Saturday, February 27, 2010

A Few Suggestions

I was carrying groceries in the other day, climbing the stairs because the elevator STILL isn't fixed yet, and I realized that two hands is sometimes not enough to get the job done. I thought it would be pretty useful to have either another set of arms - four total - or a prehensile tail. I couldn't decide between the two, because two more arms would be really handy in a fight, but with a prehensile tail I could hang from things like a monkey. Or a possum, whatever.
   That got me thinking about what I would do to improve the function of the human body. It's great the way it is, but, really, it could stand an upgrade.

Another opposable thumb on each hand. This would make sure you didn't drop a hammer onto your toe, for instance, and would make for some really interesting musical instruments.

Removable skin. I know, it sloughs off and renews itself now, but every so often don't you just want to tear it off and start over again?

Directional ears, like a cat's. When commercials on the TV are too loud and you can't find the remote, you could just flip your ears back and reduce the volume.

Elbows that could bend the other way. Right now our elbows are limited to less than 180 degrees of movement. Think of the torque you could get on a baseball if your elbows bent down a few more degrees.

Eyes that can see in the dark. Think about it, no more stumbling over shoes and clothes on your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. You'd need another eyelid or something to make it dark enough to sleep.

Half your brain turns off at a time. Like dolphins, who let half their brains sleep while the other half keeps on going. Think of what you could get done if you were mostly awake all the time. Of course this would be bad for the mattress companies.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Gettin' A Little Punchy

What is it about American business - especially big corporations - that leads them to be increasingly blind to the consequences of their actions? I see things every day in the news that show the decision-makers in these companies believe themselves safe behind the faceless facade of a corporate logo and a high-priced legal team. For instance, in California Anthem is raising insurance rates 40%, Toyota has lied for years about the severity of its runaway cars, and banks that needed bailout money eight months ago are giving out the highest bonuses they've ever given, to men and women who failed utterly at their jobs.
   It's as if they think nobody will notice, or if somebody does notice, there's nothing anyone can do about it. There are human beings who made these decisions, people who've taken leave of their senses and let greed and apathy take over their more charitable virtues. They're secure in their anonymity, and that's dangerous. People will do all sorts of things when they think nobody else is looking or nobody else will ever find out. When there are no consequences people tend to let their baser instincts rule them. So let's make consequences.
   I say we create a Punch In The Nose Patrol, staffed with the biggest, meanest, most tattooed, punching-est ex-cons we can find. When Anthem decides to raise rates 40%, we send out the Punch In The Nose Patrol, who will find the person who made the decision - there's always somebody who gives the go-ahead - and punch them square in the puss. Maybe twice. Not enough to kill them, but more than enough to humiliate them and send a clear message.
   What better consequence is there than corporal punishment? When you can't reason with someone, when a person has proved again and again and again that they can't be trusted to do the right thing on their own, they need to have some negative incentive. I guarantee you, if the President of Toyota thought for one second that he might be visited by the Punch In The Nose Patrol, he would never have ignored concerns about his cars. If Wall Street brokers thought they might get a knuckle sandwich they'd think twice about their lying, theiving way of business. They might decide the risk isn't worth it and move to another career entirely.
   I'm no ex-con, not by a longshot, but I humbly volunteer to be on the first Punch In The Nose Patrol. And I'm guessing that the list of applicants would be long enough to keep the Patrol staffed up for some time to come.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

So... I'm Supposed To Drink That?

