Uncommon Cold

Hazy days in golden Domme - Jon Carroll - sfgate.com: "I like being sick, always have. I like the excuse for sloth; I like the huge pillows and the solitude and the dreamy way the days pass. Give me a good head cold and a comfortable place to have it in, and that's paradise enough."

Made me think of a little story I did (had to look it up - fortunately, all of my writing sits on a handy folder on my iPod! - written 13 years ago!).

Enjoy.

Common Cold
by Randy Murray - Copyright 1990

"Achoo!"

"Knock it off, Bruce. You don't have a cold." Littermeir peeked over the cubicle, shaking his greasy head. "Just cut it out, will ya? You didn't have a cold last month, not last week, and not today."

"I had the flu last week."

"You did not. Nobody's had any of those things for over twenty years. I bet even you've never been sick. Now just cut it out." Littermeir hoisted himself up and threw his arms over the top of the divider.

"Don't lean on that, you'll break it." He looked up at the beefy arms and bulbous face that towered over him. He practiced a sniffle. "I had a cold once."

Littermeir snuffled in reply.

"I caught a cold when I was eight and had to stay home from school for two days. I think I'm catching something this time. I'm almost sure that my ears are plugging up."

"My God, it's probably cholera. Wasn't that one of those childhood diseases?"

Bruce shook his head weakly at him. "No, it wasn't. I just think I'm catching a cold."

"Isn't it about your nap time?" Littermeir reached down behind the divider and produced a single, white powdered donut, which he leered at before popping it whole into his mouth. "Just take a little nap and you'll feel
better," he said with a mouth full of yellow and white, then he laughed in clouds of crumbs and dust. He flapped a hand at Bruce as he thumped down from his perch.

Bruce felt his forehead and cheeks. He was flushed with embarrassment, not fever. He'd just moved to this cubicle from his comfortable one in the corner last week when Littermeir had peeked over the divider and had caught him staring at his terminal with his eyes closed, his cheek resting in his hand. The worst part was that it was true. This job was so boring and undirected that he regularly took naps and went to great pains never to be caught. It was his only sport. He opened the center desk drawer and plucked out a small mirror, then held it close to his face. With the fingers of his right hand he pulled down his lower lids. The whites of his eyes were clear and white. "Damn." Open mouth, tongue extended--pink, even flesh everywhere. He put the mirror away, then pinched one nostril closed, inhaled, then the other nostril. His breathing was unobstructed. He rested his chin in his palm and stared at his terminal and with his free hand, reached out to the keyboard and punched random keys. Tomorrow he'd bring in his Merck Manual of Disease and Diagnosis. Maybe during his forty-five minutes of lunch he'd flip through the pages of the tattered volume and find something that he could still catch.

Three o'clock. Bruce straightened in his chair and looked across and up the narrow aisle to the woman who was furiously working there. She would, in moments, answer the first of at least fourteen telephone calls. The first would be her daughter checking in from school. That would be followed by calls of what to wear, when to do home work, what to wear, and so on throughout the remainder of the afternoon. This was the best part of the day. Bruce tried to imagine the other side of the conversations, but that ended up boring him too. A couple of aisles over he could hear two other employees arguing in increasingly louder tones. He stood, pretending to stretch and
catch a peek of who it was, but when they both stopped their arguing and stared at him he changed his stretch into
reaching for a manual on a top shelf. He grabbed at random and sat back down. Flipping it open he discovered it to
be terribly out of date, probably from the previous inhabitant of this cubicle. He flung open a lower desk drawer to
drop it inside, but it was already overflowing with out-of-date materials. He rolled back from the desk and dropped
the manual in the waste can, then began pulling thick memos, stapled, clipped, and folded documents, and dropped
them one at a time into the can with only cursory glances.
He tossed out hanging folders, envelopes, and then in
the back, pulled free a heavy plastic bag zippered at the top. He moved aside his keyboard and papers and set it unopened on his desktop to examine its contents without disturbing them, in case it held something important or illegal. Instead, Bruce saw with growing wonder and nostalgia the packages, bottles and containers that would push aside his boredom.

The bag was full of over-the-counter cold remedies.

Bruce smiled broadly. He laid the zippered bag on its side and carefully shook it so the contents were evenly displayed. He pressed his face close to the murky plastic so he could see the shapes of elixirs and unguents that would offer him relief, if only he were sick! He twisted the bag around, pulled it close to his nose, and then gingerly peeled apart the seal. A short sniff brought the long missed hint of dust and the bitter-sharp tingle of acetylsalicylic acid. Aspirin! He reached in and carefully brought out a little tin and followed the instructions to,
"Press red dots with both thumbs". The lid popped back to reveal the crumbling white tablets. His grin broadened. He wet the tip of his finger to collect a few grains and place them on his tongue. He tasted the healing tartness. He closed his eyes to savor its astringent dryness. Had he dared, he would have crushed a whole tablet between his teeth. He considered it a long while, but thinking it over, decided it was stupid, foolish to take a drug that could be, well, who knows how old. Oh! If only it were orange too! He remembered being bundled up in bed,
hot cocoa on his nightstand, and the tiny orange pills his mother had him chew. He had loved the way the tiny, hard pills snapped and crunched between his teeth, lingered on his molars. He snapped the lid closed before he was
overcome with temptation.

What next? A bottle of liquid cold medicine that smelled strongly of alcohol, an unopened box that revealed some sort of nasal spray. He read the directions, and then removed the cap. He cautiously sniffed, but inhaled a fine mist of the decongestant. It startled him, but within seconds he could feel the membranes shrink and move within his passages. Suddenly frightened, he scooped the discovered items into his top desk drawer and hurried to the restroom, cupped his hands under the faucet, filled them with water, and sucked it into his nose. He
coughed and choked, then did it twice again. When he looked up in the mirror it seemed as if he were in a cold sweat. He grinned hugely. "Oh, you look sick." he said.

He returned cautiously to his desk, but no one took notice of him. At first, he went back to the report he had been working on that morning, but all he could think of was what was in his desk drawer. He cracked the drawer open and slid out an individually wrapped packet of capsules. He pushed one out through the foil backing and fingered the thin gelatin case that enclosed the multi-colored balls. He spread a sheet of clean paper on his desk and creased it to form a trough, then twisted the capsule, pulling the halves apart. He poured the tiny pieces out on the paper and it rustled gently. He stirred the pieces with the end of a red pencil. "Too bad I'm not sick," he said
with regret.

The rest of the package contained a small box of paper napkins, some sort of eye drops, a gelatinous blue mask, and several hard candies that smelled of honey and menthol. The last item was a cobalt blue bottle, half full of a thick, greasy stuff that let off such a strong odor that he quickly recapped it, then stuck it back in the bag and resealed it also. What a treasure! What a joy it would be to have a cold.

* * * *

Bruce remembered the day, in the vagaries of his youth, when they released the vector. After the years of testing and argument they announced the day and hour when the bulk of human suffering would end. His parents had graciously allowed him to stay up for the midnight television broadcast, then threatened to send him to bed for fighting with his little sister. Someone read a speech, and just before he dozed off, they released the balloons.


The leading causes of death today are:

1. Suicide

2. Domestic Disputes

3. Household Accidents

Bruce wanted to add boredom to the list, but acquiesced that it probably fell under category one.

* * * * *

At home that night, Bruce dreamed.

He was swaddled in blankets and wore a huge sweater that wrapped around and about him. His dream self tried to stand, but gently swooned and felt the room slowly move. When he closed his eyes and the entire room accelerated with him at its center, but it stopped jarringly when he forced his eyes open again. He dabbed his nose with tissues. They piled in mounds about him. Suddenly, he felt the sensation growing within him; the odd, high feeling in the front of his nose, the small catch of breath, the anticipation was over! He sneezed. He relaxed back to the womb of pillows with a sigh that released the burden of years. Bruce stirred and woke, but the smile of the passing dream took him quickly, easily back to sleep. Maybe tomorrow.

* * * *

He just couldn't concentrate. Today, of all days, he had many important things to do, some of them actually interesting, but he couldn't find a place to start. His hands kept slipping off the keyboard and down to the desk drawer. Twice he found his hand inside it, turning the little tin box of tablets over and over. Each time he'd close the drawer, re-straighten his desk, and turn back to the bit of work in front of him.

He looked for things to do. He called his home phone number to see if he had any messages on his answering machine. He did not. He dialed for time and temperature to check his watch and desk clock, then dialed again to make sure it was accurate, but the urge to peek and explore did not subside. Finally, he pulled the entire bag from the drawer and tossed it in his waste can, then thrust away from the desk and headed for the restroom. He marched briskly down the aisle and reached out to push open the door. It moved away from his hand and he fell forward, into the pillowy softness of Littermeir on the other side. He looked up at him as he tried to squeeze by.

Littermeir looked as if he had held his head under a faucet, then combed his hair with his fingers. He held an open and partially eaten candy bar in fingers that themselves had been nibbled and eaten down to slivers of nails and puffy, wrinkled finger tips. Littermeir grinned down at him, huge and unsafe, now freed from the cubical divider that normally protected him.

"What is it today? I think you've made at least four trips down here."

"Nothing. Excuse me."

He didn't move from the partially opened door.

"Diarrhea? Are we pretending to have diarrhea today? You're really pitiful, Brucey, really pitiful."

