My Kingdom For A Floppy!

My, how times change!

My daughter has a project at school. She'd like to work on the project there and also at home.

"Fine," I say. "Email it to yourself."

"I can't email from the lab computers. I can put it on a floppy."

But we use Macs at home and Macs haven't had disc or floppy drives for YEARS. So today I went out, grumbling, and bought a "flash" drive, which is nothing more than a hunk o'memory on a USB dongle. 512 meg. Cost me $42, but I'll get $10 back after rebate. So now Jennifer can transport files between home and school.

And yes, I'm still grumbling. I carry 60 freak'n GIGABYTES in my pocket with over 10,000 songs, 6,000 digital pictures, all of my personal files, and still have over 3 gig left.

What do I want? I want a 100 terabyte drive in my watch with everywhere high speed access to the net. No more grumbling then, no sir. Oh, and my Virtual Light sunglasses, please?

"Virtual Light" (William Gibson)

computers, William Gibson

Do I hear $2,000?

My blog is worth $1,129.08.
How much is your blog worth?

Not Captain Tripps, Just a Cold

Diane fought the sniffles and a sore throat for nearly two weeks. Now it's mine. My head is foggy and I can't breath.

In my present state, I can't remember if I published this old short story, but sensing a theme, here it is: Common Cold.

"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!"

Another great idea

But what will we have floating over our heads when we come up with the next one?

Quantum dots that produce white light could be the light bulb's successor | Science Blog: "Take an LED that produces intense, blue light. Coat it with a thin layer of special microscopic beads called quantum dots. And you have what could become the successor to the venerable light bulb."

LEDs and their cousins, OLEDs, have enormous potential in changing the way we light up the world as well as use energy. And I certainly look forward to at least one Saturday when I'm not replacing a light bulb somewhere in the house.

But could someone tell me where I could get an LED conversion kit for my trusty 3 D cell Maglite flashlight? I love the thing. Sure, I could get a small, light, palm-sized LED flashlight that produced more light, but the thing is more a weapon than a light source and it's damn comforting when padding around the house at night trying to figure out what made that strange noise.

science

Yet Another Star Trek Invention Comes To Pass

Even the silliest sounding stuff they make up in Star Trek ends up being invented.

Air Force testing new transparent armor | Science Blog: "ALONtm is a ceramic compound with a high compressive strength and durability. When polished, it is the premier transparent armor for use in armored vehicles, said. 1st Lt. Joseph La Monica, transparent armor sub-direction lead
'The substance itself is light years ahead of glass,' he said, adding that it offers 'higher performance and lighter weight.'"

Transparent Aluminum. Christ Almighty.

Armor, sure, yes, useful for that. But imagine what else you could build out of super strong, light, transparent material you can mold.

Scratch proof iPods, of course.

science, star trek, ipod

Bush Administration Self Destructs in 5, 4, 3 . . .

Simply amazing.

I look at the headlines and shake my head in wonder. The Plame Affair, so long swept under the rug, might actually bring down Rove, and perhaps the Dark Lord himself, the Vice President. Bush's approval ratings are dismal. The war in Iraq has gone so, so bad (though not as bad as I feared. Yet.) And the news for them just keeps getting worse.

And what really makes me scratch my head is that they've done it to themselves. The opposition, the generally clueless Democrats, haven't figured out how to oppose. The press has been, until lately, in full lapdog mode.

So, let's ask, "what if" a bit. What if Cheney was forced to resign, Rove and Libby were indicted and resign as well. Bush is cut of from his most trusted advisors. What then?

Hell, we've been there before. How long until some more "you'll have to trust me on this" evidence comes out that Iran is plotting something nefarious against us and we'll just have to invade.

God help us if things go really badly for Bush and they start a shouting match with China.

OK, enough of that.

Here's what it gets down to. Someone in the Bush administration outed an active duty undercover CIA agent for political gain. Frankly, I'd call it treason and haul Karl Rove and Scooter Libby and the VP himself out back of the White House and shoot them. The President deserves impeachment for allowing it to go unanswered for two years. If he wasn't involved he could have called the VP in on day one, demanded to know the truth, and fired all of them on the spot. But he didn't. If he knew, that's conspiracy. If he didn't know, that's incompetence.

And shame on the special prosecutor and the press for not bringing this to a close well before the last election.

politics

Looks Like Karl Has Won A Major Award

Karl Rove's Garage Proves to Be Typical: "* A rather large wood crate marked 'FRAGILE' and painted with arrows indicating which way is up. On top of the crate, two coolers."

And it's pronounced "Frag-eee-lay".

What are we?

This book sounds fascinating: On the Sea of Memory : A Journey from Forgetting to Remembering.

Perhaps for me for different reasons than one would ordinarily think. This interview with the author, Jonathan Cott, touches on it.

Salon.com Books | He lost his mind: "Do you ever stop believing that one day your memories will come back to you?

No, I don't think they will.

So you're resigned to that.

Yes, I am. Although in the book I do quote several spiritual teachers who say we are our memories, and therefore whether we remember them or not they're still with us. And so I'm hoping that in some slightly mystical way they are still with me, in my body somewhere. It's like when I wake up from a dream and I remember for a split second the content of the dream, the images in the dream, and then a second later I don't remember anything. But for that split second I remember them, and I think that maybe in some way those images have filtered down and integrated into my consciousness. Or my subconsciousness, let's put it that way. And they are there to draw on. But I don't know. That's just a mystical belief."

You see, I'm not so sure that we are our memories. I will accept that our memories are a huge part of us, but not all of us. I think what we are is much more complex than that (and this goes back to my argument with Ray Kurzweil, too). And for those that believe in an afterlife, exactly which you is going to live forever? The you of this moment? The you at age 13, full of hope and innocence? The you at 96, locked and lost in a fog of memories and confusion?

When I wrestle with this, I ultimately fall back on Steven Pinker's assertion: The mind is something the brain does. Without my memories, I am not me. And a slightly different chemical mix makes me other than me as well. Me is not a fixed asset. Yes, that's scary. And I fear that Mr. Cott is right and his memories are truly gone - wiped clear of his brain and totally unrecoverable.

So, what are we? We are a marvel. And the possibilities are endless. What we might be today, tomorrow, and into the future is filled with hope and adventure. And when the adventure is over, there's the memory of us, not stored in us, but in our friends and family and our works. That's where memory is most valuable.

mind, memory, science, religion, kurzweil

Don't Screw With The Librarian

Something I learned long ago. Librarian's are useful and make them your friends. They make painful enemies.

No… F--- you. Librarian gets revenge on "junk" faxer.

Frankly, I don't believe most people think, either.

Here's an excellent article on dog behavior at Slate.com. I was struck by this passage:

Do Dogs Think? - Owners assume their pet's brain works like their own. That's a big mistake. By Jon Katz: "This time, Heather got my full attention. I took notes, asked questions, then called a canine behaviorist at Cornell and explained the problem in as much detail as I could.'Everybody says the dog was reacting to her going back to work,' I suggested. 'Everybody is probably wrong,' was his blunt comeback. 'It's 'theory of mind.' This is what often happens when humans assume that dogs think the way we do.'"