A plumber came to the building today. To do exactly what I don't know, but he had to turn off the water to the entire building to do it. No biggie, it usually happens when they work on the shared water lines for the entire building. It's always fun clearing the lines when they turn the water back on, it spits and sputters and the toilets (or terlits, if you're Archie Bunker) pop and bang and rattle. Like a little haunted house. I got that today, and a little more besides.
   The water ran brown. And not a deep, rich, earthy brown, more like a tan-ish dookie brown, ocher and unappetizing.
   The building is old enough that sediment in the lines is unavoidable, but this was above and beyond. And it just ran and ran and ran. I had to flush the terlits a few times to get the water to run clear. This alarmed me, of course, so I went online and took a look at the Pasadena water quality reports. And, yes, that is totally an old man thing to do, I don't need you to remind me of it.
   Not to be alarmist, but the official report for 2008 lists potential contaminants such as microbes, pesticides, organic chemicals, and... drumroll.... radioactive stuff. And I'm supposed to drink this, do laundry with it, cook with it, and make my rubber duckies pretend to be battleships in it.
   I was spoiled growing up, I lived in San Antonio, which has a large, tasty supply of water in a limestone aquifer that filters rainwater so completely they have to do almost nothing to it to make it suitable for consumption. The worst thing I had to worry about was cleaning the bathroom because the water was so hard (all that limestone, you know). But it wasn't radioactive. Or doo-doo brown.
   I already have a water filter pitcher that I use, now I guess I have to figure out how to make that work for every other water line in my apartment.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Get Dressed To Make A Phone Call

When you're a kid your life is nothing but a series of firsts. First steps, first teeth, first broken bone, first driver's license, first kiss, first run-in with John Law, the list goes on and on. But as you get older the list grows shorter and shorter. You've done many things at least once, and the older you get, the less inclined you are to doing anything new or anything dangerous. If you haven't ever jumped from an airplane once you turn 30 chances are good you never will. And I'm over 30. But I did buck the trend today, and had another first.
   I had my first Skype call.
   Since my computer has a camera built-in I've had this capability for a year and half now, but I never downloaded Skype, never installed it, never felt the need to. But a friend of mine is doing some freelance work and is using up her cell phone minutes, and she was under the mistaken impression that I used Skype regularly. She is also one of those people who doesn't have a land line, for some unfathomable reason. I did a quick install, set up my account, and she called me. It was interesting, much like video teleconferences they've had for decades, but from the convenience of my own living room.
   I gotta say, I don't like the idea of having to get dressed to make a phone call.
   I knew she was going to call, so I combed my hair. Not something I'm used to doing for a phone conversation. That's the great thing about phone calls, you can do anything - and I do mean ANYTHING, just ask my sister - while you're talking to someone. But not with Skype. I have to sit in my chair at my desk, stare into the camera so I look engaged, and be careful not to make any noises that the microphone might pick up. And trust me, I make a lot of noises no one else wants to hear.
   It's convenient for keeping in touch with loved ones, foreign exchange students talking to their parents back home, for instance, but for a quick chat or what have you, I'm not so sure video phones are a great idea. If I gotta make sure I'm wearing pants before I answer the phone something's not right with the world.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

From My Bookshelf

I read a lot. A LOT. Magazines, books, stuff on the Internet, books I've written myself, words and words and words and words and words. In the past few years I've leaned towards non-fiction books - seeing as how I write my own fiction - and I try to keep informed on advances in science through magazines. I also love Vanity Fair, even though I sound really fey when I admit that. I haven't been reading a lot of fiction, until recently when I paid another visit to Movie World in Burbank. I picked up this book, which reminded me why I started reading in the first place.

Pirates of Venus by Edgar Rice Burroughs
   This is pulp fiction at its grandest achievement, done by a master. Make no mistake, it's not high literature, the story is about a 1930's man who rockets to Venus and becomes leader of the noble savages there. It was written in that amazing time between 1900 and the advent of World War II, when pulp magazines ruled the news stands and the stories were ripping yarns of high adventure and base betrayal. I loved this stuff as a kid, it's what got me reading in the first place, and coming back to it now is like visiting my old college campus, familiar and yet with surprises I forgot I knew about.

   Edgar Rice Burroughs is the titan of early sci-fi responsible for Tarzan, John Carter of Mars, and Pellucidar (Hollow Earth). Tarzana, CA is named for Tarzan - really - and since Pirates of Venus was written in the 30's, the protagonist leaves from Tarzana to go to his rocket ship. Written towards the end of Burroughs's life and career, the Venus series borrows heavily from everything he'd written before, and he even mentions Tarzan and Pellucidar in the first chapter, but that doesn't detract from the work one bit. Every boy should read this. Twice.