Bruce pushed past, avoiding contact. Once, he had stood at the bus stop out front and Littermeir pressed up close to his side in the crowd. When Bruce had reached down, he accidentally placed his hand in Littermeir's coat pocket, not his own. It was lined with moist crumbs, the remains of a dying cookie. He'd pulled back quickly, but the revulsion and shock of the moment made him want to keep clean, open spaces between them. The
door closed slowly with Littermeir still standing there, grinning in at him. He hurried to a back stall and shut the door, then leaned his head against the cool surface.

Standing there, he discovered a strange, hard lump in his pocket. He felt it through the fabric of his trousers. Ah, of course, he thought. Sometime during the fidgeting at his desk he had placed the little blue bottle of ointment in his pocket. He pulled it out and popped the lid, just enough to catch the aroma of menthol. He inhaled deeply and decided with no hesitation. No one was here. He stepped out of the stall and up to the mirror, threw his tie over his left shoulder and opened the top buttons of his shirt. He dipped two fingers into the opaque,
sticky-thick goo and pulled out a mobile lump, bringing it to his chest. He rubbed it in circles, matting the black hairs into tight, flat curls. The rising vapors made his eyes water. The last bit he worked into each nostril and smeared across his upper lip, as directed. It was exhilarating. His grin widened, making his face feel tight and hot. The reflection looked manic and dangerous. "This is good," he said without dropping his rictal smile, "if I can't get sick, I'll get insane."

He let the smile fade and the muscles in his cheeks relax. The fumes were making him dizzy, tired. He reached up to rub his eyes, instantly stinging them with the residue of the ointment. Instinctively, he cupped his hands under the faucet and brought the captured water towards his face, but then he stopped and let it drain away. He pressed close to the mirror, holding the basin on both sides and slowly forced his eyes open, waiting for his vision to clear. They were shot with red. He shook his head at himself, then bent and washed his face clean.

Bruce dried himself as best as he could with the blower, and then returned to the stall. He thought for a moment before lowering his trousers. It was impossible to sit comfortably on a toilet with your pants up. That, and it would look strange to anyone walking in. But this was too strange for Bruce, sitting with his pants around his ankles, his shirt sticking to his chest, his eyes watering. He could barely catch his breath. He pulled
free several turns of toilet paper and reached up under his shirt to wipe away what he could. That seemed to just move it around. He stood, rearranged himself, flushed for cover, and exited without rewashing his hands.

On the way back to his desk he firmly resolved to complete a memo and to append the weekly report, and . . . he walked past his cubicle, his stride lengthening. He passed his supervisor's desk. She took no notice of him, but the medicated aroma settled on her in his wake. She peeked around the corner as he forsook the elevator and pushed open the door to the stairs.

Bruce took the stairs two at a time. His hand slid down the rail and propelled him in tight turns down the well. He burst into the lobby, past the reception desk, then out into the morning sunlight. There he slowed, then stopped as he reached the curb. The exertion of his escape made his heart pound within his chest. For a moment he stood there, at the stop, by the bench. He stood in this exact same spot every day, but he had never been out here mid-morning. He stuck a finger behind his tie and into his shirt to feel the greasy mat of hair and
shirt. He pulled it out and it was coated with the pungent ointment. He wiped it on the concrete bench. 10:30.
He sat on the bench and considered what he might do next. The answer came immediately: Go back.

With that settled, he sat a moment more, waiting for his second wind. He didn't know how long that might take, since he had never pushed past his first one. "I'm not strong enough to stand being sick," he muttered by himself. His eyes hurt, he was sticky and smelly, and who were these people? Here it is, mid-morning, and the street and sidewalk is full of people. The strangeness of being away from his desk and out caused Bruce to scan the faces. The injustice of their freedom agitated him. Why weren't they working? What were they all doing out here?
"If I have to work, everybody has to work." The reverse did not occur to him. Surely they weren't all runaways like him. Even now, within minutes of his flight, the guilt of his absence grew. He reluctantly stood, turned towards the office, and cursed the happy multitude behind him.

Back at his desk, a grimy candy bar wrapper sat on the floor near his trashcan. He cautiously picked it up to drop it in . . . the can was unexpectedly empty . . . the bag of medicines was gone. He listened. Soft, unpleasant sounds came from over the divider. He peeked. Littermeir was cradling his head in his hands and moaning. In front of him, on his desk, were the cellophane wrappers of medicated candies and a little plastic
cup/lid with a residue of green liquid. The bottle lay on its side, empty. Bruce gasped, then laughed sharply. Littermeir turned to look at him. His face was pale with panic and pain, and . . . He hiccupped slightly, then turned and threw up on the floor. Bruce stared in disbelief as Littermeir leaned forward and rolled from his chair. He lay on his side across the aisle. Faces peered above and around dividers.

Bruce ran to the end of the aisle and back to where Littermeir lay.

"What did you do?" he whispered to him. Littermeir looked up at him, then retched and threw up again.

Bruce stepped past him, lifted the empty plastic bag from the corner of the desk, and quickly swept the empty wrappers and remaining medications into it. He reached over the divider to his own desk and tossed it back and under his desk. He turned back to kneel beside Littermeir. After a moment, the supervisor strode down the aisle and looked down at them both: Bruce cradling Littermeir's head in his lap.

"What's going on here?" she demanded.

Bruce looked up at her and with a grin of triumph said, "He's sick!"


Word Count: # 3093

Powerhouse

"Not the works!"

And yes, this is running through my brain, most of the time.

I'm Not The Only One

Dan Levey helps out on the search:

"I've been obsessed with seeing that cat and dog cartoon again but it's not on a DVD or VHS anywhere.  Anyway the song is by Raymond Scott and is called "Powehouse",  There are two cartoons with that cat and dog and I got one from VCD.com "Early to Bet" and the one I can't get is called "It's Hummer Time"  which has the classic "No, Not the Works" line.  Just figured I'd help you out but if you can find this cartoon anywhere, let me know."

That's it! And for 99 cents I bought a copy at the iTunes Music store and am listening to it now! Wow! The theme begins at about 1:20 into it.

Original post link.

Bet you thought this was going to be a John Lennon post.

Technical Problems?

If you're not reading this, you should be.

Baghdad Burning: "My father has a friend with a wife and 3 children who is currently working for an Italian internet company. He communicates online with his 'boss' who sits thousands of kilometers away, in Rome, safe and sure that there are people who need to feed their families doing the work in Baghdad. This friend, and a crew of male techies, work 10 hours a day, 6 days a week. They travel all over Baghdad, setting up networks. They travel in a beat-up SUV armed with cables, wires, pliers, network cards, installation CDs, and a Klashnikov for. . . you know. . . technical emergencies.

Each of the 20 guys who work with this company get $100/month. A hundred dollars for 260 hours a month comes to. . . $0.38/hour. My 16-year-old babysitter used to get more. The Italian company, like many other foreign companies, seems to think that $100 is appropriate for the present situation. One wonders the price of the original contract the Italian company got. . . how many countless millions are being spent so 20 guys can make $100/month to set up networks?"

The Age of Men

I'm 43 years old, and other than physically (especially at the moment with this damn kidney stone), I've always maintained an image of myself as that skinny kid, that not quite eleven years old, joining up with the Boy Scouts. Everyone back then was huge, stunningly competent, deeply knowledgeable about everything, and largely (thank god), benevolent.

I'm sure that picture was off, but that's how I saw them. I've worked to be like that. To others my own age, especially as a kid, I had a reputation of maturity beyond my years. Little did they know.

Earlier this week I returned home for my grandmother's funeral, and there they all were, a group of men whom I can't help thinking of in that same way as that little boy scout.I shouldn't be surprised, but I am.

My uncles, old men now, still each a force of nature. My Uncle Jim, a retired Navy fighter pilot. Uncle Charlie, an engineer and jet engine designer, also an accomplished pilot. Mike Munter, tall and white haired, gifted with natural authority. Even Raymond Richardson, now in his nineties. My grade school principle, and my father's before me. He worked his farm, just down the road from us. Imagine Abraham Lincoln as played by Buddy Ebsen.

They're just men, each with their own failings. Not supermen, certainly. They don't know me now, but they knew the child I once was, each from their own perspective. I wonder if they have the same feelings of giants preceding them as well. I suspect they do, when I hear them talk about my grandfather, long gone, and others of his generation. I suppose it is the way of things.

Eulogy for Mildred Williams Murray, 1914-2003

As I started to set down my thoughts this past Saturday morning I realized I should have been better prepared. Grandma took me aside nearly five years ago and asked me to deliver her eulogy. All of you here knew her to one degree or another and won’t be surprised by that. It’s one of the things she taught me over the years and one of the many things I’ve learned to value from her.

Let me get the simple biographical data out of the way, since it’s the least important things. She was born on September 4th, 1914, a Williams. For perspective, that’s the beginning of World War I. She married my grandfather, Richard Murray, who she called "Dick" in 1933. She had four sons and raised them just a few miles from here on the same farm my great-great grandfather started when he arrived from Ireland in the early 1860s. I grew up just across the field from her house in the home my great grandfather built. She was a fine country cook, kept garden, raised chickens and excelled in the crafts of knitting and quilt making. She was widowed early in life when my grandfather died in 1967 and she never remarried. She lived alone and independent the rest of her life, spending her last years in San Antonio. She had eight grandchildren, eightteen great grandchildren, and even one, so far, in the next generation.