I've lived my life around dogs and other animals. And I've found that the more I treat a dog like a dog and not like a child, the better it responds. Animals have emotions. They get angry, scared, get bored, and experience pleasure and pain. But like this article says, they don't think about things in the same way that humans do.

I grew up on a farm and always remember being around animals of all types and one of my earliest memories is going with my Grandpa Murray to pick out a long hair German Shepherd pup, Duke. Duke was a huge, dignified dog who was hit by a school bus when he was nearly a year old and walked with a limp for the rest of his life. One of his pups, sired with a neighboring collie, became my first dog, Nicky.

Nicky had Duke's size, but not his long hair. I remember getting him when I was six, the same year my brother was born. He and I were constant companions. He accompanied me on my daily cores. He stood by me and blocked the icy wind howling across the prairie as I pumped water for the cows. He played with us kids and never complained with any ill treatment, but he terrified adult strangers that came to the house and stared at them through their car doors, eye-to-eye. And I once saw him pick up a concrete cinder block that someone had left in the barn yard, carry it off under a tree, and chew it into pieces.

I thought of Nicky as my best friend. But I always thought of him as a dog. I don't know. Perhaps it was because I was raised on a farm and worked with lots of animals. But I'm also a big believer that humans and dogs have co-evolved, so we need each other. Dogs, above all other animals, have adapted themselves to living with us and providing us companionship. In a way, they're a very successful species because of that.

I strongly recommend Desmond Morris's book, Dogwatching. It was very helpful for me an my relationship with dogs.

Hey, I wanted one of these when I was a kid!

Well, not this thing, but close. Wired News: Machine Makes Dishes on Demand

When I read this paragraph, I knew exactly what they were doing.

"MIT Media Lab's Counter Intelligence Group, which develops innovative kitchen designs, has created a machine that makes dishes on demand and recycles them after diners have finished a meal. The dishes are made from food-grade, nontoxic acrylic wafers, which are shaped into cups, bowls and plates when heated, then resume their original wafer shape when they are reheated and pressed."

My friend, Bill Bailey (yes, just like the song) had one and it was so cool. It was the Mattel Thingmaker Strange Change Lost World Set! You had these little plastic cubes, but when you put them in the special chamber, they turned into dinosaurs! Then you could compress them back into little squares.

Oh, and I remember burning my fingers on the hot plate that caused them to change. That's probably why they took them off the market. But from my perspective as a 7 year old boy, the danger was part of the attraction.

I also will note that as a sign of my growing self control, I did not automatically buy one of these off of eBay the second I remembered this bit of childhood.

A Fresh Coat Of Paint

I spent all of yesterday, a few hours Sunday evening, and most of a previous Saturday a week back painting the "Bonus" room.

This T-shaped room has been the "play room" since we moved into the house nearly 12 years ago, a place for the kids to store their toys and play, watch TV, and study, often all at the same time. But now the toys are put away and sold off at garage sales. The room was long overdue for a touch up.

Now, almost finished, we have a comfortable alcove with a lounge chair and bookshelves, painted in an eggplant purple. Diane has two desks there as well, one for sewing and another for paying bills and sorting papers. And the main room is a duck's egg green, a mellow and comfortable color.

I've take the opportunity to upgrade the TV to a flat screen, high definition unit and included a Mac mini for web surfing, slide viewing, but mostly access to our music library. Soon we'll install decent speakers to fill the room with music.

I wondered during the transformation if I would find this a melancholy task. But no, it's a time of comfortable maturity, both for ourselves and our children.

Diane and I moved the furniture and painted the walls, but I'm hiring a pro to paint and apply a faux finish to the theater lobby downstairs. Few will see our little sanctuary up over the garage.

And following up on our previous story . . .

FedEx plane crashes in downtown Winnipeg"Oct 6, 2005 — WINNIPEG, Manitoba (Reuters) - A small aircraft carrying cargo for FedEx Corp. — including six vials of research viruses — crashed in downtown Winnipeg on Thursday, killing its pilot, the only person on board, but sparing injury on the ground."

If I were writing a horror movie script about a deadly virus that wipes out most of life on earth, this is how I'd start it.

Say Hello To Captain Trips!

Now here's a "gee wiz" article that is also an "nothing good can come of this" article.

CNN.com - Researchers reconstruct 1918 virus - Oct 5, 2005: "The public health risk of resurrecting the virus is minimal, U.S. health officials said. People around the world developed immunity to the deadly 1918 virus after the pandemic, and a certain degree of immunity is believed to persist today. Also, in previous research, scientists concluded that modern antiviral medicines are effective against Spanish flu-like viruses."

At first, I'm extremely impressed that they've been able to "recreate" the virus. That's a hell of an impressive feat. But I'm also concerned about their lack of concern. " . . .a certain degree of immunity is believed to persist today." I'm glad they hope so. Any one of them want to test that theory?

Flu and disease control needs too be a top priority with the science and health communities. And add to that Bush's interest in controlling a flu outbreak, you could say I'm rather worried.

Oh, for those of you reading this, but not strong enough in the google fu, seek out Mother Abigail.

NASCAR's For Pussies - This Is Racing!

CNN.com - 'Star Wars' NASCAR? Get ready for rocket racing - Oct 4, 2005

As far as I can tell, NASCAR is to racing as WWE is to wrestling. Staged, one big soap opera, and one step away from bread and circuses (there are those Romans again).

But rocket racing! Now that's cool. Real men race rockets.

Uh, er, real women, too. I have a feeling that women could be really good rocketeers. And thinking about that link, jet pack racing would be even cooler!

I hope she wins

I don't know if you follow the lawsuits that the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) has been pushing against people, but I'm tickled pink someone is fighting back.
Disabled woman sues RIAA

I don't know what her being disabled has to do with the story, but it's good to see someone go on the attack.

Frankly, the recording industry is completely in the wrong. They can't sue illegal downloads out of existence. They're making lots of enemies.

I'd dance with glee if they were convicted under the organized crime laws!

Loyalty, Cronies, and Favors, or Everything I Know About Politics I Learned From The Godfather

I must admit, the Bush administration is becoming absolutely fascinating, in a train-wreck sort of way.

You know the scene I'm talking about. It's at the wedding. The Godfather is accepting supplicants.

