and his ears are flat and he thumps and has this silly grin and I play dumb and say, "What the hell you barking at, boy?" and he says, "Oh, nothin'," and keeps thumping. "Well, cut it out," I say, and turn off the light and close the door and go back upstairs and continue my pointless browsing and--
Arf woof rr-ooo!
Proof that I'm late-night stupid in that I go into the garage and smack his hard hairy brain-pan (lovingly) and he stops and thumps and smacks his chops and I'm all, "You need to go outside," and he's all, "You know my hind legs don't work," and I'm all, "Bullshit, you're just lazy," and I drag him about two feet and decide if he really has to pee he'll manage to get out the door just fine so I leave him on the concrete and come back upstairs and--
How-oo-- !
But I'm not playing anymore and I think now I really will go to bed. Damn great silly goofball anyway.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Following Hunger
An interview with a beautiful spirit. She progressed from atheism to her chosen Christianity as part of her own path. Some of us go the other way. Lots of people go one way, then another, then yet another. So long as you seek to be true to your own heart, there is no wrong way to go.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Fourth Power of Three
Beyond the event itself, nothing historic happened the day my father was born. It was Abe Vigoda's fifth birthday, and August Derleth's seventeenth. It was the 95th anniversary of the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, the 205th of the London premier of Handel's Rinaldo, and the 344th of the announcement of the Gregorian Calendar. The building he was born in is the same one I was born in (since replaced with a newer hospital wing). His paternal grandfather was 89 years old and had a couple years left in him, his maternal grandfather only 50, with over 43 left to go.
When I told my son his grandfather was three to the fourth, he did a little thinking and realized that in a couple months, he'll be two to the fourth. A few months after that, I'll be seven squared. 2(4), 7(2), and 3(4) all at the same time. Who thinks of such things?
When I told my son his grandfather was three to the fourth, he did a little thinking and realized that in a couple months, he'll be two to the fourth. A few months after that, I'll be seven squared. 2(4), 7(2), and 3(4) all at the same time. Who thinks of such things?
Saturday, February 24, 2007
As I Was Saying
Talk at Paula’s about skinning animals made me think … about … skinning …
Or did it? Everything makes me think, and nothing. I have opinions about everything, but that doesn’t mean I think about everything. I just have opinions. Sometimes, after venting an opinion, I have a nagging feeling that there was something wrong with it. But what? That I didn’t think about it? That it would somehow create another increment of isolation between myself and the larger crowd? Which is more important: That an opinion reflect considered judgment, or that it somehow add to one’s sense of social contact? We don’t blog just to express ourselves. If no one ever read it, we wouldn't publish it.
My instincts are both social and not. I’m a knee-jerk contrarian. If a bunch of people agree on something, it’s automatic to me that they are forgetting something, or are caught up in group-think. So with this idea that it’s just “wrong” to wear the furry skins of animals, especially warm cuddly animals. Yes, my intuition is the same as everyone else’s: It’s just wrong. But my intuition is to distrust my own intuition. If my first reaction is to take the high road, the nice road, and abhor turning furry animals into articles of clothing, then my first and a half reaction is to go, wait a minute, where’d that come from anyway? Same place that sees up and down as absolute? That is aware despite my disbelief of a supernatural intelligence acting as a guide and counselor every minute of the day? That assumes everyone is basically good and if we just trust each other the world will settle into an stable happy peace? I have those feelings, those gut feelings that my feet are on the ground, God is in heaven and everyone who smiles back can be trusted. Trouble is, my brain can’t be stopped from kicking in, and everything gets questioned again.
Including me. I was going to clarify my thoughts on the use of animals for human comfort. But I changed my mind. I love using animals for comfort, make no mistake. Petting my dog always makes me happy, and he likes it too. The cat rubs up on my leg, and like as not I will pick her up and make her lie back on my arm and endure some embarrassing displays of cross-species affection. But the wearing of fur whose original owner is dead doesn’t bother me, and once I silence that unthinking gut reaction against it I don’t see any reason why it should bother me. But this sort of thinking is only useful if it leads to a philosophical clarification and I ain’t in the mood for that.