I could go on about her accomplishments in life, who she knew, where she traveled, but those won’t tell you much about who she was. But I can share some of what I learned from her that may be more revealing than a simple biography. For some reason our family didn’t stick in one place. My mother’s side of the family all still live within a few miles of each other, but not us Murrays. I expect it’s that strong, independent streak that she helped instill in us. But I’ve never lost site that I am at heart a farm boy, raised on the prairies by a strong, independent family.

These lessons are in no particular order.

• Always drink your coffee black. You can read whatever you like into that, but I mean it as a plain truth. She loved a good cup of coffee and wouldn’t think of messing it up by dumping other stuff into it. I agree with her completely on this and my daughter, Kathleen, who is now making our morning coffee, drinks it black as well.
  
  
• A sense of humor will carry you through most of life’s difficulties. I know a lot of people that are easily crushed by changes of fate and fortune. A friend of mine who recently lost his job has gone through weeks of depression. My grandmother certainly didn’t have and easy life, but she never lost her capacity to laugh, enjoy a good story or a joke.
  
  
• Bear life’s indignities with as much grace as possible. I suppose this ties in with having a sense of humor. Illness, pain, and loss are difficult to bear and few of us escape them. All of us are entitled to a little complaining now and then and a sympathetic ear helps. But get back on your feet as soon as possible and move on.
  
  
• Create order out of chaos. Through the years of raising a family on the farm, many of those years without electricity, living alone, and even in her own passing, she always attempted to keep her house in order and secure all arrangements. You keep your house, your financial dealings, and as much as possible around you in it’s place, organized, and when possible, planned. She not only asked me to deliver her eulogy, but she prepared all of her own funeral arrangements well in advance.
  
  
• See through to the heart of things. When grandma was packing up to leave the farm for San Antonio, she insisted that I drive from Columbus to retrieve a beat up old cabinet she had stored in her basement for all the years she had lived there. It was wobbly and covered with at least 8 layers of paint. But she knew we enjoyed antiques and this old mess of a pie safe had set on her parents’ porch for as long as she could remember before it was hers. And she was right. After a hellacious job of stripping and refinishing, we discovered that it was beautiful, early American piece, probably a hundred and fifty years old.
  
  
• Make the hard decisions when you need to. A year ago my grandmother decided, on her own, to give up her car and stop driving. She talked with me at length about this and it was a very difficult thing for her to do. But unlike many, she knew it was time and she did it in her own way, on her schedule. She drove right up to the day her licenses expired, not giving up one moment of it. When we talked about it she knew that as hard as it was to give it up, it would have been harder still if someone had to take it away from her.
  
  
• Don’t be afraid to learn new things. In all the years she lived alone my grandmother traveled and enjoyed life. She even learned to swim late in life. And I couldn’t have been more surprised when she bought her own computer and started sending me email. It wasn’t easy for her to learn how to operate, but until this last year she regularly send me notes, recipes, and updates on other family members. I’ve spent my entire career working in the software industry, but I understand how difficult and frightening technology can be. But it never stopped her.

I could go on. I certainly don’t mean to imply that she was a perfect woman or a saint. She was a tough customer, a stern, hard woman at times. But I don’t expect I’ll ever have a really good piece of gooseberry pie again. I hope to share the values I’ve learned from her with my children, and someday, my own grandchildren.

Do these things really come in threes?

This ain't no pity post, just a statement of my current reality. Actually, my mental/emotional state is pretty good, but let's not try and find out where the breaking point is.

Yesterday I started out the day feeling pretty good, but on the way to work I began to feel pain in my lower right abdomen. I'd say it was a gall bladder flare up, but I had that removed in February. The pain kept up all day. I had a lunch scheduled that I couldn't miss, so I went to that - didn't feel any better. In fact, worse after.

Around 2 I went to the restroom and got a little shock - my urine was the color of coffee.

Damn. Probably a kidney stone. I went home and was calling the doc on my cell phone (since that's where I have her number stored) when my home phone rang. It was my dad, who never calls during the day. My grandmother had died.

She's been on a steep decline for the last few months, so it wasn't a surprise or a shock. Just one more thing to deal with.

My doc was booked up, so I went to an "Urgent Care" doc-in-a-box. Surprisingly, it was new, well laid out, and not crowded. I was in and out in less than an hour. Yep, kidney stone, blood in the urine, and blood pressure (from the pain) way up. So I got a small prescription for painkiller and went home to try and sleep it off. Not really possible with the phone calls from family trying to make funeral arrangements.

So, today, Friday, I'm in the office. I should still be home drugged up, but the pain's not too bad at the moment, but I certainly don't feel good. I'm trying to get things organized for me to be gone through Wednesday of next week. We're so understaffed at the moment that's pretty difficult. I'll be noon before I can leave.

Then I have to go buy a dark suit. I don't wear suits for work any more and even if I did, none of my suits are dark and frankly, they don't fit any more. I need to make travel arrangements and get a hotel, which ain't easy in the farm country where I grew up. And some time between now and Monday I need to write a eulogy.

All things considered, I'm fine. Really. If I can just pass this damn stone before I have to spend 6 hours driving to Illinois I'll be better.

I'll post the eulogy and comments here next week.

Ocracoke

Today I'm wearing my "Pirates of Ocracoke" tee-shirt (which includes many different "Jolly Rogers", including "Not-so-Jolly Roger" and my favorite, the "Bloody Pissed-Off Roger") and wondering is Ocracoke will still be there when I return next summer.

The Outer Banks have been our family vacation spot for the past 15 years or so. We started going because of my interest in Wind Surfing, but since I blew out the disc in my back (surprisingly, also at the Outer Banks playing football on the beach) I don't do that any more. But we love the area and really enjoy visiting every year. But talk about a fragile environment. In most parts, it's a strip of sand you could spit across (if you could spit really far). It's peaceful and has large, undeveloped parts that are a joy to be in.

I see in the news reports that once again, some residents are considering not leaving. Are these the same people we see every time after the big storm saying, "thank God we survived. We'll never do that again!", but yet, here they are sitting out another one. Some day, maybe even this week, the hand of god in the form of a hurricane is going to scour those little barrier islands right off the face of the planet. Gone will be the million dollar vacation homes and little fishing huts. Gone the lighthouse they just drug back up the beach and away from the pounding surf. Gone the Wright Brothers monument, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, Avon and our Buxton.

While I have a chance, I'll continue to visit Ocracoke every year, find my seat at on the deck of the Jolly Roger restaurant, have a beer and look out over the pond where Blackbeard himself held court. Hell, I'd retire there if I had the chance. But when a hurricane like Isabell had me in its headlights I'd tuck tale and head for the hills.

This can't be a good thing.

I've been reading about this.

A monster awakens?: "The inflated plain is a potential and serious hazard and possible precursor to a large hydrothermal explosion event."

Not going to Yellowstone any time soon. No siree Bob.

Got My Coffee and iTunes

Yes, a long week, but making some progress at lowering the corporate blood pressure. Now working on mine. It's 3:30 pm, someone just made a Starbucks run (Tall coffee, black, thank you) and I've got String Quartet In G Major, Op. 153 Allegro Animato by Camille Saint-Saens playing in the background. I started with Tom Waits, but it ain't that kind of afternoon.

Speaking of black coffee, here's a little bit of Murray family history. My father was one of four sons, raised not an 1/8th of a mile from where I grew up (actually, my childhood home was my great-grandfather's house and his father was the Irishman himself, who came from County Cork in the early 1860s. His brother joined the Union Army. Just like a scene out of "The Gangs of New York".) Anyhoo, my father is a big coffee drinker. He can drink it all day and all night long. And he drinks it black. My grandmother, though ill and in a nursing home, drinks it black as well. I've always said that she'd disinherit me if I put anything in my coffee. The rule around the Murray house is that anyone of any age can drink coffee, but you better not put anything in it.

Diane, not being a Murray by birth, ignores me and takes cream with her coffee. I can't stand it that way. I will, on occasion, have a fancy drink or cappuccino, but that's not really coffee, now is it?

I've also discovered my father's secret - he drinks his coffee weak, see-through. A cup of the way I drink it would straighten his hair.

And speaking of hair, he still has most of his, while I do not and have not for some time. My Grampa Murray was the same way. I recently saw a picture of him and my Uncle Jim - they were kneeling by what appears to be a bobcat they've shot - don't know where it was taken. Grampa passed away when I was seven or eight and I remember him well, but I was surprised at the physical resemblance. Shave my beard and I don't think you could tell us apart.

There's a man I would have benefited from knowing better.

CptnRandy On The Air

I'll be doing my day job tonight. Catch me live, or check out the archives, when they get it archived . . .

PC Chat Computer Radio Show

Then again, only if you really need to be sold some software.

What we need is one of these

OK, actually several of these, but I'll settle for one to start.

Space Elevator

Fantasy? Not on your life. The science is sound, as is the economics. Also see The Fountains of Paradise

Needs a warning label

I winced to see the photo about this major screwup that essentially destroyed a satellite, but this is what caught my attention:

"IMPACT ON PROGRAM/PROJECT AND SCHEDULE:

The shock and vibration of the fall undoubtedly caused tremendous damage. Significant rework and retest will be required. NOAA-N Prime is planned for launch in 2008."

They're on final prep on a satellite that won't launch for 5 years?

Now ask yourself, would you want a computer that was 5 years old? How about a 5 year old cell phone? Are we really that stacked up in getting things into space?

Our space program is more screwed up than I thought. Yes, the shuttle is aging and dangerous, but I haven't seen a strong plan for what's next and when it will be ready. This is important stuff.

