I think my brain has finally fractured into a million separate beings and are living separate lives. I have no control over them.
In fact, I’m not sure they even want me around anymore. A revolt may be on its way.
How do I know this? Well, take into account my current reading. Or, shall I say “readings”:
James Gleick: The Life and Science of Richard Feynman
Neal Stepenson: Diamond Age
Cory Doctrow: Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom
Gunter Grass: The Tin Drum
JP Donleavy: The Ginger Man
I’m currently working my way through five books, one of which I’ve already read. I look at that list and I wonder, what connection do these books have? In one respect, they are all surprisingly funny. In another, they are not related remotely.
So, that’s when I decided that I have five people living in my head. And I’d like you to meet them:
Dexter: Hi. I’m Dexter and I’m currently reading the Feynman book. I’ve never owned a pair of pants that went past my ankles. I’m an insufferable nerd who can’t get enough discussion of the finer points of gluons. I just wish people would stop hitting me.
DiRK: Greetings. I am DiRK. I like Neal Stephenson because he is smart and funny. I wish I knew how to meet girls. Did you know that a Hinerian can fart helium? I’m still trying to figure out the biological and chemical implications of that fact. Yark. Yark.
Chet: Hey. I’m Chet. Cory Doctrow’s book RAWKS man. It’s friggin’ funnier than any other friggin’ thing I’ve ever friggin’ read. I did it all for the whuffie! The whuffie! And you can take this whuffie! Rawk man!
Frank: Gunter Grass’ story is a rich allegory about the post-war society and feelings of loss that many Germans had to deal with while rebuilding their world and living with the scars of their past. Poignant, funny and strange, The Tin Drum is one of the classics of 20th Century European literature.
Gary: I’m frightened that I enjoy the exploits of Sebastian Dangerfield, considering that he is an ass. Does that make me an ass?
Later tonight these five men will join together and collectively vote one of their fellow split personalities out of the psyche. That outcast will forever wander through the portions of the brain that are not used searching for latent powers (knowing full well he will never find any). That is, unless DiRK uses him for one of his horrifying genetic experiments.
If I’ve ever made a case for medicating me . . . I think it’s now. I’ll take Thorozine with some Paxil on the side! I want the Thorozine heated, but not the Paxil.
Gary’s going nuts! Now’s your opportunity to discuss it!
Friday, February 28, 2003
Thursday, February 27, 2003
I'll be out most of the day, away from a computer. However, I felt the need to pass this on?
CNN.com - 'Mister Rogers' dies at age 74 - Feb. 27, 2003
There goes that little nugget of my, and most people's, childhood.
Discuss
CNN.com - 'Mister Rogers' dies at age 74 - Feb. 27, 2003
There goes that little nugget of my, and most people's, childhood.
Discuss
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
I was sitting at my computer yesterday afternoon fretting over the flurry of emails I was receiving from my client. It was unending and I actually spent six hours answering questions. I felt as if I were being indicted for something. Not that the company was accusing me of anything, but I just felt I was under investigation.
Matilda came up to me, wrapper her arms around my neck and sobbed. Now, unless you are a parent, specifically a dad, you don’t realize that when your child hits seven she doesn’t normally wrap her arms around your neck and really hug you. Especially if you are a dad. In this scenario there are two possible things she’s looking for: permission or comfort.
In this case it was clearly comfort. She didn’t say anything; she just crumpled into my arms and cried quietly. Not her normal dramatic crying, but real sorrow.
Real, pained sorrow that came within a deep well insider her child’s heart. Her friends quietly told me that she and another girl had a fight and the other girl left.
No questions. No advice. I just held her and let her calm herself.
A child’s heart is so delicate. They puff themselves up and try to prove themselves as mini-adults. But, when things come crashing down around them, they can’t hold it together because they do not understand at all. Why did this happen? Why did the universe bite back?
It takes us so long to learn that things don’t always work out. But what does that really do to us? A few relationships burn us and we find out we should know better. So instead of being trusting and open we close ourselves off and become suspicious of others. We know they seem nice. But in their hearts lurks a horrible darkness that is bent upon destroying our lives.
Come on. We’ve all been there, there’s no denying that. But if you look at a child, before they’ve sucked up their parents’ fears and prejudice or they’ve caved to peer pressure to ostracize, they accept other kids. They seek them out.
Watch next time you’re in a closed situation with a young one. Another kid will enter and the two will circle each other like predators. They size one another up, and decide who is the dominant child. The leader approaches the other and says, “Do you want to see this truck?” And they are off. It wouldn’t matter if the kids looked different, smelled bad or had ten arms. In the moment they’d play together.
It’s when the concept of real friendship comes up that the pain arrives. Once a friend burns you, it makes it a little more difficult to jump into that next friendship. Those bastards.
It’s funny, though. Friendship, the one thing we all seek out and tell everyone is the most important thing is the first thing in our lives that makes us suspicious of other people.
Weird, huh?
Discuss
Matilda came up to me, wrapper her arms around my neck and sobbed. Now, unless you are a parent, specifically a dad, you don’t realize that when your child hits seven she doesn’t normally wrap her arms around your neck and really hug you. Especially if you are a dad. In this scenario there are two possible things she’s looking for: permission or comfort.
In this case it was clearly comfort. She didn’t say anything; she just crumpled into my arms and cried quietly. Not her normal dramatic crying, but real sorrow.
Real, pained sorrow that came within a deep well insider her child’s heart. Her friends quietly told me that she and another girl had a fight and the other girl left.
No questions. No advice. I just held her and let her calm herself.
A child’s heart is so delicate. They puff themselves up and try to prove themselves as mini-adults. But, when things come crashing down around them, they can’t hold it together because they do not understand at all. Why did this happen? Why did the universe bite back?