Let’s just say I distrust slippery slopes. Gut feelings are about finding your natural place on a slippery slope, but slippery slopes are populated by all sorts of nasty creatures, from religious fanatics on down; and yet, so are the absolutes. Somewhere on this continuum, truth can be found. The trick for each person is finding it. And since “truth can be found” is a statement of faith hence probably not true, I am nagged always by the sense that my own truth, at least, will never be found either. So I will own up to the obvious conclusion: Whether written or said here or in private, don’t think I fully believe in anything that I say.
Or did it? Everything makes me think, and nothing. I have opinions about everything, but that doesn’t mean I think about everything. I just have opinions. Sometimes, after venting an opinion, I have a nagging feeling that there was something wrong with it. But what? That I didn’t think about it? That it would somehow create another increment of isolation between myself and the larger crowd? Which is more important: That an opinion reflect considered judgment, or that it somehow add to one’s sense of social contact? We don’t blog just to express ourselves. If no one ever read it, we wouldn't publish it.
My instincts are both social and not. I’m a knee-jerk contrarian. If a bunch of people agree on something, it’s automatic to me that they are forgetting something, or are caught up in group-think. So with this idea that it’s just “wrong” to wear the furry skins of animals, especially warm cuddly animals. Yes, my intuition is the same as everyone else’s: It’s just wrong. But my intuition is to distrust my own intuition. If my first reaction is to take the high road, the nice road, and abhor turning furry animals into articles of clothing, then my first and a half reaction is to go, wait a minute, where’d that come from anyway? Same place that sees up and down as absolute? That is aware despite my disbelief of a supernatural intelligence acting as a guide and counselor every minute of the day? That assumes everyone is basically good and if we just trust each other the world will settle into an stable happy peace? I have those feelings, those gut feelings that my feet are on the ground, God is in heaven and everyone who smiles back can be trusted. Trouble is, my brain can’t be stopped from kicking in, and everything gets questioned again.
Including me. I was going to clarify my thoughts on the use of animals for human comfort. But I changed my mind. I love using animals for comfort, make no mistake. Petting my dog always makes me happy, and he likes it too. The cat rubs up on my leg, and like as not I will pick her up and make her lie back on my arm and endure some embarrassing displays of cross-species affection. But the wearing of fur whose original owner is dead doesn’t bother me, and once I silence that unthinking gut reaction against it I don’t see any reason why it should bother me. But this sort of thinking is only useful if it leads to a philosophical clarification and I ain’t in the mood for that.
Let’s just say I distrust slippery slopes. Gut feelings are about finding your natural place on a slippery slope, but slippery slopes are populated by all sorts of nasty creatures, from religious fanatics on down; and yet, so are the absolutes. Somewhere on this continuum, truth can be found. The trick for each person is finding it. And since “truth can be found” is a statement of faith hence probably not true, I am nagged always by the sense that my own truth, at least, will never be found either. So I will own up to the obvious conclusion: Whether written or said here or in private, don’t think I fully believe in anything that I say.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
What kind of wine DO you drink with rattlesnake?
The main reason I don't cook isn't so much that I'm lazy as I'm not organized. To get anything serious done in the kitchen you have to be a multitasker. Every dish has its own set of components, its own collection of procedures, its own milestones set to its own schedule. As an engineer you might think I'd have that dialed. But I don’t. Only the best engineers have all that kind of thing figured out. I’ve learned that most of us, especially as we get older, are pretty much just lurching from day to day, from milestone to millstone, like as not making it up as we go. It should be no wonder that I’m close to useless when it comes to cooking.
Not to mention I’m male and everyone knows women multitask a whole lot better than men. I think that’s why most of them end up doing the cooking (and the cleaning and the child-rearing etc.)*. We all know that in the primordial forest, the men all ran about throwing spears until they got lucky and brought down a mastodon, while the women stayed home, herded the children and invented beer and civilization. Now the men barbecue and the women are moving ahead to vegetarianism. Patterns continue.
Anyway this all came to mind when a local store got in the news for selling a broader range of meats than the usual. They also perform slaughtering services for hunters, of which there seem to be more than a few locally.
There's no land-borne meat that I won't try at least once but I have to admit, so far I haven't strayed from the supermarket straight and narrow. But if I did and could afford it, I think I'd start with bear. You?
* - They also make better engineering managers.