Corleone: Why did you go to the police? Why didn't you come to me first?
Bonasera: What do you want of me? Tell me anything, but do what I beg you to do.
Corleone: What is that? (Bonasera whispers his request in the Don's ear.) That I cannot do.
Bonasera: I will give you anything you ask.
Corleone: We've known each other many years, but this is the first time you ever came to me for counsel or for help. I can't remember the last time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee, even though my wife is godmother to your only child. But let's be frank here. You never wanted my friendship. And uh, you were afraid to be in my debt.
Bonasera: I didn't want to get into trouble.
Corleone: I understand. You found paradise in America, you had a good trade, you made a good living. The police protected you and there were courts of law. And you didn't need a friend like me. But uh, now you come to me and you say - 'Don Corleone, give me justice.' But you don't ask with respect. You don't offer friendship. You don't even think to call me Godfather. Instead, you come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, and you, uh, ask me to do murder for money.
Bonasera: I ask you for justice.
Corleone: That is not justice. Your daughter is still alive.
Bonasera: Let them suffer then, as she suffers. How much shall I pay you?
Corleone (after standing and turning his back): Bonasera, Bonasera. What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? If you'd come to me in friendship, then this scum that ruined your daughter would be suffering this very day. And if by chance an honest man like yourself should make enemies, then they would become my enemies. And then they would fear you.
Bonasera: Be my friend - - Godfather. (The Don shrugs. Bonasera bows toward the Don and kisses the Don's hand.)
Corleone: Good. (The Don puts his hand on Bonasera's shoulder.) Someday, and that day may never come, I'll call upon you to do a service for me. But uh, until that day - accept this justice as a gift on my daughter's wedding day.
Bonasera: Grazie, Godfather.
Corleone: Prego.

Go, watch the movie. That's all you need to understand the Bush administration and the president himself.

Ouch

Somehow, and I can't for the life of me figure out how, I've apparently cracked a rib.

Ouch.

I suppose I should use the correct term and say fractured a rib. But then again, this is self diagnosis. I feel fine otherwise, but I've got a dull pain in my left side, about mid way up the rib cage. Feel fine, that is, until I laugh, cough, hiccup (oh, God, that hurt), or breath deeply.

Oh, or try to lay on either side. Especially on the left.

According to the best information I can find, there's nothing to be done and without other symptoms it looks pretty clearly that yes, it is a cracked rib.

Ask the Medical Expert on Cracked Ribs

Unfortunately, I don't have a good story to go with the injury. No kick boxing, no rock climbing accident, no rough sex (although I think that's what I'm going to start telling people).

Ah, I have it. I was injured during an unfortunate bout of interpretive dance.

medical, humor

Ray Kurzweil's Full of Shit

OK, I get that Mr Kurzweil is smart and rich. But I also think it's clear that he's also a kook.

Ray Kurzweil deciphers a brave new world | Newsmakers | CNET News.com: "I'm quite aggressive in reprogramming my biochemistry. I take over 200 supplements a day. The thing that's unique about our program is that it's what we call aggressive supplementation. We're not programmed to stick around as long as I am. We need to reprogram our biochemistry, to reprogram our disease processes, processes that result in cancer, and various aging processes. My own personal program is detailed in the book."


And it's also clear that he doesn't get what Vernor Vinge is talking about in the Singularity. The Singularity is not "the geek rapture." It is the point where we can no longer predict that happens next. It's technology accelerating to virtually infinite power. We don't know if it mean the end of life as we know it (or just the end of life, period), or if it means cool, god-like, superhero powers for everyone. But then again, Mr. Kurzweil is interested in selling books. "My own personal program is detailed in the book."

But I'm pretty sure that taking vitamins won't help much. So keep munching your Flintstone chewables, Mr. Kurzweil. I wish you luck in your quest to live forever, I really do. But to live forever as a machine means to leave being human behind. We humans are big, messy and and unpredictable. Our thoughts and minds are made up of not just the things that happen to us, but the bio-chemical soup of our own bodies. You take my mind and record it into a machine and it's not me.

Do I want to live a long time? Hell yes. I want a very long life in a healthy body. I do not want an infinite existence as a running application staring out through digital cameras.

My own personal program is detailed in the blog.

science, kurzweil, shit

Remake, Rework, Reimagine. It's still a flop.

One of my favorite TV shows from my teenage years was "Kolchak: The Night Stalker". It was funny and scary at the same time. And Darren McGavin was perfect as Karl Kolchak.

And so, with all cherished childhood memories, someone it out to destroy them. I've seen the previews for the remake and it's so far off the mark that it has passed from bad, to funny, then on past that to just plain pathetic.

CNN.com - The new 'Night Stalker' -- and friend - Sep 29, 2005

TV

The Feel Good Movie Of The Year!

Two thumbs way up! Shining

Finally, there's a trailer that doesn't give the movie away.

Thanks Metafilter!

humor

And this is why they don't let me fly fighter jets.

Wow, never realized that I shared this with only 1/6th the population. Photic sneeze reflex

I thought everybody did this. It's really pronounced with me. When I step outside on a bright, sunny day, I sneeze, powerfully, at least twice.

But this still doesn't explain where I got X-Ray vision.

science

Those Funny Old Newsreels. Not So Funny This Time.

Today William Gibsonpointed to this short film on despotism.

When I started it up it looked like it would be another funny, dated educational film. After watching it, I'm not laughing. Watch it now. I'll wait.

From my perspective it's a clear, well thought out lecture on the dangers and possibilities of loss of democracy. I also noted that some of the comments on the Internet Archive page labeled it as Marxist propaganda. That's another sign to me that the content is accurate and all the more frightening.

As I've mentioned recently, I've been watching HBO's Rome and thinking about all things Roman. The Romans lost their republic and gained, for a while, an empire. But they paid for it in blood. They gave up their freedom for protection and entertainment. The Roman republic had their own Osama Ben Laden, too. He was called Vercongetorix. And the fight against him allowed Julius Caesar to seize power (lot of good it did him).

So, let's look at the factors. How concentrated is the media and information about the current war? How concentrated is wealth and respect? How free and open is education?

I remain hopeful for the world, for the United States, but I am also deeply concerned. Can our freedom and democracy be lost? Certainly. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

politics

Beware of geeks bearing billions.

Palm CEO Ed Colligan is trying hard to smile, but it's clear he knows he just sold his soul, if not his company, to the devil. Oh, I understand why he's abandoned his own operating system and run to the open, protective arms of Microsoft. He's scared silly of RIM and that ubiquitous brick-sized device you see attached to business travelers in airports, the Blackberry.

And the funny part? Blackkberries suck. They're huge, unwieldy, very difficult to use, and, well, ugly. So Palm has responded by making the Treo, bigger, uglier, and in an effort to make it really difficult to use, adopted the PocketPC OS. Great move.

I used to be a Palm fanatic. I carried one with me everywhere for quiet some time. And I'm in the "productivity" industry, so I know lots of Palm, Blackberry, and PocketPC users (and more than a few Newton holdouts). And you know the most common trend is? Many of us have simply stopped using them.

Why? Well, there are multiple reasons. Number one is that most of us carry our contacts in our cell phones. Frankly, that's most of what we need. And many, like myself, prefer our phones to be small and easy to use. I no longer need to feel like I'm strapping a calculator to my body. And most of us now have small, light laptops that we have with us most of the time. So why do I need a PDA? If I'm at home, the office, or traveling for business I have a laptop, which is better than a PDA. All other times I have a small, easy-to-use phone with all my contacts and my schedule.

Yes, some business users are enamored with their Blackberries, but if you look at the numbers, it's actually very few people - right around a million users in the US.

And my old Palm sits in it's cradle on my desk. Every once and a while I sync it up to my computer. But I don't take it out of it's cradle. Soon, it will move to the desk drawer of abandon gadgets.