It takes us so long to learn that things don’t always work out. But what does that really do to us? A few relationships burn us and we find out we should know better. So instead of being trusting and open we close ourselves off and become suspicious of others. We know they seem nice. But in their hearts lurks a horrible darkness that is bent upon destroying our lives.
Come on. We’ve all been there, there’s no denying that. But if you look at a child, before they’ve sucked up their parents’ fears and prejudice or they’ve caved to peer pressure to ostracize, they accept other kids. They seek them out.
Watch next time you’re in a closed situation with a young one. Another kid will enter and the two will circle each other like predators. They size one another up, and decide who is the dominant child. The leader approaches the other and says, “Do you want to see this truck?” And they are off. It wouldn’t matter if the kids looked different, smelled bad or had ten arms. In the moment they’d play together.
It’s when the concept of real friendship comes up that the pain arrives. Once a friend burns you, it makes it a little more difficult to jump into that next friendship. Those bastards.
It’s funny, though. Friendship, the one thing we all seek out and tell everyone is the most important thing is the first thing in our lives that makes us suspicious of other people.
Weird, huh?
Discuss
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
Alert the press. I have taught the baby how to make coffee. I have the world’s first accomplished fifteen-month-old barrista. And, perhaps, the cutest barista in existence because she says “Da!” to everything.
It all started when she was quite bored and it was time to make my evening coffee to facilitate my day’s unwinding. I find a good cup of Costa Rican, combined with good company (my lovely, witty wife) and a good DVD (Farscape recently) really makes an evening worthwhile. So, before we take the kids upstairs for the bedtime ritual and our daily installment of whatever Lemony Snicket book Matilda and I are reading (Starting “The Hostile Hospital” tonight) I make a pot of the good stuff.
Now, by good stuff I don’t mean the coffee that you can buy in the bins at your local grocery store. No, this comes from a very small specialty shop run by a husband and wife team who, I think, may be planning on leaving me the store when they die. When I went to pick up coffee at the supermarket, it was done so anonymously. Like I was soliciting a caffeine-laced hooker in a dark back alley and I told her my name was Billy Pilgrim. When I go to my little store they call me by name, talk about how cute my kids are and how beautiful my wife is. We joke. We argue about politics. It’s an hour trip minimum to get a few pounds of coffee. When we buy a house this summer I know that no matter where I live, I’ll make the trek for this coffee. It’s that damn good. One sip and you’re crying with joy. Plus they have 40 non-flavor, caffeinated coffees to choose from. Thems good slurping. It’s the best way to get my C8H10N4O2.
Anyway, the night I taught the baby to make coffee she was in a particularly bad mood. Now, it wasn’t because she was disagreeable or had a bad attitude. Rather, at that age life actually becomes overwhelming by the end of the evening. Think about it. You don’t really know anything for certain. You can’t even be sure that you have hair. Nothing is a constant except that your pants suddenly get soggy every few hours. You’re not sure why. Food is mush, and everything from carpet to dirt to paper actually tastes good. Plus, to top it all off, you can’t figure out what the hell anyone is saying. An odd word here and there, sure. But to communicate with the giant creatures who imprison your body in cloth and wipe you constantly? Impossible. Here’s what it sounds like to the little ones:
“Blahblahblahstopblahblahnoblahblahblahcookie. Gabba gabba hey.”
So, Gertrude was tired. She wanted to turn off the world and give her poor little brain a rest. And who could blame her? She has a weird family.
“Gertrude, do you want to make coffee with Daddy,” I asked, thinking there was no chance in hell that she would. Dads are like the smelly person you work with. You recognize their brilliance, but you simply don’t want to spend time with them until they hit 70 and suddenly become interested in fishing and skeeball. So the fact that Gertrude stood up, giggled and ran to the kitchen amazed me.
For various reasons. One, that she wanted to spend time with me that didn’t involve wiping her snot in my hair and two, that she knew where we made coffee.
When I met her in the kitchen, she was standing and pointing to the freezer, where we keep the good beans. Hmm. She knows where we keep it. That’s not good.
The first time making the Joe was a little rough. She ran away from the grinder, drooled into the grounds and hit me in the face with the scoop. But she closed all lids and put the coffee back for me. As time went on she knows when to get the filter, when to turn on the grinder (she does it herself) and when to turn on the machine. If she were a little taller, say about four feet, she could be doing this all on her own.
I’m just happy to have these few moments alone with my baby. I get to share in her joy of learning how to do something that requires finite motor skills while enjoying a nightly ritual that I find an integral part of my day. It’s soothing. Plus we share all sorts of hugs and shouts of joy. Or shouts of “Da!” depending on who’s doing the talking.
Now, I know what you anti-drug people are thinking. You think that it is wrong for me to give this baby a positive association with coffee. Because that will eventually lead her down the same slippery slope that lead to my own addiction.
“I don’t know doctor,” she’ll say to her rehab therapist, “I always knew my dad was different. I mean, he actually phased in and out between corporeal and solid. I had no idea that he had so much caffeine in his system that it had affected him on a cellular level. Now he’s entered into a temporal shift and spends most of his days bouncing around a quantum timeline that allows him to visit various times in history. He seems happy because he finally got to see every episode of Hogan’s Hereos, but is that anyway to live? Besides, he owes me money and because he isn’t solid he can’t pay me back. He just laughs as he phases out of this plane of existence and tells me to clean my room.”
But to you caffeine Nazis who think that I’m frying my brain by drinking so much coffee I say . . . Well, I forgot. But the whole thing isn’t about caffeine.
No, the next step is teaching Gertrude how to make teriyaki chicken. Then rice. Then to do the dishes.
Because damn it, I’m tired. Somebody has to do this work and I don’t think she’s been pulling her weight around here.
