Lore Brand Comics: More Things
Be a Hero: Vote
13 years ago
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Goodnight, Columbus
Most Wednesday nights I take my daughter to her orchestra rehearsal in downtown Columbus. Typically, I have a book and sit in the quite nice Capital Theater at the Rife center and happily read for two and a half hours.
But I'm in a reading drought now. Don't have anything in my possession that strikes my fancy. No problem, I'll walk across the street to the City Center Mall and buy a book or magazine.
Problem one: forgot my glasses. Saddly, now a requirement for anything inside the reach of my arms.
No matter. I dropped Kathleen off and walked across the the mall. The first bad sign is that the entrance to the mall was crowded by a large, rowdy, milling group of kids. Inside it wasn't any better. Not many people there at all and a strong show of force by security and police, which oddly enough, didn't make me feel more comfortable.
If you'd visited the City Center four of five years ago you'd have seen it as one of the top malls in the country, every store occupied, all high end retailers. Now, the place is a ghost town, huge space empty and blocked off, and several very low end retailers, even a "dollar store". Someone had converted a thousand square foot plus store into a dance studio. One prime spot was now a "conference center", filled with folding chairs. Many of the smaller stores the remained open only had a single clerk on hand.
And I should have known better about the bookstore. The typical mall Waldenbooks. Nothing struck my fancy, and their magazine selection was so poor I couldn't find the New Yorker (my preference) or even any home theater magazines. Walked the three floors over twice, then left. I'd been there less than forty-five minutes.
A walk around the downtown wasn't any better. It was dimly lit and not a comforting sight. I walked by the statehouse, then turned to walk past the Palace Theater, in Columbus's "landmark" skyscraper, the Leveque Tower. Here I found the only sign of life, outside of the few poor souls waiting for COTA buses. Philip Glass was performing and a small crowd was waiting under the marquee. But as I turned south to head back to the Rife building, it could have been three A. M.
There were no open restaurants, coffee shops, bars. Nothing.
I know Columbus isn't New York, San Francisco, or Boston. But this is pitiful.
But I'm in a reading drought now. Don't have anything in my possession that strikes my fancy. No problem, I'll walk across the street to the City Center Mall and buy a book or magazine.
Problem one: forgot my glasses. Saddly, now a requirement for anything inside the reach of my arms.
No matter. I dropped Kathleen off and walked across the the mall. The first bad sign is that the entrance to the mall was crowded by a large, rowdy, milling group of kids. Inside it wasn't any better. Not many people there at all and a strong show of force by security and police, which oddly enough, didn't make me feel more comfortable.
If you'd visited the City Center four of five years ago you'd have seen it as one of the top malls in the country, every store occupied, all high end retailers. Now, the place is a ghost town, huge space empty and blocked off, and several very low end retailers, even a "dollar store". Someone had converted a thousand square foot plus store into a dance studio. One prime spot was now a "conference center", filled with folding chairs. Many of the smaller stores the remained open only had a single clerk on hand.
And I should have known better about the bookstore. The typical mall Waldenbooks. Nothing struck my fancy, and their magazine selection was so poor I couldn't find the New Yorker (my preference) or even any home theater magazines. Walked the three floors over twice, then left. I'd been there less than forty-five minutes.
A walk around the downtown wasn't any better. It was dimly lit and not a comforting sight. I walked by the statehouse, then turned to walk past the Palace Theater, in Columbus's "landmark" skyscraper, the Leveque Tower. Here I found the only sign of life, outside of the few poor souls waiting for COTA buses. Philip Glass was performing and a small crowd was waiting under the marquee. But as I turned south to head back to the Rife building, it could have been three A. M.
There were no open restaurants, coffee shops, bars. Nothing.
I know Columbus isn't New York, San Francisco, or Boston. But this is pitiful.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
He Ain't Wrong
Mark Morford column at sfgate.com: "Oh right like you even care. "
Well, you should.
I recently had the need to purchase a Windows PC and bought a Sony laptop. I thought, "hey, Sony's a great company. They'll package and treat it just like Apple."
Wrong. It was a horrible experience. It was a brown cardboard box, printed with endless specifications. Inside the components look like they were dumped in there. The laptop itself had several very hard to remove stickers from everyone, including Intel and Microsoft - how often do you see people using laptops with these still on.
After using the laptop for a week I took it back. It felt cheap and breakable - the drive door did fall off.
Every time I've gotten a new Mac, I've been impressed at the experience of opening the box and setting up the machine. It is a thing of wonder.
Well, you should.
I recently had the need to purchase a Windows PC and bought a Sony laptop. I thought, "hey, Sony's a great company. They'll package and treat it just like Apple."
Wrong. It was a horrible experience. It was a brown cardboard box, printed with endless specifications. Inside the components look like they were dumped in there. The laptop itself had several very hard to remove stickers from everyone, including Intel and Microsoft - how often do you see people using laptops with these still on.
After using the laptop for a week I took it back. It felt cheap and breakable - the drive door did fall off.
Every time I've gotten a new Mac, I've been impressed at the experience of opening the box and setting up the machine. It is a thing of wonder.
Who didn't know this already?
Male brains give clues to nagging questions: "The male brain secretes less of the powerful primary bonding chemical oxytocin and less of the calming chemical serotonin than the female brain.
So while women find emotional conversations a good way to chill out at the end of the day, the tired male brain needs to zone out all that touchy-feely chatter in order to relax -- which is why he wants the remote control to zap through 'mindless' sport or action movies."
I'll admit it, I don't do my fair share of the household chores. I'm not a slob, and I do most of the cooking, but Diane does all of the laundry and most of the cleaning (not all, most). I, of course, should do more.
I'd love to hire someone to do it all, but that's not gonna happen any time soon.
And if you're interested in the subject here's a really scary book.
Also see virtually anything by Steven Pinker. What? You haven't read Pinker? Man, you're missing some excellent stuff. Who'd of ever thunk I'd have fun reading a book about grammar?
So while women find emotional conversations a good way to chill out at the end of the day, the tired male brain needs to zone out all that touchy-feely chatter in order to relax -- which is why he wants the remote control to zap through 'mindless' sport or action movies."
I'll admit it, I don't do my fair share of the household chores. I'm not a slob, and I do most of the cooking, but Diane does all of the laundry and most of the cleaning (not all, most). I, of course, should do more.
I'd love to hire someone to do it all, but that's not gonna happen any time soon.
And if you're interested in the subject here's a really scary book.
Also see virtually anything by Steven Pinker. What? You haven't read Pinker? Man, you're missing some excellent stuff. Who'd of ever thunk I'd have fun reading a book about grammar?
Monday, September 29, 2003
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
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
Sunday, September 28, 2003
I'm Not The Only One
Dan Levey helps out on the search:
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.
"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.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 19, 2003
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2003
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
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.
PC Chat Computer Radio Show
Then again, only if you really need to be sold some software.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
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
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
"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.
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.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Monday, September 08, 2003
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.
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."
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."
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