Not to mention I’m male and everyone knows women multitask a whole lot better than men. I think that’s why most of them end up doing the cooking (and the cleaning and the child-rearing etc.)*. We all know that in the primordial forest, the men all ran about throwing spears until they got lucky and brought down a mastodon, while the women stayed home, herded the children and invented beer and civilization. Now the men barbecue and the women are moving ahead to vegetarianism. Patterns continue.
Anyway this all came to mind when a local store got in the news for selling a broader range of meats than the usual. They also perform slaughtering services for hunters, of which there seem to be more than a few locally.
There's no land-borne meat that I won't try at least once but I have to admit, so far I haven't strayed from the supermarket straight and narrow. But if I did and could afford it, I think I'd start with bear. You?
* - They also make better engineering managers.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Friday Fotogger
Thought I had no time for this today, y’know? But I won't let that stop me. I’ll just cheat and post a couple pictures. Then I can go off to my wife’s staff dinner at some restaurant downtown. It’s interesting, married to someone in education. Their managers are just as bad as ours. The principal apparently forgot this was her annual staff party, thought it was just a parent-teacher shrimp cook-off or something, and made plans to go out of state (well, it’s the start of an entire week off for the education industry). So she won’t be at her own party. But I’m sure mooching spouses such as myself can make up for it. Heck, with the cat away, maybe we can have some actual fun.
So anyway when I was in London a little while ago I found myself wandering around the City District in the dead of night. I looked up and suddenly had to wonder if this representation of the English physique explains why they erect things like Big Ben’s clock tower. Ain’t he somethin’? Ain't they ... not?
So anyway when I was in London a little while ago I found myself wandering around the City District in the dead of night. I looked up and suddenly had to wonder if this representation of the English physique explains why they erect things like Big Ben’s clock tower. Ain’t he somethin’? Ain't they ... not?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Thursday Throbber
I accidentally created a blog-theme for the week so I have to stay on theme and provide something for today or a curse will fall upon me. You know it will.
I went to Wal-Mart the other day for razors and underwear and noticed an interestingly sensuous and organic-appearing men’s shaver on the shelf. It was undoubtedly for men – had a picture of a man on the packaging – but was all curvy and ergonomic and nicely colored. Very much the metro-marketing job. Text alluded to the benefits of all-body grooming – “Trim & Shave All Bodyzones” – and showed a broad hairless back, a muscular hairless chest. I thought, uh huh. What else am I supposed to consider shaving?
I was right. This video came to my attention yesterday (click the pic). It is strange and creepy. The guy in it is simply unable to hide his bemusement at the subject matter of his big break into show business. But it works; for being bemused and creepy, it works. Pretty much preaching to the choir, too, so far as I’m concerned. (Oh, is that TMI? I’m so-o-o sorry. Just think of your post-Valentine afterglow, there, that's better.) I just didn’t know it was a recognized new market for power tools, recognized enough to fund a video of “a cross between a likable frat guy and a B-grade Hugh Hefner” (Mark Morford) pitching the new paradigm. He should have swaggered around in that bathrobe with a carrot tucked like a cigar into the corner of his mouth.
I went to Wal-Mart the other day for razors and underwear and noticed an interestingly sensuous and organic-appearing men’s shaver on the shelf. It was undoubtedly for men – had a picture of a man on the packaging – but was all curvy and ergonomic and nicely colored. Very much the metro-marketing job. Text alluded to the benefits of all-body grooming – “Trim & Shave All Bodyzones” – and showed a broad hairless back, a muscular hairless chest. I thought, uh huh. What else am I supposed to consider shaving?
I was right. This video came to my attention yesterday (click the pic). It is strange and creepy. The guy in it is simply unable to hide his bemusement at the subject matter of his big break into show business. But it works; for being bemused and creepy, it works. Pretty much preaching to the choir, too, so far as I’m concerned. (Oh, is that TMI? I’m so-o-o sorry. Just think of your post-Valentine afterglow, there, that's better.) I just didn’t know it was a recognized new market for power tools, recognized enough to fund a video of “a cross between a likable frat guy and a B-grade Hugh Hefner” (Mark Morford) pitching the new paradigm. He should have swaggered around in that bathrobe with a carrot tucked like a cigar into the corner of his mouth.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Tuesday Two-fer
San Franciscans may recognize the street car below. Several of the same model, complete with Milanese livery, cruise the F Line. But this was taken on Foro Buonaparte in Milan a couple Sundays ago as we walked from the train station to dinner. Dinner was had in a ristorante within Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, a place of vast indoor space hung with bird nets. One could stage cavalry charges inside, it was so huge. But the Duomo, just outside, took a bit more breath away.