Discuss
It all started when she was quite bored and it was time to make my evening coffee to facilitate my day’s unwinding. I find a good cup of Costa Rican, combined with good company (my lovely, witty wife) and a good DVD (Farscape recently) really makes an evening worthwhile. So, before we take the kids upstairs for the bedtime ritual and our daily installment of whatever Lemony Snicket book Matilda and I are reading (Starting “The Hostile Hospital” tonight) I make a pot of the good stuff.
Now, by good stuff I don’t mean the coffee that you can buy in the bins at your local grocery store. No, this comes from a very small specialty shop run by a husband and wife team who, I think, may be planning on leaving me the store when they die. When I went to pick up coffee at the supermarket, it was done so anonymously. Like I was soliciting a caffeine-laced hooker in a dark back alley and I told her my name was Billy Pilgrim. When I go to my little store they call me by name, talk about how cute my kids are and how beautiful my wife is. We joke. We argue about politics. It’s an hour trip minimum to get a few pounds of coffee. When we buy a house this summer I know that no matter where I live, I’ll make the trek for this coffee. It’s that damn good. One sip and you’re crying with joy. Plus they have 40 non-flavor, caffeinated coffees to choose from. Thems good slurping. It’s the best way to get my C8H10N4O2.
Anyway, the night I taught the baby to make coffee she was in a particularly bad mood. Now, it wasn’t because she was disagreeable or had a bad attitude. Rather, at that age life actually becomes overwhelming by the end of the evening. Think about it. You don’t really know anything for certain. You can’t even be sure that you have hair. Nothing is a constant except that your pants suddenly get soggy every few hours. You’re not sure why. Food is mush, and everything from carpet to dirt to paper actually tastes good. Plus, to top it all off, you can’t figure out what the hell anyone is saying. An odd word here and there, sure. But to communicate with the giant creatures who imprison your body in cloth and wipe you constantly? Impossible. Here’s what it sounds like to the little ones:
“Blahblahblahstopblahblahnoblahblahblahcookie. Gabba gabba hey.”
So, Gertrude was tired. She wanted to turn off the world and give her poor little brain a rest. And who could blame her? She has a weird family.
“Gertrude, do you want to make coffee with Daddy,” I asked, thinking there was no chance in hell that she would. Dads are like the smelly person you work with. You recognize their brilliance, but you simply don’t want to spend time with them until they hit 70 and suddenly become interested in fishing and skeeball. So the fact that Gertrude stood up, giggled and ran to the kitchen amazed me.
For various reasons. One, that she wanted to spend time with me that didn’t involve wiping her snot in my hair and two, that she knew where we made coffee.
When I met her in the kitchen, she was standing and pointing to the freezer, where we keep the good beans. Hmm. She knows where we keep it. That’s not good.
The first time making the Joe was a little rough. She ran away from the grinder, drooled into the grounds and hit me in the face with the scoop. But she closed all lids and put the coffee back for me. As time went on she knows when to get the filter, when to turn on the grinder (she does it herself) and when to turn on the machine. If she were a little taller, say about four feet, she could be doing this all on her own.
I’m just happy to have these few moments alone with my baby. I get to share in her joy of learning how to do something that requires finite motor skills while enjoying a nightly ritual that I find an integral part of my day. It’s soothing. Plus we share all sorts of hugs and shouts of joy. Or shouts of “Da!” depending on who’s doing the talking.
Now, I know what you anti-drug people are thinking. You think that it is wrong for me to give this baby a positive association with coffee. Because that will eventually lead her down the same slippery slope that lead to my own addiction.
“I don’t know doctor,” she’ll say to her rehab therapist, “I always knew my dad was different. I mean, he actually phased in and out between corporeal and solid. I had no idea that he had so much caffeine in his system that it had affected him on a cellular level. Now he’s entered into a temporal shift and spends most of his days bouncing around a quantum timeline that allows him to visit various times in history. He seems happy because he finally got to see every episode of Hogan’s Hereos, but is that anyway to live? Besides, he owes me money and because he isn’t solid he can’t pay me back. He just laughs as he phases out of this plane of existence and tells me to clean my room.”
But to you caffeine Nazis who think that I’m frying my brain by drinking so much coffee I say . . . Well, I forgot. But the whole thing isn’t about caffeine.
No, the next step is teaching Gertrude how to make teriyaki chicken. Then rice. Then to do the dishes.
Because damn it, I’m tired. Somebody has to do this work and I don’t think she’s been pulling her weight around here.
Discuss
Monday, February 24, 2003
Well it has been forever since I’ve actually updated this page, hasn’t it? I wish I could say that I’m writing something blazingly hilarious today to entertain and inform you but . . . it wouldn’t be true. At least we have the new groovy discussion links at the end of every post, right? Go ahead and use them. They’re fun. And healthy. Discussion my pathetic life is good for yours.
After so long working on all of these projects, I’m afraid I’m a little dried up as far as writing is concerned. I could sit here and write, “I hate deadlines. I hate pressure. I hate paper cuts. I hate working so many hours in one week. I hate kung-fu wombats with Chinese stars. I hate it all.”
But that would be boring, wouldn’t it.
In my down time, which has been spent getting caught up on television shows I was never able to watch, like Farscape and Six Feet Under, I have been doing some serious soul-searching.
Not my own soul. That would be boring. No, I’ve been looking at other people’s souls. And let me tell you people something. Clean them! There’s nothing worse than a soul with a gross mustard stain on it.
In truth, I have been doing some soul searching. For one thing, do I want to be a freelance editor forever? Not particularly. I would like to extend my life into the writing arena. But that takes work. And I’m tired. I know I should do it. But I have somewhere around 400 typed pages to go through and hammer into a book. That’s a lot of editing. I hate editing. It’s boring boring boring.
I think I also want to write a novel. The fact that I lack ideas for a novel isn’t holding me back. It never stopped Steven King or John Grisham, so why should I worry about it?