What should have Palm CEO Ed Colligan done? Innovate. Do something bold, exciting, really terrific. Break out of the pack. But that's not going to happen now that he's joined the Borg.

So long, Palm.

Computers and Internet

You Should Know Dick

Doc Serls pointed me to this talk by Dick Hardt about Identity 2.0.

Great talk. "Simple and open wins."

Well, sometimes. Sometimes evil idiots win. For example, the evil idiots really want to monitor everything I do and control my behavior. I, of course, do not want them to know anything about me.

I am not so optimistic about verified identity. I hope people like Mr. Hardt has their way. Better for everyone. Except for the evil idiots.

Which reminds me of a book I've been meaning to recommend to you, dear reader. Ain't Nobody's Business If You Do : The Absurdity of Consensual Crimes in Our Free Country. It's out of print, so get your hand on a used copy.

Computers and Internet, identity

If I'd Known It Was That Simple

But this makes it ever some much more clear.

Getting rid of illusion of time, reaching the state of integrated singularity type IV advanced alien civilizations travel instantaneously : "They do it by converting mass into zero point energy (ZPE), isolating illusion of time from the overlap and reaching the state of integrated singularity. The ZPE is then sent to the exact spatial in the Hyperspace or any part of the Universes. Isolating time this way allows type IV alien civilizations to travel to any part of the Universe, other Universes and the 5-D Hyperspace instantaneously."

humor, religion

Once again, the truth is scarier than myth.

The Devil's Gardens: "The Chuyachaqui is a mythical dwarf with one human foot and one hoof. He is able to transform himself to anyone's likeness. He often appears as a friend or family member to lone travelers in the jungle and leads them around in circles until they are lost.

'The devil's gardens are considered his home, and people avoid devil's gardens in fear of him, or at least traverse devil's gardens very cautiously,' Frederickson said."

But what really makes these gardens? Acid Spitting Ants. Ye gods!

You see, kiddies, this is why science is important. Yes, the stories we make up and tell each other about the way things are are fun. Just so stories are ever so entertaining. But really understanding how things works is pretty damn interesting too. And better yet, once we really understand how something works, it places another piece in the puzzle of how everything works.

And don't you think it might be useful to know how these gardens are formed and maintained? Might make a difference in your yard or garden some day. And much more effective than trying to hire an evil dwarf. They've got a pretty tough union and their hourly wage is staggering.

science

Forbidden Science

This is not a "There are some things that Man is not meant to know" post. This is another "let the chips fall where they may" post.

Cultural Survival: "The risks, on the other hand, are many, Harry said. Project findings may contradict indigenous oral traditions about their origins. In addition to psychological damage, this may cause political harm. 'How can they control that these findings will not be used against indigenous peoples?' Harry asked."

So, what exactly is Debra Harry (apparently not Blondie) saying? Is she saying, "we don't want to look too closely at our selves?" And what about the bit about "Project findings may contradict indigenous oral traditions about their origins." Is that a bad thing?

I am fully aware of the fate of many indigenous people around the world. And I am a great lover of myth and origin stories. But I completely reject the approach that I must treat them as the truth. Origin stories and myth tell us a great deal about the human experience, but they do not provide a map of the real. Culture is important, but not at the expense of truth and knowledge. Would Ms. Harry have us set up informational reservations for the preservation of indigenous cultures?

It is not only helpful, but it's vital that we understand the true origins of humanity. We are, after all, one big happy species.

And yes, I'm the same guy that says, "let people believe any damn stupid thing they want and long as they don't force it on me." But that doesn't mean that I have to protect and isolate anyone from knowledge because it might offend their belief system.

religion, science

The Tech Commandments

You will note, and in proper geek style, the commandments are displayed on 2 Newtons.

More of the same at Geek Culture.

These guys are more miss than hit, but every once and awhile they get a good one. Too bad no one there actually knows how to draw.

Yes, but what the hell is CRBA?

More fun with gvisit.com



CRBA=Captain Randy Blogs Again. Trips right off the tongue, don't it?

I Want My W TV.

Hedwig pointed me to this today: National Geographic Magazine - WildCam AFRICA.

So nice, and some of the best quality live web cam work I've seen. How nice it is to have a window to open on my screen and see a pond in Botswana, all live. Music TV? Who needs that? I want my Window to the World.

Of course, it brings to mind what I really want. I want a menu cameras and destinations just like this one all over the world, all with true high definition, real time feeds. I want the same thing from satellites, viewing the Earth from near and far. I want a live feed from our little robots on Mars.

I want it all. And most of all, I want at least one little camera set at the Cafe Du Monde so I can have breakfast there every day.

Notes on Productivity: How To Get More Things Done - Do Fewer Things

My good friend Patrick has be writing a lot about productivity lately, including a very nice article over at To Done!. Productivity has always been a favorite topic of mine and for the past few years, a career as well. My day job is doing the marketing for a calendar and contact management company, Now Software.

Over they years I've used many tools including Franklin Planners (before the Covey years and I still have the beautiful and extremely large black leather zippered binder that held many years of schedules, to-do lists, and address books). I've been using software calendars for almost as long, including Meeting Maker, Lotus Notes, and of course, Now Up-to-Date & Contact. I was an early adopter of the Palm (yes, an actual U.S. Robotics Palm Pilot, thank you) and stay on the technical edge of computer/web/portable device calendaring. And with all of the high tech, I still fall back on 3x5 note cards, which I keep in a Pocket Briefcase from Levenger.

So, what have I learned?

Just this, really. Multi-tasking is a crock.

If I want to get something big done, I have to clear the decks and do just that thing. For example, if I need to write up a new marketing plan, I need to carve out big blocks of time to do the research, the thinking, the writing and re-writing. I can't get it done if I'm trying to do it in-between phone calls, meetings, and emails. And I certainly won't do a good and thorough job if forced to crank it out while dealing with many other distractions.

The same goes for my personal interests and hobbies. Sure, I'm interested in an amazing number of things. But to do anything well or to enjoy something properly, I can't do them all at once. I'm a compulsive, obsessive, completely gluttonous reader. But I also love movies - so much so that I spent a year building a movie theater in my home. And I love to cook.

But I am also a writer. I can't read everything I want, watch all of the movies and TV that I want, and research and cook and have any time to spend time with my family or make it into work. So I have to make choices. Family comes first. And we've got to eat, so I make plans for cooking that are less time consuming, but fun. And to get my writing done, even posts like this one, I have to focus my desires for entertainment and education into paths that will be useful. I have to cut down on my omnivorous reading and read what I need for my current project. For the past several months, with only a few deviations, I've been reading everything I can find on James Thurber, John McNulty, and the early part of the 20th century that may have touched on these two men. Now that I'm starting the writing (stage play and screen play), I'm tempering it with a bit of Mark Twain to I don't become lost in the powerful language and rhythms of Thurber and McNulty.

And I save the movies and TV for when I'm too exhausted to work any more. Probably around an hour or so at the end of the day.

Here are a few productivity tips from Captain Randy:

• First thing, every day, before you check your email or look for phone messages, review what stands before you, what you really want to get done.
  