People were everywhere: it was a Sunday night stroll, with open-air shops under the lights and plenty of food and cheer. A nice tease, for these few hours were nearly the extent of sightseeing on a four-day visit for business.
People were everywhere: it was a Sunday night stroll, with open-air shops under the lights and plenty of food and cheer. A nice tease, for these few hours were nearly the extent of sightseeing on a four-day visit for business.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Monday Maunder
I do a lot of random clicking about the web looking for things to distract me while I’m slowly falling asleep so no wonder I can’t get shit done.
It’s because of my job. I use the web a lot, looking for just the right company that makes just the right component of the sort I’m looking for. Most of them are in Taiwan or somewhere and of course no one ever publishes every last bit of the information I need so I have to fill out web query forms and wait a day and a half for a reply. This puts the task on hold and since I’m male I’m really shitty at multitasking and it takes an hour to shift from that one halted task into something else that’s useful, and that hour is spent checking the news or some blog I haven’t seen in three days or just when is Bay To Breakers anyway?
Same weekend as a Scout trip to Angel Island. It is an absolute blast spending the night on Angel Island so I guess this won’t be the year I finally do B2B. (Last time I wound up exploring the subterranean innards of an abandoned Nike missile base because someone had cut the locks off the man-hatch. I have pictures. I have thousands upon thousands of pictures of all sorts of weird shit like that.)
Plus that’s also the weekend of the premier local Civil War reenactment my friend is pressuring me to go to so I guess I’ll have to tell Mister Has No Kids And Can Lose Himself In Expensive Meaningless Hobbies that I won’t be joining him. Aw, shucks.
It’s early yet but I think I’ll vote for Barack Obama for President. Why the hell not? He’s clean and articulate and not nearly the hopelessly corrupt insider most of the other candidates will be. Joe Biden? Give me a fucking break. Who fronts the money for an unelectable clown like that? People want someone new, fresh. That’s why Clinton’s gamble, staying in the ’92 race despite Bush I’s overwhelming popularity, paid off: He was new, fresh.
So was Bush II, in his way. Personable, a proven aisle-crosser. But he was the son of the penultimate insider, and was simply too foolish and weak to stand up to his daddy’s machine. Poor dumb bastard.
Anyone else running? I don’t remember. Hillary, right, but she’s annoying. Let’s see another Elizabeth Dole. (Was she annoying too? I don’t fuckin’ know. I just pulled her name out of my ass. I really don’t care about this shit enough to know anything.)
I know, I know, you’re wondering why I think Hil’s annoying while those other politicians are not. Is it because she’s a strong woman? Huh? Good question but no. I just find all the talk about her annoying. She herself would make a fine President. As with BHO, why the hell not? History has proven time and time again that almost nothing we know about a candidate before they get elected has anything to do with how well they will perform at the job. Let ‘er rip. Make history, whatever the hell that means, as if having a female or non-white President would truly prove anything of significance. Hey, if it shuts up certain class-fixated whiners, it’s all good.
Of course, Barack is no more black than he is white. But that kind of thinking gets you nowhere in this country.
All right, mission accomplished. Scribbling this stopped me web-surfing and I can get back to the next task at hand. Yay me. Yay being employed.
It’s because of my job. I use the web a lot, looking for just the right company that makes just the right component of the sort I’m looking for. Most of them are in Taiwan or somewhere and of course no one ever publishes every last bit of the information I need so I have to fill out web query forms and wait a day and a half for a reply. This puts the task on hold and since I’m male I’m really shitty at multitasking and it takes an hour to shift from that one halted task into something else that’s useful, and that hour is spent checking the news or some blog I haven’t seen in three days or just when is Bay To Breakers anyway?
Same weekend as a Scout trip to Angel Island. It is an absolute blast spending the night on Angel Island so I guess this won’t be the year I finally do B2B. (Last time I wound up exploring the subterranean innards of an abandoned Nike missile base because someone had cut the locks off the man-hatch. I have pictures. I have thousands upon thousands of pictures of all sorts of weird shit like that.)