They say that you should write what you know. Okay. Well, let’s see what that comes out as:
A freelancing family man spends his days alone with no human contact. As time goes on he realizes that the people on the radio are his friends and he starts having conversations with them. One day, when he’s had way too much coffee, the radio talks back. Frightening consequences ensue.
No. That wouldn’t work, would it? Let’s try it as a Science Fiction book:
A freelancing space family man spends his days alone in space with no human contact. As time goes on he realizes that the buzzing sounds on the Quantum Waves are his friends and he starts having conversations with them in space. One day, when he’s had way too much space coffee in space, the radio talks back. Frightening consequences ensue. In space.
Nope. That’s not that good, is it. How about a supernatural story:
A freelancing family man, with a dark secret, spends his days alone with no human contact in dark secret. As time goes on he realizes that the voices in his head are his friends and he starts having conversations with them. One day, when he’s had way too much coffee after performing strange cult rituals involving Alka Seltzer and Sudafed, the radio talks back with dark secrets. Frightening consequences ensue. With werewolves and monsters and killer clowns. And the dead coming back to life. With knives.
No, that doesn’t work either. Wow. Am I boring or what?
Either way, I need to find that creative spark and start writing again. I think I want to play with some fiction and, to be honest (and geeky) I think I want to write Sci Fi. I enjoy world building and I think that it has a wonderful potential for humor and allegory.
So I’m going to sit here today and figure out what to write.
And frightening consequences ensue . . .
Discuss
After so long working on all of these projects, I’m afraid I’m a little dried up as far as writing is concerned. I could sit here and write, “I hate deadlines. I hate pressure. I hate paper cuts. I hate working so many hours in one week. I hate kung-fu wombats with Chinese stars. I hate it all.”
But that would be boring, wouldn’t it.
In my down time, which has been spent getting caught up on television shows I was never able to watch, like Farscape and Six Feet Under, I have been doing some serious soul-searching.
Not my own soul. That would be boring. No, I’ve been looking at other people’s souls. And let me tell you people something. Clean them! There’s nothing worse than a soul with a gross mustard stain on it.
In truth, I have been doing some soul searching. For one thing, do I want to be a freelance editor forever? Not particularly. I would like to extend my life into the writing arena. But that takes work. And I’m tired. I know I should do it. But I have somewhere around 400 typed pages to go through and hammer into a book. That’s a lot of editing. I hate editing. It’s boring boring boring.
I think I also want to write a novel. The fact that I lack ideas for a novel isn’t holding me back. It never stopped Steven King or John Grisham, so why should I worry about it?
They say that you should write what you know. Okay. Well, let’s see what that comes out as:
A freelancing family man spends his days alone with no human contact. As time goes on he realizes that the people on the radio are his friends and he starts having conversations with them. One day, when he’s had way too much coffee, the radio talks back. Frightening consequences ensue.
No. That wouldn’t work, would it? Let’s try it as a Science Fiction book:
A freelancing space family man spends his days alone in space with no human contact. As time goes on he realizes that the buzzing sounds on the Quantum Waves are his friends and he starts having conversations with them in space. One day, when he’s had way too much space coffee in space, the radio talks back. Frightening consequences ensue. In space.
Nope. That’s not that good, is it. How about a supernatural story:
A freelancing family man, with a dark secret, spends his days alone with no human contact in dark secret. As time goes on he realizes that the voices in his head are his friends and he starts having conversations with them. One day, when he’s had way too much coffee after performing strange cult rituals involving Alka Seltzer and Sudafed, the radio talks back with dark secrets. Frightening consequences ensue. With werewolves and monsters and killer clowns. And the dead coming back to life. With knives.
No, that doesn’t work either. Wow. Am I boring or what?
Either way, I need to find that creative spark and start writing again. I think I want to play with some fiction and, to be honest (and geeky) I think I want to write Sci Fi. I enjoy world building and I think that it has a wonderful potential for humor and allegory.
So I’m going to sit here today and figure out what to write.
And frightening consequences ensue . . .
Discuss
Thursday, February 20, 2003
Normally I don’t condone dancing of any sort by men. We are graceless beings and the contortions we put ourselves through during the tribal ritual of dance is somewhat unseemly and rather, well, horrifying.
However, when blasting a song by Si*Se at full tilt (such as “Cuando”, a song that no doubt makes my neighbors think I’m having an affair with a primal Hispanic woman), one is allowed to dance like David Byrne.
David Byrne’s style of dance is okay because it is minimalist. More like vibrations than anything.
Dance! Dance like there is no tomorrow! Dance like you don’t care! Dance like you have a small mammal in your pants! Dance like David Byrne.
I need more coffee.
Discuss
However, when blasting a song by Si*Se at full tilt (such as “Cuando”, a song that no doubt makes my neighbors think I’m having an affair with a primal Hispanic woman), one is allowed to dance like David Byrne.
David Byrne’s style of dance is okay because it is minimalist. More like vibrations than anything.
Dance! Dance like there is no tomorrow! Dance like you don’t care! Dance like you have a small mammal in your pants! Dance like David Byrne.
I need more coffee.
Discuss
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
The project that has been taking all my time is almost over . . . I should be back to posting again soon . . .
In the meantime I leave you with a new topic to discuss. Enjoy.
Discuss Dancing Clown Monkeys on Unicycles
In the meantime I leave you with a new topic to discuss. Enjoy.
Discuss Dancing Clown Monkeys on Unicycles
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Hi kids. I am back, honestly. I was out of town on Thursday and Friday. Then the baby was sick on Saturday and Sunday. Then Mom, sister and Dad got hit.
It’s been hell. Sheer hell.
Today I need to get caught up at work. I should be back with fun and frivolity soon.
In the mean time Discuss How Gary is Lazy.