Severe Damage To Spacecraft

Oooph. Ack.

Well, my wardrobe has been lacking in hoodies, so I suppose this whole Blogger Pro going bye bye could be considered a good thing.

Except I don't wear hoodies and I spent what, $60 bucks to get access to these features? I'd prefer a refund, thank you.

Today's Fortune Cookie

Behind an able man, there are always.

Eerily accurate, don't you think?

Maybe the Innis Mode Would Help

I saw this very interesting article, linked from Metafilter: Guardian Unlimited | Life | 'Science cannot provide all the answers'.

And yes, this is my experience as well. In all walks of life, one finds very intelligent people who continue to believe in God and an afterlife. Why is that?

Well, for one, I've found that many who have success in a particular area gain that by focus, that is exclusion of other areas of inquiry and close examination of a singular topic. That leaves them with their cultural equipment largely intact. They were brought up believing, and remain so. Ceasing to believe is very hard. It is much more rare to begin to believe when one was brought up without belief.

In addition, ceasing to believe is a very painful process, that may mean unraveling other assumptions about the world, breaking ties with friend and family, and perhaps most important, leaving a supportive community that religion may form. I've known many people within a particular religion who cease to believe, but keep their mouths shut and go through the motions, rather than give up this very real support.

Perhaps most importantly, ceasing to believe requires the abandonment of hope for an afterlife. When I examine that carefully, I see in myself that yearning for more, the hope for continuation. I don't find a lack of another life bleak and nihilistic, but it sure would be nice to go on. And beyond that, the thought of being reunited with loved ones is nearly irresistible.

It's so damn hard to give that up.

But then again, it is worth it.

How, you ask? Perspective, my friend. Give up all that, step back from the mess and it becomes possible to begin to see how it all works. Science, history, hell, even philosophy. None of it really comes together when you must force it into a particular believe system.

And something very astute from the article.

"Colin Humphreys says that quite a number of his colleagues at Cambridge are also believers. 'My impression is - and it is just an impression - that there are many more scientists on the academic staff who are believers than arts people.'

Tom McLeish says something similar. He cheerfully offers several reasons why that might be so, one of which might be called the postmodernist effect. 'Our dear friends in the humanities do get themselves awfully confused about whether the world exists, about whether each other exists, about whether words mean anything. Until they have sorted out whether cats and dogs exist or not, or are only figments in the mind of the reader, let alone the writer, then they are going to have problems talking about God.' "

For simplifying effect, let me lay out a few things that helps me:

1. The world is real.
2. While I'll grant that there may be more than "one way of knowing", science is the ONLY way of uncovering the fundamental workings of the universe AND communicating them reliably.
3. With an open, critical mind, one can always update and change one's maps.

"Christ, what an imagination I've got."

Some Weeks

God, what a tough week.

I've made a decision to not write about office politics, but I can't think of time I've had less turmoil and grief. It didn't involve me, but once again I've been in the middle of firing friends without cause. It hurts and there's no way around it.

Let's hope for a better one next week. 'Nuff said.

Overthinking the Robotic Plumbing

I saw this article linked at Metafilter.com:Robotic Freedom. I'll agree, robots and hyperautomation are an interesting topic, but this author, Marshall Brain, though he may know How Stuff Works, he doesn't have the faintest inkling what the real effects of displacing 80% of the world work force.

First, an economy isn't just the flow of capital - it's a form or control. So, if literally millions of US workers get dumped and have no hope of ever regaining employment, do you think they're just going to sit around? They're coming to see YOU, Mr. Boss Man.

Let's return to the Common, shall we? I, as an English Lord of the Manor, want not just to profit from the work of the serfs, but to control them, keep them from getting out of hand. I can do that if I can keep them employeed and just above miserable. Make them too happy and they'll want more. Make them too miserable and they'll want EVERYTHING.

To keep them employeed, I need to limit their alternate means of employment or sustanance and provide them with a wage that is only enough to keep them buying from the company store. That's why the Common must be controlled, or enclosed, preferably.

Getting ahead is bad and a middle class is intolerable.

So, the perfect robots are developed, thanks, we don't need you any more. Good for business? Not exactly. Who the hell is going to buy your wares? Other companies with their own robot workforces? This isn't a minor economic disruption that a few new welfare laws will take care of. This is a completely new economy. Sorry, Mr. Brain, even super-taxing the super-rich ain't gonna cut it.

And disruptive it will be. But I'm not sure it's a bad thing.

To let my imagination run wild, I think we have a better than even chance of "blooming" the internet before they put in the Robotic Walmart greeters. Blooming? Yes, blooming.

The internet isn't a place, it's a group of interconnected computers and the associated networks. It's not intelligent, and it's not owned, but it is regulated and monitored. It's only a first step, the caterpillar. Imagine, if you will, an explosion of nanotech that makes the internet all the things it's currently not: a place (everywhere), intelligent, and unownable. Now, what would life be like if energy were free, access to information like the air (literally the air), and all of ones basic needs available to all. Food and shelter a true instant gratification. What exactly would most people need to work for?

This is the robotic revolution Mr. Brain speaks of, but from the ground up. Workers would displace themselves. Populations would shift and move without respect to jobs. The need for labor would vanish, but also the market economy. If this blooming is benevolent, governments would cease to function in their current state as well.

I for one welcome the arrival of our new robotic masters.

10 Propositions

We should have elected Uncle Walter president by acclamation 20 years ago.

Ten propositions for the Democrats

Just Got My Assignment

The Dante's Inferno Test has sent you to the First Level of Hell - Limbo!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very High
Level 2 (Lustful)	Moderate
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Very Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very High
Level 7 (Violent)	Low
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

A plan for the Weekend

I'm a bit more lenient with my definition - I prefer the Vodka martini. Over our anniversary on the 15th, Diane and I want to Legal Seafood in Boston. One of them anyway. Apparently they're a chain. Damn good seafood, though.

I ordered a "Flight" of Martinis - actually, I thought I was getting a bargain on a pitcher of Chopin. What I got was THREE martinis all at once. Frankly, that works too.

Shaken Not Slurred: "Shaking? Stirring? Whatever. Anyone who says they can tell the difference is a lying pompous twit. "

I usually drink mine up, with olive. My favorite is made with a gorgonzola stuffed olive, made with Chopin or Grey Goose.

Baghdad Burning

Wow.

I'm simply mucking about, posting a few random thoughts, not taking enough time. But this is real journalism.

Baghdad Burning

Classics?

Apparently, BookMagazine published a 2002 chart of the "best selling classics". OK, I'll buy the best selling bit, but what's their definition of classic?

eliot - Classic Bestsellers

In this annotated list, we also see the date when the book will enter the public domain, which is very interesting and somewhat disturbing. I'm a writer, trained as a playwright, and am very interested in copyright issues. I'm in favor of authors retaining copyright for life and their estate for up to by not exceeding 50 years after their death. Rolling copyright extensions aren't good for anyone.

But back to the whole "classics" thing. A few years back, just when CD-ROMs were coming out, some friends and I talked about putting together a multimedia CD series called "Required Reading". The idea was to put together a genera specific reading list that would allow anyone that was interested in literature to take a guided tour of really terrific books, but often overlooked because they were shuffled off into a ghetto somewhere. We were all fans of science fiction, and all very well educated and widely read and could quickly come up with a list of books in just that genera that were terrific literature, that virtually anyone could enjoy and benefit from reading, but were largely unknown. The CDs would, when possible, contain the public domain works, but also provide "talking heads" to provide expert help and opinions on the works, influences, and what else to read.

Ah, so many good books, so little time.

But "Memoirs of a Geisha" is a classic? "The Clan of the Cave Bear"? "Watership Down"? "Interview with the Vampire"?

Somebody's definition of classic is way, way off.

25 or 6 to 4

Sometimes I puzzle over things, often for years, without ever thinking to ask someone, "what the hell does that mean?" That happened a while back with this song. I heard it on the radio, had heard it for years, hell, even played a pretty cool jazz version. But I'd never thought to ask.

Of course, until recently, there may have been no easy way to have the right person to ask. But sometimes the net does come through.

The answer: it's a time.

Oh. Now the song makes sense.

Now if I could only find that cartoon music.

"Not the Works!"

Today, while helping my oldest daughter mount some hooks to her bedroom wall, huming happily, she asked, "is that music running through your head all the time?"

You know the one. It's from that Warner Brothers cartoon - haven't seen it in years - the one with a cat and dog, probably, and the cat is being given various punishments and he keeps begging, "Not the Works!" as in being put through said works.

And yes, any time I'm doing anything skilled, or I'm planning anything devlish or overly clever, that's exactly the music that's running thorough my brain.

But the damn internet isn't quiet clever enough to find and play it for me based on this feable description.

Dum de dum, de dum, de dum dum

Marketing The Blog

I've been thinking about this. I spend all day marketing, so I'm sensitive and critical when people are trying to sell me a load of goods.

But this does look interesting. Seems harmless and might be fun.

Sign up for this great new Blogstakes contest and maybe we’ll both win a prize!

Behold, the power of the blog!

Or was that "Beware of the Blog!"

Distant Thunder

I'm usually the one in the theater, so I don't hear what it's like in the rest of the house. My daughter and her friend, Daisy, are down there now watching "Jumanji". As I sit here at the iMac, 2 full floors above, I hear an occasional rumble. It is supposed to rain later tonight, but this is coming, from the register.