Plus that’s also the weekend of the premier local Civil War reenactment my friend is pressuring me to go to so I guess I’ll have to tell Mister Has No Kids And Can Lose Himself In Expensive Meaningless Hobbies that I won’t be joining him. Aw, shucks.
It’s early yet but I think I’ll vote for Barack Obama for President. Why the hell not? He’s clean and articulate and not nearly the hopelessly corrupt insider most of the other candidates will be. Joe Biden? Give me a fucking break. Who fronts the money for an unelectable clown like that? People want someone new, fresh. That’s why Clinton’s gamble, staying in the ’92 race despite Bush I’s overwhelming popularity, paid off: He was new, fresh.
So was Bush II, in his way. Personable, a proven aisle-crosser. But he was the son of the penultimate insider, and was simply too foolish and weak to stand up to his daddy’s machine. Poor dumb bastard.
Anyone else running? I don’t remember. Hillary, right, but she’s annoying. Let’s see another Elizabeth Dole. (Was she annoying too? I don’t fuckin’ know. I just pulled her name out of my ass. I really don’t care about this shit enough to know anything.)
I know, I know, you’re wondering why I think Hil’s annoying while those other politicians are not. Is it because she’s a strong woman? Huh? Good question but no. I just find all the talk about her annoying. She herself would make a fine President. As with BHO, why the hell not? History has proven time and time again that almost nothing we know about a candidate before they get elected has anything to do with how well they will perform at the job. Let ‘er rip. Make history, whatever the hell that means, as if having a female or non-white President would truly prove anything of significance. Hey, if it shuts up certain class-fixated whiners, it’s all good.
Of course, Barack is no more black than he is white. But that kind of thinking gets you nowhere in this country.
All right, mission accomplished. Scribbling this stopped me web-surfing and I can get back to the next task at hand. Yay me. Yay being employed.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
150,000
When we were pregnant and about to become a family we bought a Jeep because we just couldn't feature getting a minivan. It became the minivan taxi anyway, of course, but it was cooler than a minivan because it had four-wheel drive. Now it's almost eighteen years old and has hauled everything and everyone everywhere. I took its picture today because it passed a milestone. Sort of. My inner geek didn't want to wait for the next big number.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Fear & Loathing & Cal Grants
We were somewhere around the high school on the edge of my neighborhood when the drugs began to take hold.
My NyQuil® connection had handed me the green pills just before our son reminded us it was college financial aid night. I sat down for a minute, anticipating a slow flood of utter relaxation through my limbs, then stood up, put on a jacket and handed my son the car keys.
“You drive,” I said, and stumbled mumbling to the garage.
We drove away from the high school to drop his friend off at his mother’s apartment, then headed back. By the time we pulled into the school parking lot my mind and body were enveloped in a warm fog. I put on a hood against the drizzle and giggled.
At the library we were met by a walking corpse with the eyes of a dead caterpillar.
It wanted to shake my hand. I backed off and said, “No, man, no! Ah. I have a terrible disease. I have a cold.”
Its eyes were red and the bags under them sagging to reveal raw red flesh. Animated as though by a small creature hidden deep inside, they turned away from me with disinterest and bore down on the next man in line. The room listed and I followed an ever so slightly wobbling path to a table and fell into a chair. My son took the chair on the opposite edge of the table, furthest away.
“I’ve met him before,” I said. “Shook his hand.”
“What?”
“He’s our state senator. I met him at a parade we were both in, or something.”
“Oh.”
It was clear my explanations were wasted so I wiped off my lower lip and squinted at the papers that had appeared in my hand. Application forms. Information on Pell Grants and Cal Grants and various random scholarships. A huge black man with a lisp stood before us and explained many things. He was bald and fat and energetic and mildly confused, always flicking his glasses on to check the forms he was reading verbatim, as if we couldn’t read them ourselves. He suggested there were ways to game the system, but he couldn’t tell us publicly. We would have to take him aside. Get the skinny one on one.