• Next, review your email and respond to what you can quickly and efficiently. For things that require thought or other work, schedule time for them on your calendar and respond to the email indicating that you received the message and when you plan to have a response.
  
• Do the same with your voice mail.
  
• Now, if you can, quit from your mail, put your phone on Do Not Disturb, and do your work.

If you can actually follow these instruction, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.

Most days I get started this way, but before long the sirens are wailing and I step into my boots and put on my helmet and grab my trusty axe. I've come to accept that I won't get nearly as much as I wanted or needed to do on any particular. But as each fire is dealt with, I can repeat my little mantra, "review the email, check the phones, back to work".

And I'll be damned if things don't get done.

Bush: 'I fake responsibility'

I, however, fake headlines.

CNN.com - Bush: 'I take responsibility' for U.S. failures - Sep 13, 2005

So what, exactly, does taking responsibility mean? So, "Katrina exposed serious problems in our response capability at all levels of government . . ." And why was that, exactly? I'm betting we won't see him tell us, "You see, I put a political supporter and crony in charge of FEMA because I thought it didn't matter. From now on, FEMA will only be staffed by emergency disaster professionals and we'll put it back to the cabinet level."

"Oh, and this whole 'homeland security' thing. That ain't work'n out neither. Sorry about that, too."

Someone is having too much fun as a writer

This quote, although true, sounds like someone is just this side of giddy about the new iPod nano.

TIME.com: Stevie's Little Wonder -- Sep. 19, 2005 -- Page 2: "For a device ostensibly created to be listened to, it is suspiciously good-looking. It's so teensy and glossy and perfect, you want to put it in your mouth like a hard candy. For that, blame Jonathan Ive, 38, the affable Brit who heads Apple's industrial-design department. Ive is about as obsessive-compulsive as you can be without being hospitalized, and his wild enthusiasm for detail is what gives iPods the aura of sleek, otherworldly perfection that has helped make them the quintessential 21st century accessory."

All Thoughts Lead to Rome

I've been watching the new HBO series "Rome" and this week on the History Channel it's been Rome week. I've also been looking over the photos my daughter took in Rome this summer (yes, I'm jealous) while touring with the Columbus Youth Jazz Orchestra.

So naturally, I've been obsessed with all things Roman.

There are many unpleasant and downright nasty things about these people, but there are also more than a little that I stand in amazement at. And through it all, I can't help thinking exactly how far civilization collapsed, right along with them.

I refuse to call the period after their collapse the "Middle Ages". It wasn't the middle of anything. It was a dark, dark time. Back to living in mud huts and digging in the ground with sticks. And it gives me a little twinge when I hear the current Pope wishing for a time where "the Church" had a more prominent roll in Europe's daily life. Yes, things were much better when the Catholics were in control of most everything (OK, most of what we refer to as "the West").

I've always been a fan of ancient Greece - probably my theater training, but wow, those Romans could build!

And yes, it's painful to think on how they lost their republic. It makes one think that such things are possible still today. Look how quickly it happened to them. Look how quickly it happened to the French with Napoleon. The Germans certainly tossed of their republic quickly and efficiently (It's a joke, son).

Ah, but that could never happen in the good ol' U. S. of A. Could it?


In case you miss my point, take a look at the Insurrection Act

I'm afraid you underestimate the American public

Harvard Gazette: Using chili peppers to burn drug abusers: "Imagine snorting an extract of 50 jalapeno peppers and you get the idea," Woolf says. "On a one to 10 scale, the pain is about a thousand. It feels like a mininuclear explosion in your mouth. It does not harm you, but you never want to experience that feeling again."

Come on, Mr. Woolf. Do you think a little heat is gonna keep people (like Rush Limbaugh, for instance) from getting high?

In fact, I could see it as a new macho cred. You have to suffer before you get the benefit. Snorting OxyContin could become a virtuous act.

On a serious note, I am very concerned and personally committed to making sure that pain management and control is available to all that need it. Doctors in this country largely under treat pain. It's not good to suffer. And many with chronic pain have very few options. I get very worried when the government tries to control access to useful medications for fear that someone, somewhere, will abuse it.

Pharaoh! Let my people grow up!

Nano Nano

So, Apple taunts Sony and the other nameless MP3 player manufacturers by introducing the iPod Nano. Ah, but it's small!

I myself prefer the iPod Glactica - my 60 gig iPod photo. Yes, I wish it were smaller, but I use it to carry ALL OF MY MUSIC (over 40 gigabytes) and ALL OF MY DIGITAL PHOTOS (nearly 7,000) and all of my documents. And I still have 5 gig of space left.

When you can do all that and store it in my watch, along with my phone, call me. On my watch/iPod/computer watch. I'll be watching on my Virtual Light sunglasses.

Finally: The Press Grows A Backbone

Brilliant and eloquent.

Boing Boing: Oh, Keith Olbermann, how I love thee.

Here's the transcript: Bloggermann by Keith Olbermann

Enough Blame to Go Around

CNN.com - House cancels hearings on Katrina response - Sep 7, 2005: "Tempers flared Tuesday during a contentious closed-door meeting between House members and Cabinet secretaries in charge of directing Katrina relief efforts. A Republican representative stood up and said, 'All of you deserve failing grades. The response was a disaster,' CNN was told by lawmakers emerging from the meeting.But DeLay countered that assessment later in a news conference by saying that the onus for responding to emergencies fell to local officials."

From Karl Rove's play book: Keep everyone on message. Talk about everything we've done right. Admit no fault. And blame the locals - it's all their fault. And try out these themes: "No one knew this would happen." "No one knew it would be this bad." "It was a slowly unfolding disaster. We applied the right resources as we learned at each stage." "All these people will be able to make a fresh start - they'll be better off." "All of these people should have left anyway." And don't forget, "We're enforcing law and order out of chaos." That plays big in the sticks.

But everyone in the world with access to a TV knew last Tuesday morning that New Orleans was in serious danger. I new it by 7 A.M. and I'm no disaster planner. Everyone else in the world knew it too.

And now we're humiliated in the face of the world. We can't take care of our own people, can't deal with this level of disaster. Not quite the super power we made ourselves out to be, are we?

george bush hates black people

I had the biggest laugh I've had in a long time while watching the NBC broadcast of a telethon for hurricane relief tonight. We were watching mainly because I'm a fan of Harry Connick Jr. and Wynton Marsalis. Interspersed between the music were pleas from celebrities for contributions to the Red Cross.

At the mid point, Mike Meyers and a rapper I never heard of took the stage. It was obvious that the rapper was nervous and not following the cue cards. Meyers looked nervous.

Before he could be cut off, the rapper proclaimed, with a straight face, "George Bush doesn't care for black people."

They quickly cut away, but we didn't hear a word Chris Tucker said. We were laughing too hard. There hasn't been a funnier moment on Saturday Night Live in 20 years.

Ah, live television.

george bush hates black people - Google Search

Continuing to Underestimate The Problem

From here, safe and dry in Columbus, things look very bad in New Orleans. But I fear that things there are far worse than the authorities have imagined. From stories like these, it's clear to me that there may still be 100,000 or more people stranded there. And uncounted thousands of dead.