I spent a lot of money to isolate sound, and the room does, for the most part. But when that big subwoofer kicks in, there's not much you can do to keep it from setting off the earthquake detectors long the Pacific rim. Especially when I play that scene from "Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring". You know the one. The Bridge of Kazadum.

OK, I exaggerate.

Wait, did you feel that?

Some links:

http://www.avsforum.com
http://www.svsubwoofers.com
http://www.designcinema.com

Mister Password Changing Man

One of the really unpleasant things about working in management is the occasional need to fire people. Not "Lay Off". Fire. Sometimes it has too happen.

Rarely have I needed to fire someone because they were bad at their job, lazy, incompetent. Those are easy. I don't mind that at all. Mostly I've been in the position of economic necessity or changing requirements staff reductions. That's what I've been doing today.

My day job is a small company and we had two offices - we kept the 2nd up till now because we really liked the people in the Minneapolis office and wanted to work with them. But as a small company it was very hard to manage and a big duplication of a lot of expenses. So we made the decision last week and today we made it happen. I'm back here in the home office. I held the meeting, alerted the staff, all of who were staying, and started the process of "changing the locks".

A lot of those people are my friends. It depresses me and honestly hurts. No easy way around it.

Simply a fact of life. So, all this afternoon I've been sitting with operations and changing accounts, passwords, logins, emails. Just like a funeral, but not as much fun.

So it begins

I've set out today to start the long process of losing weight. Of course, it's a bad time for such things (and perhaps I'll post more about this later this week). I feel like Lloyd Bridges in "Airplane!" - "Why did I pick today to stop sniffing glue?"

I haven't weighted in - not even sure I'm going to step up on the scale at all. Frankly, I don't care what I weigh. I only want to be trimmer and in better shape.

Today, I had two eggs with a dash of heavy cream and a slice of American cheese - a simple omelet. I also have a tall glass of water with breakfast, followed by a cup of coffee at work (more of a mug, really). We'll see how the day goes - I'm more interested in getting through the week than dropping pounds.

In other news, thinking about common ground. Diane and I spent the weekend (a very nice trip by the way) in Boston. We stayed in a downtown hotel and each morning had a muffin and coffee in Boston Common. We talked about the tour book history about the place and in English commons and their enclosures - what that meant for the "common" folk.

It leads me back to thoughts of "cheap labor" conservatives. And of the future.

Much thinking about that to do - to early to say anything here that doesn't make me sound like a crackpot.

I am, of course, a crackpot. I just don't like to sound like one.

Under Pressure

I may not get visibly emotional when under pressure, but as a friend of mine points out - I eat. And it's getting to the point where I have to do something about the extra weight. Even my watch band is getting tight.

So.

Starting Monday, I'm going to use this blog to keep a diet and weight record - that's right, in public and for the permanent record. I don't necessarily look forward to it, but I'll be damned if I go out and buy another pair of jeans because I can't fit into the ones I have.

What's the emoticon for a big sigh?

Naive

Our next rule comes from an observation I made at the Ohio State Fair this weekend. In a moment when I was by myself, waiting for my youngest daughter who was on a ride, I watched the people around me. As much as I am a great believer in the fundamental equality and worth of all people, I sometimes despair at what I see. I wonder, with the coming age of technical advancement far beyond all that we've achieved in the past, if the "digital divide" will be made real, a true gulf and separation into a new species, with the old following the road of our cousin, Australopithecus, Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons. Or worse, that Homo Sapiens survive, subservient and enslaved by our successor race.

What makes me despair? Naivete. Sit and watch the crowd go by. Do they know how the universe functions, how it came to be? Do they know our 20,000 year history, why we distrust our neighbor, how the economy works, who makes the news? Do they know what lies ahead, what is possible?

I may not know all of these things, but I do know the limits of my knowledge and work at finding the answers - or at least where to go when I need an answer. But what of all those who don't know, don't want to know, or think that they do and refuse any question of their beliefs?

"The state or quality of being inexperienced or unsophisticated, especially in being artless, credulous, or uncritical."

Why are so many people so clueless? The bottom reason, because it is easier and less painful. Easier to follow than to lead. And if you wish to be followed, it is easier for the mass to be simple, unquestioning. Those that question things are dangerous.

It is so difficult for a child to say, "There is so much I don't know." The typical, or perhaps stereotypical teenage reaction is to assume that no one has every experienced what he or she is currently thinking or feeling. So few realize that every one that has gone before walks the same road, eyes open or closed.

So how to defeat naivete? Skepticism, not cynicism. Question everything, but do not assume that everyone or everything is aligned against you. True enemies are rare and valuable.

Use these rules of thumb:

• Find others that have gone before you and study them.
  
• Read outside your areas of interest (someone else may have solved your problem, but not in your terms)
  
• Librarians are more useful than philosophers.
  
• Anyone or anything that claims to have all the answers is probably wrong about almost everything.
  
• Your ideas and plans will be better by tempering. Some things don't sound as unique when you say them out loud.

A Grievous Insult

Perhaps I shouldn't let things like this get under my skin. But at the risk of turning this blog into a Miss Manners column I'd like to share a little something with you, gentle reader.

An accepted personal invitation my not be disregarded.

Last night, Diane had invited some of her staff over to the house for dinner and a movie. She asked me to cook and host, which I agreed to gladly. Since it was a weeknight I decided on simple, but quality fare - porterhouse steaks, grilled, a side of roasted spaghetti squash with a simple tomato sauce, among other items. Although she had invited more, three had accepted invitations (a single and a couple). The first guest arrived relatively on time, but Diane received a call, after the invited time, that "Bill" was running very late, occupied with something else, but not an emergency. We took our time, then ate, and finally, after an hour and a half, I asked Diane to call him. He was still "busy". I asked her to tell him and his wife not to come.

These are people that Diane works with, so part of my impotent fury is that I can't directly address them. But here's why I'm angry and insulted:

• An invitation to our home requires us a large amount of effort and expense.
• We have to clean, arrange for the kids to be transported or cared for, and in this case fed.
• We purchased food and drink, at no small expense.
• I left work early to prepare the meal and expend a considerable effort in making the evening enjoyable and entertaining.
• A dinner party planned for 5 is an very different dynamic when only one guest appears.
• Other people were not invited that could have attended.

This person will NOT be invited again. It is my understanding that he runs a side business and became busy at a customer site. I do not accept this as an excuse. Once he accepted the invitation he was obliged to present himself at the appointed time, save for grave personal emergency. If this person was under my influence, this would severely bar his advancement. I would not consider it shabby or petty to shun avoid their company.

Behave with consideration and you're welcome in my home and table. Piss me off and you'll end up in this blog.

Rule #3. You can believe whatever damn stupid thing you want*

*as long as you claim no authority to enforce it.

Yes, here the crux of the matter. Virtually all of humanity's problems boil down to matters of belief. Very few issues are purely greed or lust (and frankly, they're much more fun and less damaging than the whole belief thing).

And it's the followers that are the problem. Leaders are powerless, but followers, or "functionaries" as my good friend Penny calls them, are the ones that shed the blood and attempt to force all into behavioral boxes.

Why? Because of one word: SHOULD. I've been inside the belief structure - I was raise that way. But from the very start, from my earliest memories, I was struck with the hypocrisies. Christianity has a big problem here and it isn't alone, but it's the one I know best. The complete practice of Christianity is incompatible with modern life. In it's current incarnation it is structured around allowing people the most minimal contact with religious life while exercising the maximum behavioral control. If one were to actually follow the precepts of Christianity as recognized by most of the major brands, you'd quickly be labeled either a fanatic or a nut. Do you really expect me to give up everything, accept everyone, turn the other cheek, and here's the big one, pretty much ignore all authority and hierarchy? And when you in turn look at those that do follow their religion religiously, you have the extremes that we find both humorous and dangerous.

Jesus, as presented in the New Testament, was a dangerous man. Why? Not because of the reported miracles or for anything he said. He's portrayed and the most unthreatening man you could imagine, even to his death. But his FOLLOWERS were becoming the threat. Frankly, they were right to be scared. I can't find any measure that will provide evidence of positive good done by these followers that can't be outweighed by a hundred times the evil they've perpetrated in his name.

Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You pay tithes of mint and dill and cummin; but you have overlooked the weightier demands of the Law, justice, mercy, and good faith. It is these you should have practised, without neglecting the others. Blind guides! You strain off a midge, yet gulp down a camel!

Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You clean the outside of cup and dish, which you have filled inside by robbery and self-indulgence! Blind Pharisee! Clean the inside of the cup first; then the outside will be clear also.

Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like tombs covered with whitewash; they look well from outside, but inside they are full of dead men’s bones and all kinds of filth. So it is with you: outside you look like honest men, but inside you are brim-full of hypocrisy and crime. . .

Matthew, 23rd Chapter

I'll admit, it's damn difficult to face that there's no purpose to human existence. This life we have is it. There's no second change, next round, higher plane. And building a life that has its own meaning, that is satisfying and is creditable (I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle laying that one out yet) is a challenge that most simply can't or won't face.

And frankly, I don't care if they do or don't, as long as they leave everyone else alone!

See? There's a good reason they haven't made me supreme ruler of this little galaxy.

Rule #2 - Use The Scientific Method

Listen, that old adage of "there are many ways of discovering the truth" and laments of "Western ways of thinking", I'm sorry about it, but poppycock. The Scientific Method is the only way.