It’s been hell. Sheer hell.
Today I need to get caught up at work. I should be back with fun and frivolity soon.
In the mean time Discuss How Gary is Lazy.
Monday, February 10, 2003
A wise man once said, “How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, wouldn’t you say?”
I don’t know if that’s true or not. We try to prepare ourselves for the inevitability of death as often as possible. We see the cycles that life sets up for us to remind us of our temporary status. Our pets die. Trees die. Winter comes and goes. Life renews.
And yet we are never prepared. Even if we know the moment is coming, death hits us like a fist right between the eyes. The news of death leaves us numb, tired and confused. It puts us on automatic pilot as we prepare ourselves for the next steps.
It also puts our life on automatic replay. Memories come pouring into your mind. Good memories, mostly. It’s as if you start to hit the edit button and make your life’s highlight tape for the lost loved one. You decide what to keep and what to throw away.
And guilt hits. Could you have done more? Could you have shown up more? Made your presence felt? Could you have been more attentive? More loving? Kinder? Gentler?
This is all natural. And none of the questions can be answered. There is nothing you could have done. Nothing you can do. But the questions will continue.
I found out that my Uncle Jim died this afternoon. Oddly, my first thought was, “How foolish was I being at the moment he passed?”
Why did this thought occur to me? There is no doubt that I was being foolish. I am always being foolish. But why was I concerned about that moment?
I suppose it is guilt. Guilt that there is a possibility that while someone’s chapter in my life ended, I may have been dancing. Or laughing. Or making coffee.
I don’t want that footnote in the chapter.
I don’t remember what I was doing at the time Uncle Jim died. But I do know that right now I wish I had done more when he was alive. He’s only been gone a few hours and already I regret that I hadn’t spent more time with him. I should have. I know I should have.
But already my edit button has been going. I’m casting aside the guilt and preparing the legacy. I’m remembering the doorbell Uncle Jim had at his old house. And the stories he told me. And the fishing and vacations. And how his bright, shining face was always there to remind my family how good life could be.
Some people can live and die and not leave a mark on the world. I just hope that Uncle Jim knows, wherever he may be, that he left an indelible mark upon me. And that I’m glad for every moment he spent with me. That I cherish the memories he helped create.
Thanks Uncle Jim. Thanks for the all too few moments where our lives intersected. Please say hello to Mom, Dad, Trudy and Grandpa O. If you get a chance, let Grandpa draw a face on a balloon for me. Give my mom a hug. And let my dad know that whenever he wants to hang around, How The West Was Won looks and sounds great on DVD. We’ll save him a place on the couch.
And Jim, every time I’m outside I’ll look for ‘em. But in my heart I really know that I’ll be looking for you.
I don’t know if that’s true or not. We try to prepare ourselves for the inevitability of death as often as possible. We see the cycles that life sets up for us to remind us of our temporary status. Our pets die. Trees die. Winter comes and goes. Life renews.
And yet we are never prepared. Even if we know the moment is coming, death hits us like a fist right between the eyes. The news of death leaves us numb, tired and confused. It puts us on automatic pilot as we prepare ourselves for the next steps.
It also puts our life on automatic replay. Memories come pouring into your mind. Good memories, mostly. It’s as if you start to hit the edit button and make your life’s highlight tape for the lost loved one. You decide what to keep and what to throw away.
And guilt hits. Could you have done more? Could you have shown up more? Made your presence felt? Could you have been more attentive? More loving? Kinder? Gentler?
This is all natural. And none of the questions can be answered. There is nothing you could have done. Nothing you can do. But the questions will continue.
I found out that my Uncle Jim died this afternoon. Oddly, my first thought was, “How foolish was I being at the moment he passed?”
Why did this thought occur to me? There is no doubt that I was being foolish. I am always being foolish. But why was I concerned about that moment?
I suppose it is guilt. Guilt that there is a possibility that while someone’s chapter in my life ended, I may have been dancing. Or laughing. Or making coffee.
I don’t want that footnote in the chapter.
I don’t remember what I was doing at the time Uncle Jim died. But I do know that right now I wish I had done more when he was alive. He’s only been gone a few hours and already I regret that I hadn’t spent more time with him. I should have. I know I should have.
But already my edit button has been going. I’m casting aside the guilt and preparing the legacy. I’m remembering the doorbell Uncle Jim had at his old house. And the stories he told me. And the fishing and vacations. And how his bright, shining face was always there to remind my family how good life could be.
Some people can live and die and not leave a mark on the world. I just hope that Uncle Jim knows, wherever he may be, that he left an indelible mark upon me. And that I’m glad for every moment he spent with me. That I cherish the memories he helped create.
Thanks Uncle Jim. Thanks for the all too few moments where our lives intersected. Please say hello to Mom, Dad, Trudy and Grandpa O. If you get a chance, let Grandpa draw a face on a balloon for me. Give my mom a hug. And let my dad know that whenever he wants to hang around, How The West Was Won looks and sounds great on DVD. We’ll save him a place on the couch.
And Jim, every time I’m outside I’ll look for ‘em. But in my heart I really know that I’ll be looking for you.
Friday, February 07, 2003
I don’t normally put in links here, but I must say AMEN to Bill Hunt of the Digital Bits.
George Lucas has said that he will NOT release the original cuts of the original Star Wars films on DVD. EVER. Why? Because his inflated, fat-headed ego cannot handle it his warts and all original versions.
Yes. Fat-headed. I don’t mean that in a figurative sense. I mean it in a literal sense. George Lucas has an enormous, fat head.
Look, I grew up with Star Wars. Hell, I LIVED Star Wars for a long, long time. It was one of the greatest parts of my childhood. But George, in his infinite egotistic stupidity has told me that my childhood will be improved through his vision.