The state senator spoke clearly and meaninglessly. His face was liver-spotted and his gait, shambling. He walked like one of those unfortunate old men who never exercise and are doomed to rocking back and forth on stiff knees and a fused spine. I imagined his black suit was one of a dozen identical black suits in his closet and the closets of his entourage, young men with self-consciously vacant faces. One of them I’d seen before, too. He’d been with the senator on a visit to my employer a couple of years ago: a serious young man with a perpetual deep frown and eyebrows raised as in constant surprise, hovering about the senator’s hulking shoulders, whispering secret instructions. Now he stood at the back with a digital camera, a black suit, blue shirt, yellow tie, taking random pictures with high school girls in them.
I scribbled on some of the forms and wondered how much money I make. My son had secret silent conversations with a girl halfway across the room. Speakers droned and droners spoke. I grinned idiotically at other parents I knew. Time was lost in a blue-green haze. I blew my nose as quietly as I could. And then we broke for cookies and a sliding walk to the parking lot, all our answers questioned. College? Already? WTF?
My NyQuil® connection had handed me the green pills just before our son reminded us it was college financial aid night. I sat down for a minute, anticipating a slow flood of utter relaxation through my limbs, then stood up, put on a jacket and handed my son the car keys.
“You drive,” I said, and stumbled mumbling to the garage.
We drove away from the high school to drop his friend off at his mother’s apartment, then headed back. By the time we pulled into the school parking lot my mind and body were enveloped in a warm fog. I put on a hood against the drizzle and giggled.
At the library we were met by a walking corpse with the eyes of a dead caterpillar.
It wanted to shake my hand. I backed off and said, “No, man, no! Ah. I have a terrible disease. I have a cold.”
Its eyes were red and the bags under them sagging to reveal raw red flesh. Animated as though by a small creature hidden deep inside, they turned away from me with disinterest and bore down on the next man in line. The room listed and I followed an ever so slightly wobbling path to a table and fell into a chair. My son took the chair on the opposite edge of the table, furthest away.
“I’ve met him before,” I said. “Shook his hand.”
“What?”
“He’s our state senator. I met him at a parade we were both in, or something.”
“Oh.”
It was clear my explanations were wasted so I wiped off my lower lip and squinted at the papers that had appeared in my hand. Application forms. Information on Pell Grants and Cal Grants and various random scholarships. A huge black man with a lisp stood before us and explained many things. He was bald and fat and energetic and mildly confused, always flicking his glasses on to check the forms he was reading verbatim, as if we couldn’t read them ourselves. He suggested there were ways to game the system, but he couldn’t tell us publicly. We would have to take him aside. Get the skinny one on one.
The state senator spoke clearly and meaninglessly. His face was liver-spotted and his gait, shambling. He walked like one of those unfortunate old men who never exercise and are doomed to rocking back and forth on stiff knees and a fused spine. I imagined his black suit was one of a dozen identical black suits in his closet and the closets of his entourage, young men with self-consciously vacant faces. One of them I’d seen before, too. He’d been with the senator on a visit to my employer a couple of years ago: a serious young man with a perpetual deep frown and eyebrows raised as in constant surprise, hovering about the senator’s hulking shoulders, whispering secret instructions. Now he stood at the back with a digital camera, a black suit, blue shirt, yellow tie, taking random pictures with high school girls in them.
I scribbled on some of the forms and wondered how much money I make. My son had secret silent conversations with a girl halfway across the room. Speakers droned and droners spoke. I grinned idiotically at other parents I knew. Time was lost in a blue-green haze. I blew my nose as quietly as I could. And then we broke for cookies and a sliding walk to the parking lot, all our answers questioned. College? Already? WTF?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Fun With Disease
My wife is an innocent carrier, an unintentional disease vector. She brought home the miniscule critters that have laid low fully a third of the students at her school and gave them to me. Fortunately, all I’ve gotten out of it is a bad cold. More fortunately, she’s not even sick enough to miss work. So here I am at home playing hooky. Fun, huh?
First thing I did was drag all my toys upstairs where the wireless telephone headset is so I could participate in a 7am conference call. It was 4pm at the other end of the line where the friends we made last week spoke of schedules and milestones and gleefully handed me action items to close. After an hour of that I sat here reading work emails and cruising the web generally and wondering what’s so healthful about sitting at home as opposed to sitting in my little cubicle at work. Same activity level. Slightly better air at home.