Quote: (you're gonna love this)
'I pressed her to me for an instant; I kissed her, and then I gave her over to the birdman.
   "Hurry!" I cried. "They come!"
   Spreading his powerful wings, he rose from the ground, while Duare stretched her hands toward me. "Do not send me away from you, Carson! Do not send me away! I love you!"
   But it was too late, I would not have called her back could I have done so, for the armed men were upon me.
   Thus I went into captivity in the land of Noobol, an adventure that is no part of this story; but I went with the knowledge that the woman I loved, loved me, and I was happy.'

Friday, February 19, 2010

Two-Fisted Tales

Where did Steve McQueen go?
   Before you get all smarty and tell me he died quite a while back, I know that. I mean in a metaphorical sense, where did Steve McQueen go? A tough guy, who thought with his fists and led with his iron chin. A man's man, who could ride a horse, race a motorcycle, beat up the bad guy and still win the dame at the end of the day. A guy who could do stuff, who knew how to fix a car, or build a house, or take justice into his own two hands and see it delivered. What actor today knows how to do any of that stuff?
   Seriously, look at all the headliners. Pretty boys, who couldn't find their way out of a paper bag if their agent wasn't around to tell them how. They didn't have lives before they became actors, their lives are as actors, so they don't know how to do anything else. If you put them on a deserted island they'd starve to death or die of exposure because they don't know how to take care of themselves. It's just embarrassing, I tell you, having our country's major cultural contribution - films - riding on the mincing posturing of sissy actors. For God's sake, the toughest guys in American films aren't even American, they're Australian putting on a convincing accent. Jeez.
   Hollywood producers, put down your mirrors of cocaine and listen to me. No more emaciated metrosexuals, if you have a man's role, you get a real man to play it. Like in the old days. When Rock Hudson was a movie star.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Weather Does Not Compute

Do you know what Southern California needs? Cyborg weathermen.
   This time of year the weather is very important in LA, because it's the only time of year we get weather. You can see the giddy excitement building in our local weathermen starting a little before Thanksgiving, when the winds start to change and things cool off. Slightly. But then come Christmas, oh man, they go nuts.
   But there are so many of them, on too many channels. You got your Johnny Mountain, your Fritz Coleman, your Dallas Raines, your Kaj Goldberg and other less-colorfully named weathercasters, a veritable legion of people trying to bring me up-to-the-minute weather. They each put their own spin on what is essentially the National Weather Service forecast, and I don't know who to listen to.
   If we had a cyborg weatherman, though... ah, that would enforce consistency. Cyborgs don't need to eat or sleep, so they could be up all the time, 24x7, during severe weather. You'd only need one cyborg per channel, and you could use the salary expense saved to get more accurate forecasts - for the three months that sort of thing makes a difference here. If the eggheads at CalTech aren't already working on this, they should be.
   Let's see... who to cyborg first? I'd love to put metal parts on Fritz Coleman, but I think Johnny Mountain should lead the pack on this one, he would benefit the most from rigorous computer-based thinking.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Say My Name - Part 2

I'm getting old enough now that people generally call me 'sir' when they don't know what else to call me. Sometimes I'll get a 'buddy' or 'chief' or even 'dawg' now and then, but that's only in an informal setting, hoboes panhandling or what have you. In stores it's 'can I help you find something, sir?' or 'what can I get you, sir?' or 'yes, I'm certain you're too old to purchase a child's ticket, sir.'
   But recently I've noticed people calling my by my first name when I haven't given them permission to do so.
   Maybe it's just the old man in me rattling the bars of his cage again, but since when did it become acceptable for people to just assume they can address you informally, like a friend? I noticed it at the gym first, after I handed the guy my card he scanned it and said 'thanks, Don, have a good workout.' I know they mean it to be friendly and inviting, but I don't know this guy, and having him call me by my first name makes me wonder what else he's got on that hidden computer screen. Is he scanning my credit score? Does he have my home address? Does he know how I tipped the scales at my last weigh-in?
   Next it was the bank. They used to call me 'sir,' then it was 'Mr. Hartshorn,' and now it's 'Don.' I don't recall signing any approval for this, and I don't like it. I know the bank tellers can see all sorts of stuff about me and my accounts, so I'd prefer they kept it formal and went back to calling me 'sir.' When somebody calls me by my first name I always kind of expect that they're going to hit me up for money next.
   This has even happened to me at a restaurant, after I paid the tab. The waitress absconded with my card, ran it through the machine and then put it back on the table with a 'thanks, Don' as if she and I had been friends for years. It's just creepy and wrong, especially since I never took the time to remember her name even though she told it to me.
   At least at the grocery store they still call me 'Mr. Hartshorn.'
   So I'm putting everyone on notice, if you're not awarding me a million dollar jackpot, if I haven't given you permission beforehand, or if I'm not in front of you for medical advice or teeth cleaning, you don't get to call me anything but 'sir.' Well, maybe 'dawg' every once in a while. Makes me feel cool...