I'll repeat, I'm not looking for arguments, so argue amongst yourselves. Here's the test: Demonstrate an instance when a method or practice other than the Scientific Method has uncovered and explained any physical phenomenon.

This rule is like unto the first. It is based on skepticism and does not rely on authority. The results are available to all who follow the experimental steps.

And while we're at it I'll tip my hat to Rule #3. You can believe whatever damn stupid thing you want as long as you claim no authority to enforce it.

See how this is working out?

Free Sheet Music

Wow - now here's something worthwhile - Welcome to the Mutopia Project.

Over 320 pieces of musice available, to date - and best for me - 170 piano works!

Ah!

Rules To Live By

First, there are no rules.

That may be the most difficult step to take.

"What, then how do I know if I'm doing it right?"

Well, you'll have to determine that yourself. If you expect me to tell you if you're a good person, if you're successfully, if you're smart, beautiful, or worthy, then you're in a heap o' trouble.

And if I can't tell you these things, who can?

No one.

More specifically, here's my first rule, restated and clarified: Always, without exception, mistrust and challenge anyone or anything that claims authority or seeks positions of command or control. Distrust more those who seek to be governed and attempt to include you within the body.

Chaos? Anarchy? No, not at all. I do not say resist authority, only to question it.

All other rules may be derived from this one alone. It is the central component of my philosophy.

The hard part is this: rejoice in this task. To not allow despondency and despair to rule. Peeling back the layers, discovering the real mechanism of the universe, of the affairs of men, or your very heart and soul is a joyous task. Revel in it. For every belief you leave behind, for every misconception and lie you shatter, for every step you take in sharpening the focus on your vision and understanding, declare victory and gain strength.

There are things I could tell you. But I won't rob you of the joy of discovery.

My Latest Gadget

The SST-768 Harmony Remote.

Yes, I have many, MANY remotes. I even have one very expensive and supposedly programmable one. But no luck. So we try this one. Now Mac OS X compatible!

As Seen on Fark

I'm a bald man and I have no problem with that. I'm fine with the way I look. Actually, I kinda like it this way. I started loosing hair in my early 20's and it went pretty quickly. I could pull off a "thinning" hair look, but instead I shave the top of my head and keep the rest buzz-cut short. Easy to deal with and no shame.

But some day, I expect to have a full head of hair. Just not this way: One Day We'll Grow Hair Like Wheat.

Some day, maybe inside the next 20 years, I expect medical science to perfect a lot of treatments that will extend life and youth. At least I'm holding out hope. I envision a simple treatment, maybe a pill or a nose spray, that will correct all of my bodily ills. My back won't hurt any more. I'll drop all the extra pounds. My hair will grow back, my scars disappear, I'll throw away my glasses, and I'll stop snoring.

Last Sunday, Bob Hope died at the age of 100, a very old man. I look forward to 100 when it's considered nothing but a milestone and we don't know how long people live.

Interesting, and probably right

The Dominion: The Conceited Empire

Although I think he gives Europe too much credit. When I put on my oraclular hat, I see China as a particularly interesting future economic power. I see Russia as the India (cheap, well educated labor). I see Europe much as it is today - still struggling through 2,000 years of backbiting and spending the month of August on holiday.

A Pocket Full Of Great Books

On occasion I run across a selection of these wonderful little blue books, published by Konemann. They are a marvel and a bargain, to book. They're perfectly sized for slipping in a coat pocket. Very well made. They are classic books and I've enjoyed picking them up as I find them. All are hardback, with slip cover. About five by four inches and rarely more than a half inch thick. I usually find them in discount book stores, although new. My greatest success has been Half Price Books, but I've also found them in book stores in NYC and San Francisco (the legendary City Lights, I believe). My latest find was in the independent and highly recommend Columbus (German Village, really) The Book Loft.

This Saturday, I came their version of "War and Peace" and what a wonderful way to read it. A little boxed set, broken into four volumes. I've also found copies of Poe, Dickens, Jane Austen (one can't just say "Austen", can one?) as well as titles like Frankenstein, Dracula, Dr. J & Mr. H, 20,000 Leagues, etc.

I recommend them to your attention: Konemann's War and Peace

A Word To The Wise

I'm a lazy and stubborn man, much given to my own comfort and entertainment. But if one tries often enough, I can be made to understand where I've gone off course.

Case in point, my particular friend, Penny, has been gently arguing that my choice of title for "The Wanted Way Of Things" is off course. She is my first reader (and sometimes only!) in much that I produce and I value her input, for good reason. But in this case I've resisted her with "That's what I want it to mean!".

Now that you show the contextual source of the title, I see that the quote you remember contains the phrase "the wonted way of things."

I urge you strongly to change the actual title of the story to The Wonted Way of Things.  Or, if what you want is to leave your title as is, because you are playing against the other (Jack London) meaning, then I urge you to include the quote as a headnote to your story.  [I should say that I don't get this sense of 'playing against' from your story, but that's your call.]  

The differences in denotation between wanted and wonted are very large, enough that it will make a huge difference -- it's not just a spelling variation.  (like flog and flag).

Of course, she's right. I've added the quote to the story, but I'm holding out on the title. My point in the story, which perhaps I have not achieved, is to build a strange fear that things might actually want something. Or more to the point, that things have an accustomed way - that of entropy - and by giving them a voice it may turn to actual want. But in not providing the quote, I don't allow that dissonance to fully emerge.

In my defence, I don't think that most people are familiar with "wont". The story must work on its own, regardless of the title. But a good title is more than just a hand way to remember which story we're talking about. A title can provide a frame, a context all its own. I hope that with the added quote and context I'll get a little closer to a successful and satisfying tale.

I've learned to listen to the wise old owl. You'd be wise to listen as well.

A Quote, Out of Context

By the way, the title of the short story I published below, "The Wanted Way Of Things" is a phrase that struck my ear a couple of years back when listening to an audio book version of "The Call Of The Wild" by Jack London. Here's the complete quote, in context:

"They had made short work of the snow-shoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been the wonted way of things."

Another one caught me the other day and would make a great title in a number of ways. It was a phrase from the Richard Powers book, "Plowing The Dark". The phrase was "The black of elaborate plans". I like the simpler, "Elaborate Plans", but the whole phrase has a nice turn to it, don't you think?

I have an old novel-in-progress with the working title of "Harrowed In Deep" that might work better with the title "Elaborate Plans". I'd have to chuck most of it - dated and now the best part of 15 years old and therefore painful to revisit as a writer. But there's probably some salvageable stuff in there. It was initially meant as an tribute to John D. McDonnald.

Farewell, Mr Jefferies

I just saw this obit, on the BBC of all places. Matt Jefferies as passed away.

On the wall above my desk at home I have a simple and elegant drawing. It's a piece of set design from Mr. Jefferies' note books. I much admire his work. A man who few knew his name, but virtually everyone on the planet who's been anywhere near a TV in the last 35 years has seen and been influenced by it.

And so, a little story.

I'm a fan of Star Trek, but a bit different than most you've met or imagined. I was the right age for it, born in 1960, but my parents weren't interested. I remember seeing only part of one episode during its original three year run ("The Tholian Web"). From where we lived, on the prairies of Southern Illinois, we didn't get it in syndication, even later. Soon, at age eleven, I was starting to read science fiction and discovered at a local book store a thin volume labeled "Star Trek 9". The ninth in a series of novelizations of the series by James Blish. I was hooked, instantly, and began saving my dimes and buying books as I could find them. Before long I new all of the stories by heart, never having see a complete one. I had a poster, a montage on my bedroom wall. My imagination filled in all the details with the rough out line of the pictures and the well-told stories.

I quickly moved on to read widely in science fiction and well beyond as well. But those early days of stories and imagined flights to the stars made me a fan forever. It aggravates me to read the fanboy sites and arguments about dogma and orthodoxy. I've never been to a convention, I won't argue with you the fine points of plots, characters, and technology. But my youngest daughter and I make sure to see every new episode of Enterprise, together.

In my dreams I sit on the bridge of the starship Enterprise truly go where no one has gone before.

Thank you, Matt Jefferies.

Blogging In the Not So Daily Mode

Been travel'n. All work related. Makes Randy a dull boy.

And of course, now that I'm back, I get to dig out from the email which I couldn't retrieve and respond to, the work that's piled up, and the phone messages (which I mostly ignore, but still . . .).

Can't wait for wireless everywhere. Oh, and don't like hauling around a laptop, either.

For this trip I needed a Windows laptop to demonstrate software, so I got a temporary one - a new Sony VAIO. It was small, light, with integrated wireless. I hated it, even disregarding the typically aggravating Windows nonsense.

Here's the one tell-tale. The power cord "wrap" was a foot long piece of velcro. Thank you very much. Most of the time, it's caught in its own snarl. I compare to the thoughtful Apple engineering. They'd never put up with that (Steve Jobs would put someone's head on a pike for even suggesting it). And this was Sony. I expected more from them. But the machine was in a plain box, no setup instructions, and in less than 1 week's gentle use the CD/DVD door fell off and the whole thing was already beginning to looked scuffed and shabby. I returned it gladly to Circuit City with their "No Questions Asked" policy. Of course, they asked me 2 questions, but I let them off without calling them on the issue. They wanted to know if anything was wrong with it and I was charitable in telling them "no, it worked, but didn't meet my needs".

Not Quite The Thing

Hmm, this old thing again: You are your music collection.

Hmm - I don't buy it.