I had buttered English muffins and English Breakfast Tea and a banana. Soiled and dampened nose tissues litter the tabletop. I have to pee and contemplate what I am going to do. Here are my plans:
Watch another few episodes of Tripping The Rift. I got both seasons on DVD last birthday. It’s neither well-written nor -acted nor -animated. But it has Six Of One, shown here holding an early prototype of the product I’ve been tripping the globe to develop. No more reasons to watch are needed on a slow sick-from-school-oh-yeah-work day.
Sit in the bathtub and read, just like when I was a kid. I need to finish this incredibly crappy book so I can write a qualified review at the author’s website. Man it’s bad. It hurts to turn every page. Hint: When you write your first book, don’t get a thesaurus, get an editor. Nobody involved with this amateurish garbage deserves anything they get from the curious fact it became a NYT bestseller. That, I still don’t get. It’s all marketing and markets. The writing means nothing anymore. Nothing, I tell you!
Do a smidgeon of work. But how likely is that, really?
Take a nap. Yesterday I took DayQuil® and within an hour was fast asleep and stayed that way all afternoon. It didn’t make me any better but I did miss out on several hours of abject misery.
Let the chickens out of the coop so they can poop around the yard. I think I’ll do that first: it’s my chore for the day. They look happy doing it and the dog enjoys stalking them and herding them even though he never gets very close to them. Indeed, if they refuse to go back into the coop he’s likely to go in there himself, just so he can huff and puff at them through the fencing as he’s accustomed.
Consume scads of leftovers and other foods according to neither schedule nor reason but capricious whim and momentary convenience.
That will do for now. Ta-ta.
First thing I did was drag all my toys upstairs where the wireless telephone headset is so I could participate in a 7am conference call. It was 4pm at the other end of the line where the friends we made last week spoke of schedules and milestones and gleefully handed me action items to close. After an hour of that I sat here reading work emails and cruising the web generally and wondering what’s so healthful about sitting at home as opposed to sitting in my little cubicle at work. Same activity level. Slightly better air at home.
I had buttered English muffins and English Breakfast Tea and a banana. Soiled and dampened nose tissues litter the tabletop. I have to pee and contemplate what I am going to do. Here are my plans:
Watch another few episodes of Tripping The Rift. I got both seasons on DVD last birthday. It’s neither well-written nor -acted nor -animated. But it has Six Of One, shown here holding an early prototype of the product I’ve been tripping the globe to develop. No more reasons to watch are needed on a slow sick-from-school-oh-yeah-work day.Sit in the bathtub and read, just like when I was a kid. I need to finish this incredibly crappy book so I can write a qualified review at the author’s website. Man it’s bad. It hurts to turn every page. Hint: When you write your first book, don’t get a thesaurus, get an editor. Nobody involved with this amateurish garbage deserves anything they get from the curious fact it became a NYT bestseller. That, I still don’t get. It’s all marketing and markets. The writing means nothing anymore. Nothing, I tell you!
Do a smidgeon of work. But how likely is that, really?
Take a nap. Yesterday I took DayQuil® and within an hour was fast asleep and stayed that way all afternoon. It didn’t make me any better but I did miss out on several hours of abject misery.
Let the chickens out of the coop so they can poop around the yard. I think I’ll do that first: it’s my chore for the day. They look happy doing it and the dog enjoys stalking them and herding them even though he never gets very close to them. Indeed, if they refuse to go back into the coop he’s likely to go in there himself, just so he can huff and puff at them through the fencing as he’s accustomed.
Consume scads of leftovers and other foods according to neither schedule nor reason but capricious whim and momentary convenience.
That will do for now. Ta-ta.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Poison and Thievery
I added SpamPoison to this site. Don’t know if it will do anything. So far I haven’t needed word verification or moderation or any of that and I don’t want to. I want it to be easy for people to comment.
My old site is still under the control of a robot. Whoever writes the scripts that hijack linked-to addresses and turns them into entirely pointless foci of advertising are clearly relentless masturbators. I wish upon them bad karma and a general dissatisfaction.
What is it with people who take advantage of other people? A friend of mine was conned recently. Needed a loan but had no credit history and in desperation (and a little ignorance) turned to getting a loan off the internet. With cash so easily borrowed these days, it seemed plausible and the people on the phone, believable.