CNN.com - Stranded Spain MP describes Katrina chaos - Sep 1, 2005: "The journalist, Montserrat Boix of Spain's state television TVE, said Muoz told her the situation at the center was steadily deteriorating and that authorities were unaware of the magnitude of the problem."

I am not criticizing the selfless people that are trying to help. I'm only pointing out that our civil authorities need to respond with thousands more troops and prepare for a refuge problem of nearly a million people that may be out of their homes for over a year. To wait will mean much more death and suffering.

Wooosh!

Take a moment and watch the Messenger flyby movie (view the large one if you've got the bandwidth).

MESSENGER Earth Flyby

MESSENGER Earth Flyby movie


The stars are our birthright. It's sad and more than a bit depressing that we've wasted 30 years, turned our back after our first brief steps outward.

Ah, but home is so beautiful, alone there in the dark.

Roll Call!

Now that I have the visitor log working (see the link at the right) I'm seeing that readers of the blog are coming from all over.

For example, a quick peak tells me I've got readers in

• Sacramento, California
  
• Redmond, Washington
  
• Lisbon, Lisboa
  
• Columbus, Ohio
  
• Houston, Texas
  
• Jupiter, Florida
  
• Los Angeles, California
  
• Portland, Oregon
  
• Reynoldsburg, Ohio
  
• Mountain Home, Arkansas
  
• Seattle, Washington
  
• Florissant, Missouri
  
• San Francisco, California

To mention a few.

So, if you've got a minute, click the little comment down here and say hi!

Show Your Faith!

Flying Spaghetti Monster Emblem for your car!

And here's my argument today against intelligent design: if we were created by a superior alien intellect, why does my back hurt? Pretty piss poor design, if you ask me.

And how do I go about getting an extended warrantee?

Another One For The Legions

This story left me shaking my head and wondering what could be done with such a screwed up kid.

Man, 19, accused of desecrating Civil War corpse - The Boston Globe: "NEWBURYPORT -- A 19-year-old man from Salisbury was supposed to be cleaning up a cemetery last week as part of court-ordered community work after he broke into an apartment building last fall.

Instead, officials said, Neil J. Goodwin Jr. invaded the tomb of a Civil War veteran, pulled apart the 142-year-old skeleton, and then played with the bones, balancing the skull on his shoulder and posing for pictures"

Well, here's a thought. If the good old US of A is going to be the new Roman Empire, perhaps instead of an army we should set up our own Legions. We could empty out the prisons, ship them over to one of our "client" states (or "fledgling democracies" as they like to call them) and whip them into the fiercest fighting force on the planet.

Just don't let them back on US soil.

So, where exactly is our Rubicon?

Missing the Point on Home Theater

Chicago Tribune | ENTERTAINMENT CENTERS EVOLVE : "'It's going to appeal to the consumer who doesn't want their living space to look like a home theater,' Stout said."

I'll admit it. I'm a complete home theater bigot. Yes, I can see that Ethan Allen is jumping on the bandwagon for flat screen TV storage, but hey, if you're watching a TV, you're not doing home theater.

We in the hobby have long, often heated debates over exactly what home theater is. The term is in danger of becoming useless.

So, here's my definition: a home theater is a dedicated space specifically designed for watching movies and high-definition television broadcast. The minimum requirements include surround sound (5.1 at a minimum), acoustic treatment, light control, and (here's the critical part) a very large PROJECTED image.

So, if you're watching a TV, even a big TV in a living room, it ain't a home theater. If you bought everything you need at Walmart in a box, it ain't a home theater. I'm not saying it's bad or you shouldn't do it, just that it isn't a home theater. And even with my definition there are a very wide range of theaters possible. I've seen them in garages, in attics, even in mobile homes. There's literally no limit on how much or little you spend as long as it's a room dedicated to the purpose, with a projected image and surround sound.

Many of us in the hobby call ours "screening rooms". I typically say, "I have a movie theater in my home."

I Was Touched By His Noodly Appendage

Do you know what bugs me most about the entire Intelligent Design movement? It's the complete hypocrisy and dishonesty of its proponents. At least when the same bunch were pushing Creationism they were clear on the "because it don't say nothing about evolution in the Bible" message.

Now they've decided that a bit of clever misdirection could work. "We're not saying it was God. Maybe it was some powerful Alien force. Who knows? We're just saying somebody designed it."

That's why I, along with thousands of other enlightened people, have taken to the belief that if all life on Earth was created, it must have been from the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Let me be completely straight and honest: all you creationist/intelligent design folks - yes, we're making fun of you.

Coming Soon To A Theater Near You!

In my continuing quest for at least one good laugh every day: "A White Knuckle Thrill Thrill Ride!"

When There's No Good News

Rather than give in to despair from all of the idiocy and evil cloaked in righteousness (yes, you know I'm talking about you, Mr. Robertson), I turn to my friends, great writers and their works.

Today at lunch, for example, I pulled out a delightful little volume published by Konemann, Mark Twain's "A Tramp Abroad".

The other diners looked up from their burgers and fries as I laughed out loud. I simply couldn't help myself.

Here, see for yourself: A Tramp Abroad - Chapter VIII by Mark Twain

It's striking for me to note this: after reading much Thurber over the past few months Twain is still the undisputed master of American humor and keen observation.

So, where you from?

Now here's an interesting little toy powered by google: Visitor log mapping: Visitor log mapping.

Local, ain't we? Don't worry, although we know where you live, we have no idea who the hell you are.

Evil Idiots of the Month for August: Mark Helprin & Tim Goeglein

Metafilter turned me to this article and set my blood boiling: The Art of Telling Parties Apart

I've resisted the claims of cultural warfare, but if this is the dividing line, so be it.

"Goeglein recalled a dinner party that he and his wife recently attended in Northwest. Out of the six couples around the table, Goeglein and his wife were the only Republicans.As is inevitably the case, he said, the conversation soon turned to the couples' children -- most 5 or 6 years old -- and aspirations for their future occupations. One parent said editor; another, publisher; a third wanted the child to go into education.'I was intrigued by the question, and the answers of every one of our Democratic friends,' Goeglein said. Not one parent, he said, gave an answer that would be more typical of Republicans. 'Our party, in the way it is constituted, we think of medicine, we think of law, we think of business. We don't think, gee, I hope my son grows up to be a great playwright or painter or poet,' he explained."

That made me upset, but this makes me mad:

"But for Helprin, the divide remains. "The arts community is generally dominated by liberals because if you are concerned mainly with painting or sculpture, you don't have time to study how the world works. And if you have no understanding of economics, strategy, history and politics, then naturally you would be a liberal.""

Excuse me, but I'm going to use some strong language now. Thank god I've been watching "Deadwood."

Helprin, you cocksucker. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You goddamn, fucking, moron. Christ almighty what harm you do!

OK, feeling a little better now.

Helprin calls himself a writer and doesn't think liberals understand the way the world works? Who better understands the world, who studies, reads, and more importantly, gets out in the world to see what's really happening than those that study the liberal arts.