His vision. HA! The man couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag. Alan Smithee himself can elicit a better performance out of a piece of rotten wood than Lucas can. Yet that was the charm of the first film. And it was heartening to see him allow more talented people complete his vision. Alas, however, he’s mucked it all up with his special editions and lifeless prequels. He’s a fool.
“If you have the gall to tell me,” Bill Hunt writes, “that these films that were so much a part of my childhood don't exist as I remember them anymore, that's just fine. But then I want my childhood back. I want a refund for every movie ticket, every poster, every T-shirt, every book, every piece-of-crap action figure and every single God-damned bubble-gum card I ever bought as a kid. I'll send you the bill.”
My bill will be on the way too Mister Lucas.
George Lucas has said that he will NOT release the original cuts of the original Star Wars films on DVD. EVER. Why? Because his inflated, fat-headed ego cannot handle it his warts and all original versions.
Yes. Fat-headed. I don’t mean that in a figurative sense. I mean it in a literal sense. George Lucas has an enormous, fat head.
Look, I grew up with Star Wars. Hell, I LIVED Star Wars for a long, long time. It was one of the greatest parts of my childhood. But George, in his infinite egotistic stupidity has told me that my childhood will be improved through his vision.
His vision. HA! The man couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag. Alan Smithee himself can elicit a better performance out of a piece of rotten wood than Lucas can. Yet that was the charm of the first film. And it was heartening to see him allow more talented people complete his vision. Alas, however, he’s mucked it all up with his special editions and lifeless prequels. He’s a fool.
“If you have the gall to tell me,” Bill Hunt writes, “that these films that were so much a part of my childhood don't exist as I remember them anymore, that's just fine. But then I want my childhood back. I want a refund for every movie ticket, every poster, every T-shirt, every book, every piece-of-crap action figure and every single God-damned bubble-gum card I ever bought as a kid. I'll send you the bill.”
My bill will be on the way too Mister Lucas.
I have a big meeting this afternoon, so I don’t have much time to write. Have no fear, though. I’m nearly out of hell time and will soon be back to a regular posting schedule.
As it is the weekend, that means we have two movie nights coming up. Wahoo! Movie night is my favorite time of the week.
Last week we watched “Signs”, which I admit that I enjoyed. It was pretty creepy though.
On Sunday morning, Matilda was asking us what we did after she went to bed.
“Well,” I said, “we watched a really scary movie last night. It was so scary I was afraid to walk up the stairs by myself!”
Without missing a beat, Matilda shot back, “Good. Now you know how I feel.”
As it is the weekend, that means we have two movie nights coming up. Wahoo! Movie night is my favorite time of the week.
Last week we watched “Signs”, which I admit that I enjoyed. It was pretty creepy though.
On Sunday morning, Matilda was asking us what we did after she went to bed.
“Well,” I said, “we watched a really scary movie last night. It was so scary I was afraid to walk up the stairs by myself!”
Without missing a beat, Matilda shot back, “Good. Now you know how I feel.”
Wednesday, February 05, 2003
Yesterday, while being chided for my skills with the alphabet by Cory Doctorow, author of Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, I realized that my life is merely a series of illustrations of physics theories.
Let me explain. I complimented Cory’s book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. Cory appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize “Doctorow” between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
Let me explain. I complimented Cory’s book and told him that I’d place it on my shelf somewhere between John Varley and Richard Feynman. Cory appreciated the compliment, but wondered how exactly I was able to alphabetize “Doctorow” between Feynman and Varley.
Very easily. I have kids. We threw out the alphabet years ago and replaced it with Chaos Theory. Chaos Theory is where everything has a place and that place happens to be wherever it fits. For example, you have seven thousand toys strewn about the room and three plastic bins in pretty primary colors in which to place them. How do you get those seven thousand toys into those containers? Answer: You don’t. It is impossible. Nature has taught us that toys grow in volume from the time they leave the floor to the time they are placed within the bin. A bin that should hold, say, three cubic feet of toys that are strewn on the floor can, in reality, only hold two toys. How do you fix this? Quite simple. Put the smallest toys in the bin and shove the rest under the couch, table, rug, neighbor’s yard, etc.
The same thing has happened with our bookshelves. Where there once was an order, there is now chaos. It only takes the baby clearing the shelf one time to realize that you have no desire to replace all of your Vonnegut books in the order of publication. It’s no fun when you just have to do it every few days.
Chaos Theory leads to Entropy. Which, in parental terms, means that you say, “Aw screw it. I could organize this crap, but the kids will just do it again tomorrow.” You give in to the disorder and reorganize your life around it. I now walk through my house as if it were a minefield. Careful. Don’t step on that doll! Watch out for the Lincoln Log!
The second theory is String Theory. This theory states that any given toy’s interesting qualities increase exponentially when string is tied around it. A simple block becomes a toy that demonstrates the scientific qualities of centripetal forces. And a sailing missile of death. Kids are drawn to string (and tape for that matter). How many times have I walked into the house to find Barbie bound like Laura Palmer? Someday I fully expect to see poor Barbie in the bathtub wrapped in plastic. As a good parent, you ignore this because you secretly fear that your child is acting on sociopathic behavior. Better to pretend that it doesn’t exist.
The Negative Charge is related to Chaos Theory. Any given room in the house emits a positive charge. Children emit a negative charge. As they pass through a room, all objects are attracted to the child, but the force of attraction diminishes as the child moves from the center of the room to the edge. Therefore, the Theory of Negative Charge states that all objects in a room that is, or was, occupied by a child will fall to the ground as the child leaves.
Ohm’s Law states that when a parent sees the mess left by the Theory of the Negative Charge he or she will say “ohm-ygod.”
Of course, one of the basic laws of physics states, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion”. This applies to parenting as well. Have you ever seen a one-year-old? However, the inertia changes conversely when you tell the child it is time to go somewhere. At that point, “an object at rest tends to stay at rest.”