However, I do form opinions about people by their books. It's more than judging a book owner by their covers. And I clearly know that their is a significant difference between what someone has read and the books they choose to keep. And beyond that, it's only a clue to their personality and intellect, not a precise map. But when I visit someone's house, one of the first things I look for is their reading material. Too often I find nothing. Zip, nada, zero. Maybe a magazine. An old copy of People. Yikes.

What can you tell about me by the books you see in my house? Well, it depends in what room you're in.

If you enter the house from the front door, you'll find the music room on your right. A baby grand piano and string base. No recorded music evident. You'll have to look through the music cabinet there, but you'll only find what we're playing recently. My drawer is filled with Scott Joplin, the Grieg lyric pieces, a few pop collections (James Taylor, Billy Joel, and one of my favorites, some nifty arrangements by Jimmy Web of his hits). Maybe some Broadway scores, like Guys and Dolls, some Irving Berlin and a collection of Oscar Hammerstein. Other drawers contain the girls current lesson. Jennifer's neatly organized in her music case, Kathleen's jumbled in the drawer, probably not closed, and strewn across the piano. The rest of the music is in the living room cabinets.

Oh, back to the books.

You'll enter the family room and find a wall of books. It's overflowing and I'm beginning to wonder where I'll put the next 40 years or so of them. Starting in the far corner you'll find shelves loaded with religion, philosophy, classics and mythology, science, and humor. The next section is largely history - a shelf or so of American and another or so of world. Lower down you'll find mystery with a large section filled with James Lee Burke and another with a significant collection of early 20th century American mystery. The lower shelf in the section is filled with Ghost stories and horror. Another full section is filled with plays and books on theater, with a few on movies. These shelves are all for the most part hardback with a few trade paperbacks (the plays are mostly actual play books and scripts).

By my leather reading chair is a book stand with a few in current reading.

But if you go upstairs to my office/den, you'll find a very different me. Another leather chair, but this one less formal than the overstuffed monster down stairs. This one is a Ekornes "Stressless" with footstool. You'll find another entire wall, also bursting with books. Here you'll find paperbacks as well as hard backs. Lots of science fiction, categorized loosely. One shelf is dedicated to naval fiction, mostly Patrick O'Brian. A middle section is reference and science texts, computer software.

I think that a knowledgeable reader spending a few minutes browsing my shelves might be able to judge the following: The collector is likely male, a voracious and wide reader. Given to self entertainment, probably highly imaginative. Fairly well educated, but mostly self-educated in literature. Curious, restless, politically hard to pin down, but with the lack of any identifiable political books, it's likely that the reader is not a conservative. In fact, taken in whole, it's likely that the reader does not identify with a party or political bent. The stack of Barbara Tuckman books suggests, combined with the books on science and skepticism bear this out.

The additional information of the titles and condition of the books would add to this profile, but I'll leave that to you if you visit me.

What do the books you keep say about you?

Oh, from their list in the article, I have only the Beethovan. I have a wide classical collection, lots of Jazz, a little pop, but very little recent. My iPod is loaded with a pretty interesting mix, but not if you only listen to top 40 radio.

Chilling Headline - Well, At Least For Me

Just saw this headline on cnn.com Last Ship Of Mars Armada Starts Trip.

What, there's an armada? Why wasn't I notified? How could you have left without me? Is something terrible about to happen here?

As if I didn't have enough nightmares about atomic bombs and tornados, now I'll dream about being left behind (please keep your damn rapture warnings to yourself).

The Onion Strikes Again

Ah, satire.

Bush Asks Congress For $30 Billion To Help Fight War On Criticism

At least I wish it was satire. I think it's too on the mark, so we'll just call it reportage.

Back at it

Digging out from the backlog almost makes one consider never vacationing at all.

Nah.

As to the beach books. The James Lee Burke, while his typical excellent writing, is the same novel, yet again, but set in the Civil War. Fine for a beach read.

Oh, but the book by Mr. Branton, a disappointment. I hereby give up on critically acclaimed modern comic novelists. I toss this in the same heap as the equally bad "The Corrections" and "The Teatherballs of Bougainvillea". Note, I don't link these works. I'm not going to make it easy for anyone to read these. Do so at your own risk.

I've started, but not finished George Dyson's book. What fun! First and second hand history by someone that understands what's going on. Just imagine what life would be like today if we'd let the physicist build and run the space program instead of the bureaucrats and test pilots.

And Jennifer and I are reading the latest Harry Potter out loud. We're only getting through a chapter or so a day. We're enjoying it, so if you've read it already, keep your mouth shut!

Away

I'll be "off post" for a bit - heading off for our yearly beach vacation. I've got the stack of books ready. They include:

House of Wacks (although mine didn't come with the nifty Betty Page cover.
White Doves At Morning James Lee Burke (my beach buddy for over a dozen years)
Project Orion George Dyson - totally blown away by his Darwin Among the Machines

Of course, I couldn't resist, so the new Harry Potter will be waiting for us at the Lighthouse View when we get there on Saturday. I hope to get some family reading time in before the press spoils the whole thing.

La Vida TV

BoingBoing has been covering a recent spate of cellphone legislation around the world. Most of it's directed at the camera enabled. I do not currently own one of these, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. Personally, why would I want a crappy digital camera? Well, because you'd always have it with you. A crappy photo of something happening is far better than no photo at all. Eventually this technology will be woven into our clothes - virtually impossible to limit cameras, voice and video from anywhere. Can't ban it, so better start figuring out how to live with it.

And the phone cameras won't be crappy forever. I'm increasingly aware that the cellphone is becoming the platform of the future. In fact, I can easily imagine a future where the personal computer disappears and we simply lease space and processing from (I'm not sure who - hopefully not the phone companies). At home or at work we'd have a monitor of some sorts, but our cellphones would give us exactly the same amount of access. I love my iPod, I use my Palm but love it less daily, but I NEVER leave the house without my phone. What I really want is one indestructible and cheap device (virtually disposable), that give me access to unlimited computing power, every piece of music, film or TV show, every book ever written, that fits in my pocket or on my belt.

Do I want it to fit in my ear? Probably not. but I'd love for it to talk to my sunglasses. Worried about invasion of privacy? You should be. But banning the technology is a poor way of attacking the problem. So, how do you fight it? Etiquette!

I'm serious - more to come.

Field of Vision

Last night I went to see The Matrix Reloaded, shown on the local IMAX. My friend, Penny joined me.

Wow.

This is an amazing way to see a feature film, but perhaps too intense for regular viewing. The picture, huge, bright, crystal clear, was actually too big. One couldn't see it all. And the shear size of the image and its quality did no favors for the actors skin - showing every flaw in striking detail.

Now perhaps that's one of the visual effects the directors were after, and I have no complaints on that side. I found the movie, the 2nd of 3 parts, to be visually stunning, entertaining, and engrossing. I await the next and final chapter (as opposed to the next Star Wars movie, which I rather dread).

But back to the IMAX. I'm becoming something of a cinema connoisseur, not movies, mind you, where I'm certainly an enthusiastic amateur, but for the movie house itself. Having studied and built my own cinema, I've had to examine and consider the environment for viewing movies for over a year now. I'm by no means an expert, but I an keenly aware of the items that make for an ideal, and less than ideal movie experience. I can't explain acoustics, but I've worked with those who do, as well as lighting, projection, image quality, even seating and refreshments. By way of proof, a friend and frequent movie goer (at least once a week if not more) when visiting my cinema recently reported that watching a movie (actually The Matrix), was "the best movie or theater experience I've had in over 20 years", only to be matched by a now closed 20s era movie palace.

But back to my point. The IMAX may produce physically undesirable effects - it's just too big, too loud, too intense and too immersive. I was tired and had a bit of a headache coming out of the movie.

In addition, I'd written recently about enjoying watching the credits. On this screen, once again, they're too big and difficult to focus on. They may have been easier to see, read, and understand on a smaller or normal sized movie screen. It will be interesting to see this film in my cinema when it becomes available on DVD.

All that aside - a very interesting way to see a movie and I'm open to seeing another on the IMAX screen to try it again.

Discuss

Out of Sorts

Ah, I am such a creature of habit. After doing the radio interview last night it was 11 - the time I typically go to bed. Normally, I've had an hour or so to unwind, watch TV, be ready to drop of, which I usually do within minutes of closing my eyes.

But to be spun up into full marketing mode, the adrenaline flowing, heart pumping, isn't an on/off situation. So a had a snack (not really needed, now was it?) and read until after 12. This morning I can't get my head clear.

And to add to matters, I'm wearing this damn bandage on my head. Sunday night I bent over to look at something on the tread mill and when I straightened up I caught the edge of the control panel and ripped a piece of scalp clean off. Lost about 3 or 4 square inches of skin. For someone with a full head of hair it would have been a glancing blow.

If it had been on a leg or arm it would have been an unpleasant abrasion. But on one's naked scalp, a surprisingly sensitive area, it's an open, oozing wound. It it were a bit lower on my forehead I'd look like Gorbachev.

CptnRandy On The Air

Tonight, I'll be doing my day job (yes, you heard me) and be on the "Computer America" radio show with Craig Crossman.

If you would like listen, here's their web site for streaming audio or you can go through their web site. 10:30 Eastern time. I believe there will be an archive with streaming audio as well.

Search the Blog

This is pretty cool - Technorati Keword Search.

What is it? It's a search engine for blogs and it's stunningly up-to-date!