It’s so easy. You get a temporary voice mail system – they’re all over the internet – and pay for it with cash or a money order. You put ads out on the net, targeting people who are desperate and don’t have a lot of experience with real financial institutions – the most vulnerable, in other words. You offer “secured” loans, i.e. 20% payment up front, not unlike getting a mortgage. When people contact you, you speak very professionally and have them fill out very official-looking forms on the web. You tell them they will get the money within two days of them sending you the first payment. They don’t know that it is somewhat irregular for the payment to be sent via Western Union to an individual in Canada with an obscurely fake-sounding name. They are desperate. They need the money now. You use a cheap fake ID at the Western Union office and collect the upfront payments sent by all the people you roped in during the month the phone line was active. You never send anyone their loans. By the time they act on the evident fraud, you are gone, your assumed names forgotten.
People who needed quick cash to pay a fine or debt and stay out of jail or fix their car so they can get to work or pay a doctor for an emergency procedure, they begged money from their also-poor friends and sold their stereo and took payday advances just to scrape together the loan security and sent it to you, and you took it, all the cash they could get in the world and their last hope to avoid the sort of unrecoverable disaster that hits the working poor regularly – unemployment, overdue child support, no food for a week – you took it and added it to the money from all the other suckers and moved on and called it a good day. Nice work.
Most cons take advantage of the mark’s willingness to bend the rules for his own gain. A man is convinced of a sure thing, he need only place the bet or give his bank account number or front a fraction of the cash he will be getting back. Then he never gets anything back and can only blame his own greed. But some cons prey not on greed but on need. They prey on people who put themselves at risk not because they want to but because they have to. They are a thousand times worse than expatriate Nigerian officials or those young people on the streets of China who just want to practice their English.
I think of the con as the poisonous art of selling people something they don’t really need for far more money than it’s worth. There must be moral implications to capitalism generally – certainly to car salesmen. But it is theft, too, not just of money but, true to its name, of confidence.
My old site is still under the control of a robot. Whoever writes the scripts that hijack linked-to addresses and turns them into entirely pointless foci of advertising are clearly relentless masturbators. I wish upon them bad karma and a general dissatisfaction.
What is it with people who take advantage of other people? A friend of mine was conned recently. Needed a loan but had no credit history and in desperation (and a little ignorance) turned to getting a loan off the internet. With cash so easily borrowed these days, it seemed plausible and the people on the phone, believable.
It’s so easy. You get a temporary voice mail system – they’re all over the internet – and pay for it with cash or a money order. You put ads out on the net, targeting people who are desperate and don’t have a lot of experience with real financial institutions – the most vulnerable, in other words. You offer “secured” loans, i.e. 20% payment up front, not unlike getting a mortgage. When people contact you, you speak very professionally and have them fill out very official-looking forms on the web. You tell them they will get the money within two days of them sending you the first payment. They don’t know that it is somewhat irregular for the payment to be sent via Western Union to an individual in Canada with an obscurely fake-sounding name. They are desperate. They need the money now. You use a cheap fake ID at the Western Union office and collect the upfront payments sent by all the people you roped in during the month the phone line was active. You never send anyone their loans. By the time they act on the evident fraud, you are gone, your assumed names forgotten.
People who needed quick cash to pay a fine or debt and stay out of jail or fix their car so they can get to work or pay a doctor for an emergency procedure, they begged money from their also-poor friends and sold their stereo and took payday advances just to scrape together the loan security and sent it to you, and you took it, all the cash they could get in the world and their last hope to avoid the sort of unrecoverable disaster that hits the working poor regularly – unemployment, overdue child support, no food for a week – you took it and added it to the money from all the other suckers and moved on and called it a good day. Nice work.
Most cons take advantage of the mark’s willingness to bend the rules for his own gain. A man is convinced of a sure thing, he need only place the bet or give his bank account number or front a fraction of the cash he will be getting back. Then he never gets anything back and can only blame his own greed. But some cons prey not on greed but on need. They prey on people who put themselves at risk not because they want to but because they have to. They are a thousand times worse than expatriate Nigerian officials or those young people on the streets of China who just want to practice their English.
I think of the con as the poisonous art of selling people something they don’t really need for far more money than it’s worth. There must be moral implications to capitalism generally – certainly to car salesmen. But it is theft, too, not just of money but, true to its name, of confidence.