And as a parent, what do I want for my children? I want them to be safe, happy, and fulfilled. I do not want to perscribe a particular profession just because I think they will make lots of money. My eldest daughter is planning on studying music, the jazz string bass, and I fully encourage her to follow it as far as it leads her. My youngest daughter, too young to really know what she'll want to do later in life, is already a skilled and award winning artist.

As far as I can tell, they both will have more profitable and longer careers as artists than they might as computer programmers, for example. And they can use their old man as a roll model in this. I'm trained as a playwright and writer and have an advanced degree in theater. When people ask me what I am I tell them "a writer." And I've made a very good living in business, all based on my writing and theatrical skills. And now, in my forties, having some experience in the world, I'm ready to put those skills back where they belong: writing plays. How dare they declare that this is not a worthwhile occupation. How dare they saddle every activity with the necessity of economic benefit.

I'm sick and tired of the current administration treating the American public as if we just don't understand. Bush, with his smirking, talk down to me attitude, drives me insane, more than his policies. "If you only understood the world like we do. Let me explain it to you in simple language." God, how it infuriates me. We, the American people, do understand. Don't you dare talk down to us.

Well let me tell you, all of you right wing, low wage wanting, republican elitists, we artists and liberals understand the world more fully and accurately than you could ever hope to. Not only do you NOT understand the world, but you've gotten everything (actually, it's staggering how much) so completely wrong that we'll be decades in cleaning up the mess you've made.

What joyless, dry lives you must lead. What frustrated, troubled children you must raise. But don't worry. We artists will always be here. And we'll be remembered. What survives a great civilization, long lost? Its art.

This Nearly Wired World

I just got off the phone with my nearly 17 year old daughter who is traveling in Italy. She's there with the Columbus Youth Jazz Orchestra (and they sound nothing like my high school jazz band). She's been there for 2 weeks now and that was the first we had heard from her. It was a pleasure and a relief.

We weren't worried, but we get so used to being able to contact anyone, virtually any time. I live on the net and receive and answer email all day long. I've carried a cell phone now for over 11 years.

But just how unwired we are has been made clear. In addition to 2 weeks in Italy, Kathleen also spent 2 weeks in China. In both places she didn't have easy access to computers to send email (although she did manage 2 email messages from China). And this brief phone call was at a pay phone.

It's sad to point out that Europe and Asia have far superior wireless phones than we do in the US. I am completely disgusted that the artificial barrier of "country" means that I'm separated from friends and family when they travel (or I do). I want my cell phone to be able to call anyone on the planet without distinguishing between where they might be. And I don't want any added charges. Minutes is minutes.

Redefining Christianity Is The Devil's Work

This stuff makes me tired.

Who Loves Creepy Megachurches? / Stadium crowds, thousands of rabid devotees, all chugging Jesus like Kool-Aid. Should you be afraid?

And it's exactly this type of thing that helped open my eyes, start me thinking, and to become an ex-Christian.

One of my earliest cogent thoughts as a child happened while sitting through another seemingly (and almost actually) endless sermon about "building the Kingdom of God." As a child, probably less than seven, I couldn't figure out why they hadn't done it yet. And why exactly did no one that I knew live anything remotely like the stuff that was continually taught?

It's clear to me now that these mega-churches have figured that out as well and have changed the message. God wants you to rich, fat, and lazy.

I am no longer a believer, but I'd have a hell of a lot more respect for those that did if someone finally stood up and said, "hey, none of this stuff is remotely like what Jesus taught or reportedly did. Let's leave all of our stuff behind and go off and help the poor and sick."

It's the leaving all the worldly goods behind that makes most Christians pause and say, "but God doesn't want me to disrupt my life. He want's me to have good things." Run that little thought experiment again, partner. Let's accept for a minute that the gospel story of Jesus is somewhat accurate. Who exactly was Jesus hanging out with and helping/healing? Why exactly did he piss off the authorities? Oh, and back off on the preaching and conversion stuff. Let your actions speak for you.

People that actually do this kind of thing are regarded as somewhat crazy and looked at with some concern by "mainstream" Christians.

Eh, you're all nuts as far as I'm concerned.

One's History As Told By One's Vehicles

Doc Searls (who I met briefly at this years Macworld) reviews the cars he has owned, while reflecting on his 58th birthday.
The Doc Searls Weblog : Friday, July 29, 2005

So, not my birthday, but here's my list, as complete as I can make it. This included not only automobiles that I have owned, but ones that were designated my vehicle.

My grandfather's, then my father's, dark olive green 1964 Ford pickup. This vehicle, which I drove for many years on and around the farm and even after I got my license at 16, is part of one of my earliest memories. I clearly remember my grandfather placing me behind the wheel, putting it in first gear, and letting me drive it around the pasture while he pitched hay out of the back for the cows. The truck was new and I was 4. My father traded that truck for a late model 70's Ford pickup, which he had painted powder blue. I drove it, too, while still in high school.

A 1974 Chevy Impala (pretty sure that was the year). This was one of the cars my father had and it was the car I drove most often, when I wasn't driving the truck. It was lime green and 4 doors and I drove it like it was a sports car, at one point loosing 2 hubcaps taking a corner way too fast.

1972 Karman Ghia Convertable. Canary yellow with black top. My dad picked this one up in late summer 1980 and I drove it back to Iowa for my senior year at college. I was 20 years old, had just spent my second summer working for the construction crew and as I drove it back to school I felt strong and confident - fully a man. I also found I had lost my fear of talking (and asking out!) girls and by October had met and started dating Diane. I drove the car home for Thanksgiving break, just ahead of a huge snow storm and the day after Thanksgiving the car threw a rod. The car was repaired and I bought it from my divorcing parents years later for what he had paid for it: $2,000. I drove it off and on for years, but it was unreliable and I didn't have time to fool with it. I sold it just a couple of years ago when i was starting my home theater project. I got $2,000 for it.

The "OWL". This was a bright orange VW "square back" my father also had. Its liscense plates had "OWL" on it. It was an ugly, uncomfortable car, but the back row seats folded down and there was a lot of room back there. Enough to stretch out in sleeping bags. Nothing more needs to be said about that.

The next summer, before Diane and I were married in August of 1981, my parents asked me to come back and work on the farm. I agreed, but shouldn't have. Children should never go home. As farm work always has been, it was hot, endless labor. My independence was a struggle for them, too. At the end of the summer and as part of our agreed compensation, my father bought a used late 70's Chevy Caprice Classic. 4-door and ugly as sin. Diane and I drove that through our first year of marriage and an icy Iowa winter.

When I went to grad school in Southern Illinois, I traded the Caprice for a Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a diesel engine. It was probably a 80 or 81 model. The car looked good - two door, red with a white top, but wasn't terribly reliable. This is also the car I got t-boned in and learned my lesson about always ALWAYS wearing my seatbelt. I got off with only a bump on the head and the car was repaired. At this time Diane drove a bright orange VW Rabbit diesel that her parents had given her. She put 10 years and many miles on the vehicle before we took it on its last legs to trade it for a Ford Escort. She also drove that vehicle for 10 years.