Simon Dumenco is a Fraud

Hrumph. Doc Searls lead me to this link - an article titled "American Idle". In it the writer, Simon Dumenco slashes away at technology, specifically TiVo and blogs. He claims that these technologies are making him lazy, impassive, and yes, a fraud in claiming he's seen or read something he has not.

Ah, but the fault, dear Simon, is not in our blogs, but in ourselves. Or more specifically, in yourself.

I find TiVo useful, VERY useful. But I wouldn't bother to claim to have watched something that I have no interest in and I certainly wouldn't record it so I could claim with a clear conscience that I'd watch it sometime in the future. That's your problem, Simon, not mine.

And I use other peoples' blogs to help me find interesting and useful stuff and see their opinion of what they've found. Only a fraud wouldn't read the source. I read your article, Simon, but I never would have found it without Doc blogging it. I know who Doc Searls is. Who the hell are you?

Such stuff you say.

Link-o-rama

Oh, here's an nifty feature - iTunes integration! So, for example, if I happen to be listening to the Riders In The Sky singing Wah-Hoo from the album "A Great Big Western Howdy..." by Riders In The Sky I can link it all up with ease!

And here's my little link test, as well: .
Riders Online

Yet Another Blog Tool

Trying another blog posting tool - this one's called "Kung-Log". Looks pretty good - still not as easy as emailing. Then again, the *&$#!!! email submission through BloggerPro is unreliable, at best. And I still can't get my XML straightened out.

Of Cats and Dictionaries

My friend Penny has put together a list of Cat-lover's dictionary of terms and behaviors.

I've contributed one - anyone else have something to add? Use your well honed email skills and receive the credit you so richly deserve! (No, don't send them to me. What am I going to do with cat terms? On the other hand, if you do send them to me, I'll take credit for the good ones.)

Don't Know Why

Kathleen introduced me to Norah Jones last year. I'd probably heard her by then, but not really brought her into foreground processing. She is, admittedly, much more interesting to listen to than virtually all of the other pop played on the radio (I do like Five for Fighting).

I saw her mentioned in the news today and it reminded me of a question. What is the meaning of her song, "Don't Know Why"? I went to the web, but after reading what I could find, it was obvious that they don't get it. It's not about something - it's a story, or more to the point, a lament.

The content: an alcoholic, presently inebriated and unable to rise to full emotion, wistfully reminisces about a love that could have been, but will never be.

It's a torch song, folks, but ultimately depressing!

Another bad idea

Another bad idea.

I'm a bald man and content with my lot. If they had a cheap and effective baldness treatment ("here, swallow this pill and make an appointment with the hair stylist"), I'd take it, but I'm fine with things the way they are. In fact, I shave the wispy strands on the top of my head. I often consider stopping men with comb-overs and other poor hair-o-flage and telling them that the jig is up.

Anyhoo - just like bringing back the Mamoths, can chick with teeth be a good thing? Buckeye egg, just North of here has 14 MILLION chickens. Besides the poor management and environmental mess they cause, imagine what they'd be like if they could bite back!

SETI @ Home

I can see that the PC behind me has just picked up the 1219th work unit
in my little search for intelligent life in the universe. It's one of
4 machines I've got using their spare processing power to work on this
little task. I had one other online, but it's off on someone else's
desk now, no longer part of the search.

I started several years ago, then dropped off after nearly 1000 units,
using just one machine. When they popped back up in the news lately I
decided to load it up again, with some real horsepower. My desktop at
work is a Dual 1 ghz G4 PowerMac. It rips through work units at nearly
2 a day. The old PC behind me takes 4 days to get through 1. It's too
bad the software can't use both processors - I'd love to see how fast
that'd go.

Why do this? I'm not sure we'll ever find anything this way, but it's
worth the spare processing. Plus, it's a neat screen saver. Other
than that, it's a fascinating start at using the computers connected to
the net as more than just advanced TVs. There's power out there, and
possibility.

What possibilities? Ah, talk to Mr. Dyson (not that one, his son, Esther's brother).

Links:
SETI @ Home
SETI
Darwin Among The Machines - By George Dyson

Unexpected Home Theater Benefit

While I must admit I've been just this side of giddy since we finished Cinema Murray, my wife and I have discovered a unique benefit to watching movies there (get your mind out of the gutter!): Credits!

Movie credits are designed for a big screen and next to impossible to read on a TV screen, even a big RPTV. On the 110" they're perfectly readable.

When we go out to movies we like to stay and watch credits - we're interested in who contributed, locations, music, etc., but at home and watching on TV there isn't much point. And forget about trying to watch credits for a broadcast TV movie (actually, I don't watch broadcast TV movies anymore and when I do watch TV, it's through TiVO - no commercials!)

Take for example, last night. It was a double feature: Romancing The Stone with the girls, then Night Shift when they went to bed (Barney Rubble, what and actor!).

Watching the credits, we discovered that Kevin Costner and Shannon Doherty are both in the movie (Night Shift Credits)! We popped back through the scenes to confirm that yes, both were on screen for a few seconds. You'll also find Vincent Schiavelli in his traditional weird, scarry guy roll, but you can never miss this guy He's also in the opening moments of Amadeus.

In addition, the watching the credits provides a nice "falling away" period from the movie. A transition from being absorbed in the story, a moment or two to think about what you've seen, but not entirely withdrawn, held still by the music, dimmed lights, comfortable chair.

A Scary Idea

This is a scary idea: Elephants to protect forests.

I can't say I disapprove, but training wild animals that are also fairly intelligent surely has the potential for a B grade horror movie.

Oh wait, here it is: thank you, Mr. Crichton.

Which leads to another rather bizarre idea I've had for some time. On occasion I hear about someone that's interested in attempting to bring back the mastodon. From what I've seen, we're confident they "disappeared" about 10,000 years ago in pretty sort order. It's also clear that we had something to do with it.

OK, other than the possibility that they were tasty, what if they were very intelligent and nasty. See, there's your next horror movie. A well meaning team of scientists bring back a huge heard, thinking them gentle giants, only to discover they have a deep, genetic hatred of man.

Oh, sorry, Crichton beat me to that one, too.

And while I'm harping about Crichton, please, someone, force an editor on this man. I have a feeling that there's a real writer in there, if only someone could tell him, "let's drop the first half of this thing and don't despair over the red ink, dear. It's for your own good."

Links-of-Interest

I check in here a couple of times a day: Boing Boing: A Directory of Wonderful Things

They do find the most interesting things. I have noticed, however, if I read Fark and Metafilter I'll trip across the same stories again and again.

I used to read Plastic and post there as well, new stories are slow to appear and I lost interest over time. I do not post on Fark and tried to register for Metafilter, but it's registration is closed.

I am, however, a Senior Member on the AVSforum.

The Rich Have No Imagination

OK, this is what I want for Father's Day.

Don't you just hate that the super rich have no imagination? Sure, if I were rich as Bill Gates, I'd do all of the charitable good works, build a castle of a house, but then I'd take a few BILLION and have some real fun. Do you know that you could have a space shuttle built for only $4.5 B? And the launch is less than $200 million each time.

I'm actually kicking around a novel idea based on this. It would be in the format of a biography of just such a super rich man - someone with a real imagination. There's a subject that Alfred Bester could do justice too.

Remote Madness

I've been trying to program my very expensive super remote to easily operate all of the components of my home theater with one-button ease. I've always thought I was a pretty smart guy, at least with consumer electronics, but this thing is driving me nuts. I'm trying to figure out how to get a Home Theater Master MX-700 remote to switch the video source of my Hitachi 5500 SX projector.

I've "learned" the projector remote into the MX-700, but that only allows me to manually change the video source. What I want is to hit a macro button, for example, "Watch TV". I need the Denon AVR-4802 to switch to TV, the projector to switch to Video, and the lights to dim to setting 4. Oh, and the curtains to open to 4:3 mode. Right now I have to do each manually, or at least mostly.

Oh, and my IR repeater doesn't seem to work reliably. It did for a while, but now it's not. Sometimes. And I didn't change anything.

I'd like to do this myself, but it's getting to the point where I'd pay someone to just make it work. If there were anyone around here that could get me to 100%. It would be even more frustrating to pay someone and still only get to 95%.

Email blogging Weirdness

OK, don't use the blog by email feature of blogger - it's ain't ready for prime time. Submit, nothing happens - wait 48 hours, then post appears multiple times (something like a dozen).

Too bad - I like blogging from email - plus I get an offline record. Please fix it Mr. Blogger!

Obsession

I went a little around the bend yesterday. I don't often find myself in Walmart, don't really care for the place, but for some reason, there I was. Of course, I had to look at their DVD prices. I found a bargain bin, some were under $6, some under $8, and some other new releases for around $15.

Here's what I got:

• Ghostbusters
• The Green Mile
• Under Siege (I know, it's a Steven Seagal movie, but it is a pretty good one)
• The Poseidon Adventure
• The Truth About Cats & Dogs
• Godzilla (the new, US made one - another guilty pleasure "Man in suit! Man in Suit!)
• Jumanji
• 25th Hour (the best film I've seen this year)
• Dances with Wolves - Special Edition (nearly 4 hours long!).

I had also picked out Falling Down, but Diane put her foot down. I'll have to pick it up later. Oh, and earlier this week I also bought Adaptation, and Star Trek: Nemesis. And I've got a stack from the past few weeks sitting on my desk waiting to be cataloged.

God, I hope this format holds out for a LONG while.