Now, at the end of the day we have the Grand Unification Theory. This theory states that a mother just wants her family to be able to enjoy dinner together as, well, a family. However, with opposite forces pulling each family member in opposite directions, the theory turns out to be bogus. For example, child #1 just wants to watch TV while she eats. Child #2 simply wants to spread her food on the table. Dad wants to sit quietly and read the paper (damn it!). But mom, undeterred, acts under the rules of the Theory of Everything which states that one must answer her questions with every possible detail, lest you wish to discover how electrons can travel backwards in time.
Illustration: “Honey, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine? What did you do?”
“Work. Not much exciting stuff.”
“What did you work on?”
“What I always work on.”
“Maybe the kids will like to hear about it.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Can I please just read the paper?”
“NO. I just wanted to know about your day! Is that so much to ask?”
Mom then illustrates the theory of Fluid Dynamics as she runs from the table crying.
Finally, we deal with the most important familial physics concepts. The theories of General Relativity and Special Relativity. General Relativity states that your children are undeniably yours. They look like you. They act like you. The administrators of the school recognize you as your child’s parent. When she excels at school, she is under the influence of General Relativity. When she scores the winning goal at the soccer game she is under the influence of General Relativity.
However, sometimes outside forces act upon the family nuclear unit and cause odd reactions, which result in Special Relativity.
Example: you go to pick up your daughter at school and you see her walking down the hallway with her teacher. Your daughter’s clothes are soaking wet. You can hear the soft squish of water expelling itself from the foam insoles of her tennis shoes as she steps down. Her wet hair is wrapped around her head in a circular swirl. The teacher looks angry.
When the teacher says, “I just found your daughter with her head stuck down a flushing toilet because she was curious to see where the water went” the Theory of Special Relativity states that you must respond:
“I’ve never seen that child before in my life.”
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
Monday, February 03, 2003
When I woke up Saturday morning, I didn’t think anything was unusual. It was about 8:30 a.m. I ate some food and read the paper. About fifteen minutes later, with Saturday morning cable cartoons blaring in the background, I wandered over to the computer.
At roughly 8:46 I read the headline “NASA loses contact with Shuttle”. I knew that wasn’t good. When I read the details of the article and realized they were thirty minutes overdue for landing I thought, “Oh no.”
I spent the rest of the morning glued to the TV listening to vapid morons whose understanding of the space program consisted of watching The Right Stuff more than once spew out inconsistent inaccuracies about the program, how the shuttle operates, what its mission was, and what may have happened.
I sat there, watching the various angles of that horrible descent. But, unlike most people I was looking closely. What had happened? Was their attitude slightly off? Had the avionics failed in some way, causing the angle of descent to venture outside the nominal 28 to 38 degrees? What in the hell happened? Surely that little bit of foam that fell of the tank at liftoff couldn’t have knocked off a great number of tiles. Those tiles are huge. But if it had, the shuttle wouldn’t have been able to handle the friction caused by re-entry. Breakup should have been evident for many minutes. Surely the telemetry or instrumentation aboard the shuttle would support that.
My mind reeled. This was a bad, bad day for me. I’m a space buff. Seven astronauts, the rock stars of my world, had perished. To continue the musical metaphor, they died on stage with smiles on their faces. They died slightly before the midway point between Earth and the heavens, two places they felt indelibly committed to. If an astronaut were to die, I could think of no more fitting place than between his or her two homes.
Though I am an adult, whenever I hear anything about the space program I become a starry-eyed child again. I look at astronauts the same way that many people look at professional athletes. These men and women are the elite. They are the best of humanity. Physical strength combined with stunning mental abilities and a courage beyond anything we could ever imagine.
The men and women of NASA and their sister agencies around the world understand physics. They know what laws govern our universe. And yet, as a matter of routine, they ignore those laws and fight to poke a small hole in our atmosphere and spend some time in a place that no human was ever meat to go.
That’s all you need to tell a human being. “It’s impossible. You aren’t meant to do that.” They said that when we descended from the trees and headed across the savannah. They repeated this when men crossed the Bering Straights into North America. “Don’t go there! We don’t know what you’ll find.” They said the same when we crossed the oceans in wooden ships. They said the same when we first flew. And they didn’t believe it when Laika, our canine predecessor, first went to space. Poor Laika did not survive. But John Glenn did. As did Gordon Cooper. And Alan Bean. And on and on and on.
Right now there is talk about the space program and what it offers us. There is much rhetoric about national pride, etc. All I know is that wherever the crew of STS-107 may be right now they are sitting with the crew from the Challenger and they are all saying, “Fix it and go back up there! Fix it and go! Get back up there!”
Astronauts are our greatest human resources. Forget about nationalities here. Astronauts are a source of pride for all humanity. Our entire species should look at every man and woman who has ever set foot in space and say, “Thank you. Thank you for being the few alive who are not willing to accept nature’s boundaries. Thank you for continually pushing the limits of human experience and knowledge.”
Astronauts are the pinnacle of what humans can be. They are explorers, adventurers and scientists rolled into one. They are on a constant quest for knowledge. They seek to understand this small part of our universe and try to ever expand our concept of life on this little blue-green dot and the neighborhood around us. Forget about borders, governments and social set ups. Astronauts are humans. They are all our people. They are all our heroes. Astronauts work on a daily basis, in risk, to expand humanity’s reach and understanding.
And they deserve our thanks and our awe.
Each time they strap themselves in to the shuttle they know the risk. They know that they are sitting atop of a pyro-cocktail that could kill them if something goes wrong. As they sit in space, they are aware of the myriad of situations that could kill them. They’ve studied those situations. They understand them. They’ve been thinking about them over and over and over. They think about them so they can be prepared for the situation. They know that as they re-enter the atmosphere they have three possible outcomes. 1. Bounce off the atmosphere and back out into space. 2. Burn up. 3. Land.