Next was my first new car and the biggest lemon I've ever owned. It was an Isuzu Trooper. I think it was a 1986 or 1987 model. Also diesel. It was underpowered and spent over 3 weeks in the repair shop in the first year. At that point I asked the dealer to make me an offer to trade for another vehicle because I'd lost confidence in that one. They passed and treated me like an idiot for having bought that particular model. I'm telling you, like I tell everyone: Never buy anything from Isuzu. The trooper eventually blew out its engine on east bound 270 and left a foot-wide oil stain on the road for a half mile as I coasted to the shoulder. The stain was still visible for months afterwards.

I had the trooper towed to the local mega-dealer who sold both Isuzu and Fords. I said they could repair it or sell me a new, non-Isuzu vehicle. This dealer was smarter and I bought a new 1989 Ford Areostar minivan. This was a reliable and flexible vehicle.

I'd had such good luck on the Areostar that when it was time to trade I bought a 1998 Ford Winstar minivan. Both vans were great for us and 2 small kids. They were perfect for long road trips and when necessary, we could take out all of the back seats and have a literal cavern of storage space. Kathleen is still driving the Winstar - it's perfect for hauling around her string bass.

Shortly after buying the Areostar, we retired Diane's Escort and bought her a 1999 Ford Taurus. She drives it still and it's reliable and comfortable. She can keep vehicles longer since she only drives the for work and puts few miles on them. She also doesn't want "too nice a car" to drive in downtown Columbus and parked in city lots and garages.

I'm now driving a totally wonderful 2004 Lexus RX 330. It's comfortable, flexible, and the service that comes with it is outstanding. It's a reward to myself for years of driving minivans, well earned, I think.

And This Is Why I Don't Shop At Wal-Mart

I saw this article referenced on Metafilter:

Here's why you can't buy the News Journal at Wal-Mart

Frankly I've never liked Wal-Mart, even without their heavy handed politics. I find their stores to be dirty, chaotic, poorly organized, and filled with sub-standard goods. For years I've had first hand evidence that they are completely draconian in their business dealings. They make completely unreasonable demands of their vendors, and when they don't get their way, they pull all their business. I lump them together with the fine folks that ran Enron.

I do shop at Sam's Club. I'd rather shop at Costco, but don't have one closer than 2 hours away. At least Sam's Club is clean, well lit, has well organized shelves and wide isles.

Farewell, Scotty

CNN.com - James Doohan, 'Star Trek's' Scotty, dead

As an unabashed Trekkie I bid a fond goodbye to this reliable character actor. How few people have created characters that live on beyond them and are known around the world?

I Spy With My Little Cell Phone

OK, this is pretty cool.

Amabuddy - Comparison shopping by mobile phone (888) 937 4462

The idea is this: you're out shopping in the real world. You see a book or CD you're interested in. Should you buy it where you're currently touching it? Call Amabuddy and punch in the ISBN or UPC code and it will read you back the Amazon.com price and used prices for it!

What would make it even better (and give me a reason to finally get a camera phone) would be to enable camera phone bar code reading. Imagine being able to simply point your camera phone at something, then check your screen to see if it's a fair price. Coolness.

Thurber On The Brain

I must admit, I've been reading and thinking about James Thurber a lot lately, but you've got to admit, this has got to be a Thurber dog.

If it's not Photoshop'd, it's an amazing captured moment.

You do see it, don't you?

For your convenience, here's what I'm talking about:

Too Many Notes

One of my favorite movie lines is from "Amadeus". When Emperor Joseph II is asked how he liked a new Mozart piece he responds, "Too many notes." and when asked how to fix it, he says, "take out a few."

It's good to see that royalty stays true to form.

Sony products are too much trouble - The Queen

A Skeptic Is A Man You Can Trust

"In line to get my badge for this year's skeptics conference in Pasadena, Calif., I recognized the little man standing behind me. He was bald, with a full, white beard, and he looked older than I would have imagined. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'is this the line for the skeptics meeting?' When I nodded, he looked me up and down and replied, 'Oh, I doubt that.'"

I love James Randi. And I'm glad for the change in strategy of CSICOP. Geller and his ilk are small fry compared to the really dangerous sort we're faced with today.

Wealth Management Company = Strip Club?

I've got to admit, these headlines catch my eye, but this statement left me saying, "Waaaah?"

Designer dresses vs. retailored breasts "'I like well-fitted clothing with straight lines, a real classic look,' says Pollert, who works for a wealth management company and tends to dress more conservatively than one might expect of a woman who has had breast implants that increased her cup size to 34F. 'I'm bigger around the top, but I'm small everywhere else,' she says. 'So I have to have everything tailored, especially jackets.'"

34F.

F?

Wow.

Ten Years In a Quandary

In my research into James Thurber I was struck that he wrote, “One of the greatest fears of the humorous writer is that he has spent three weeks writing something done faster and better by Benchley in 1919.”

or

”. . . plagued with the suspicion that a piece he has been working on for two days was done much better and probably more quickly by Robert Benchley in 1924.”

So, I thought I should look into Benchley. He falls into that rather large group of writers I’ve always heard about, but read very little of. So, I picked up his book My Ten Years In A Quandary and How They Grew. I can see exactly what Thurber was getting at.

In particular, find a small piece called “Spy Scare.” To me a moment to realize that he was writing about the US just after World War I, not today.

I seem to have known, but forgotten that Peter “Jaws” Benchley is his grandson.

See more progress on: write in my blog everyday

That natural cosmetically enhanced look you've always wanted.

At times like these I'm thankful that I'm a guy and don't have to think about these things.

"Built-in sculpted graduated cups are designed to create a natural cosmetically enhanced look. Provides lift and slight separation to offer a fuller and firmer appearance both in and out of clothing."

OK, how exactly does this bra help you "out of clothing"? And why exactly would a woman want to conspicuously appear as if she'd had bad cosmetic surgery? (By definition, if you can tell, it's bad, right?)

If you're gonna speculate, dream big

It's just crazy enough to be true.

PBS | I, Cringely . June 9, 2005 - Going for Broke

I wish it were true. Quick, buy more Apple stock!

Eh? Never mind. It's more fun to speculate about season 2 of Lost.

Not A General Diagnosis . . . oh look - shiny!

CNN.com - ADHD adults struggle to focus - Jun 9, 2005 "Hallmarks of attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) can include a lack of focus and impulsiveness. It's also known as attention deficit disorder (ADD), a term many adults use because they are not hyperactive. Adults with attention disorders describe having great stores of energy and creativity, but trouble focusing it."

ADD, ADHD, Asperger Syndrome are all new excuses and labels, but for very few they're accurate diagnosis. Yes, I know a lot of programmers with poor social skills, but very few I'd suspect of a specific disorder. It is easy to say, "hey, I have trouble concentrating and I never get anything done, I mush have ADD!" If you think that, go get a diagnosis from a professional.

On the other hand, I do know a few that may have bovine spongiform encephalopathy (go ahead, try it, it's fun to say!).

OK, people don't get BSE. They get Creutzfeldt-Jacob Disease - not as fun to say.