They know the risks. They understand them.
And, despite what happened this past Saturday, I would happily accept a job on the space shuttle. I would gladly accept the risk of take off, space and reentry. Despite what I’ve seen. Despite all the dangers. I would go in a heartbeat. And this is coming from a man who is afraid to fly.
I would go into space. I would gladly put my name beside those men and woman who have gone before. I would proudly stand beside the men and women who are waiting to go.
Just like every other space fanatic, I hope that good comes from this horrible situation. Perhaps it is time to retire the current shuttle fleet and work on a new program. A more modern, flexible, envelope-pushing fleet. The designs are out there. The discussion had been taking place over the last decade. Perhaps the men and women of STS-107 will have ushered in a new era of space travel. One that goes faster, farther. One that is stronger, more daring. One that is safer.
Let us hope. Let us hope. Because, as Richard Feynman said after the Challenger, “For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for nature cannot be fooled.”
At roughly 8:46 I read the headline “NASA loses contact with Shuttle”. I knew that wasn’t good. When I read the details of the article and realized they were thirty minutes overdue for landing I thought, “Oh no.”
I spent the rest of the morning glued to the TV listening to vapid morons whose understanding of the space program consisted of watching The Right Stuff more than once spew out inconsistent inaccuracies about the program, how the shuttle operates, what its mission was, and what may have happened.
I sat there, watching the various angles of that horrible descent. But, unlike most people I was looking closely. What had happened? Was their attitude slightly off? Had the avionics failed in some way, causing the angle of descent to venture outside the nominal 28 to 38 degrees? What in the hell happened? Surely that little bit of foam that fell of the tank at liftoff couldn’t have knocked off a great number of tiles. Those tiles are huge. But if it had, the shuttle wouldn’t have been able to handle the friction caused by re-entry. Breakup should have been evident for many minutes. Surely the telemetry or instrumentation aboard the shuttle would support that.
My mind reeled. This was a bad, bad day for me. I’m a space buff. Seven astronauts, the rock stars of my world, had perished. To continue the musical metaphor, they died on stage with smiles on their faces. They died slightly before the midway point between Earth and the heavens, two places they felt indelibly committed to. If an astronaut were to die, I could think of no more fitting place than between his or her two homes.
Though I am an adult, whenever I hear anything about the space program I become a starry-eyed child again. I look at astronauts the same way that many people look at professional athletes. These men and women are the elite. They are the best of humanity. Physical strength combined with stunning mental abilities and a courage beyond anything we could ever imagine.
The men and women of NASA and their sister agencies around the world understand physics. They know what laws govern our universe. And yet, as a matter of routine, they ignore those laws and fight to poke a small hole in our atmosphere and spend some time in a place that no human was ever meat to go.
That’s all you need to tell a human being. “It’s impossible. You aren’t meant to do that.” They said that when we descended from the trees and headed across the savannah. They repeated this when men crossed the Bering Straights into North America. “Don’t go there! We don’t know what you’ll find.” They said the same when we crossed the oceans in wooden ships. They said the same when we first flew. And they didn’t believe it when Laika, our canine predecessor, first went to space. Poor Laika did not survive. But John Glenn did. As did Gordon Cooper. And Alan Bean. And on and on and on.
Right now there is talk about the space program and what it offers us. There is much rhetoric about national pride, etc. All I know is that wherever the crew of STS-107 may be right now they are sitting with the crew from the Challenger and they are all saying, “Fix it and go back up there! Fix it and go! Get back up there!”
Astronauts are our greatest human resources. Forget about nationalities here. Astronauts are a source of pride for all humanity. Our entire species should look at every man and woman who has ever set foot in space and say, “Thank you. Thank you for being the few alive who are not willing to accept nature’s boundaries. Thank you for continually pushing the limits of human experience and knowledge.”
Astronauts are the pinnacle of what humans can be. They are explorers, adventurers and scientists rolled into one. They are on a constant quest for knowledge. They seek to understand this small part of our universe and try to ever expand our concept of life on this little blue-green dot and the neighborhood around us. Forget about borders, governments and social set ups. Astronauts are humans. They are all our people. They are all our heroes. Astronauts work on a daily basis, in risk, to expand humanity’s reach and understanding.
And they deserve our thanks and our awe.
Each time they strap themselves in to the shuttle they know the risk. They know that they are sitting atop of a pyro-cocktail that could kill them if something goes wrong. As they sit in space, they are aware of the myriad of situations that could kill them. They’ve studied those situations. They understand them. They’ve been thinking about them over and over and over. They think about them so they can be prepared for the situation. They know that as they re-enter the atmosphere they have three possible outcomes. 1. Bounce off the atmosphere and back out into space. 2. Burn up. 3. Land.
They know the risks. They understand them.
And, despite what happened this past Saturday, I would happily accept a job on the space shuttle. I would gladly accept the risk of take off, space and reentry. Despite what I’ve seen. Despite all the dangers. I would go in a heartbeat. And this is coming from a man who is afraid to fly.
I would go into space. I would gladly put my name beside those men and woman who have gone before. I would proudly stand beside the men and women who are waiting to go.
Just like every other space fanatic, I hope that good comes from this horrible situation. Perhaps it is time to retire the current shuttle fleet and work on a new program. A more modern, flexible, envelope-pushing fleet. The designs are out there. The discussion had been taking place over the last decade. Perhaps the men and women of STS-107 will have ushered in a new era of space travel. One that goes faster, farther. One that is stronger, more daring. One that is safer.
Let us hope. Let us hope. Because, as Richard Feynman said after the Challenger, “For a successful technology, reality must take precedence over public relations, for nature cannot be fooled.”
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