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

If You Can't Pronounce It, Should You Eat It?

I was reading the label of my soda the other day, and I realized that even though I'd been seeing 'sodium benzoate' for years, I really had no idea what it was. The other ingredients I pretty much know, water, high fructose corn syrup (the Devil's own sweetener), caramel color, caffeine, all those I know and, to a certain extent, understand. But not sodium benzoate.
   So I cracked open Wikipedia - the lazy man's library - and started looking.
   Sodium benzoate is a preservative, says as much on the label of the soda bottle, but it's also used in certain fireworks. It keeps bateria and fungus from growing, which I'm pretty much all for, at least in regards to my Dr. Pepper. But it's also suspected as a contributor to hyperactivity.
   Hmmm... interesting. My curiosity piqued, I decided to look up a few other things I'd seen on food labels but never bothered to learn more about.

In my breakfast cereal
   BHT - butylated hydroxytoluene
   This sounds nasty right from the get-go, but wait'll you read the Wikipedia entry: 'an antioxidant additive in cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, jet fuels, rubber, petroleum products, electrical transformer oil, and embalming fluid.' So with my Special K I'm getting my daily allowance of jet fuel additive. Mmmmm... jet fuel...

In my hot dog buns
   calcium propionate
   Another perservative, this time for baked goods, it helps prevent mold growth, again a concept I'm all for. But it's also slightly toxic, and can be used as a pesticide. Yikes.

In my reduced-fat shredded cheddar cheese
   calcium sulfate
   Another mold inhibitor and desicant. It is also the main ingredient in plaster of paris and gypsum, which is the wall board in your house.

In my hot dogs (if you got buns, you need hot dogs)
   sodium nitrite
   A preservative, it also puts the mmmm... in bacon. But it's also used in textile manufacturing, in photography, and as an electrolyte in manufacturing. On the plus side, it's also been used as an antidote for cyanide poisoning.

I don't want to go all earthy-crunchy on you, and I'm certainly not about to give up hot dogs, but I think I'm going to pay a little more attention to what's on the labels of my food. Just sayin'...

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Mastodons And Banana Peels

I got to thinking about cavemen the other day. And I don't mean Otzi the iceman, I mean real cavemen from like 30,000 years ago, before cities, before science, probably even before writing. They lived hard lives, even a minor cut could get infected and lead to death, let alone anything as serious as getting mauled by a sabretoothed tiger or giving birth. But they soldiered on, invented agriculture and civilization and didn't have time for things like depression or road rage, even though they probably invented roads.
   But what did they find funny?
   There are certain universal tropes in humor - slipping a banana peel, for instance, or anything the Stooges do - but some things just aren't funny across cultures. Japanese don't think American humor is funny because it mocks people, while what the French find funny wouldn't be amusing in a New Yorker cartoon. And Dane Cook is never funny to anyone anywhere. People who lead hard lives need a lot of funny to unwind; both the Greeks and the Romans had a grand comic tradition, and Elizabethan England with its plagues, wars, and pestilences had Shakespeare and his hilariously funny comedies.
   So cavemen, who led lives ten times harder than the most abject Roman slave, had to have some kind of humor. What would they have found funny?
   I don't think satire would be a big hit with cavemen, which means irony would probably be right out. No Ben Franklin or Mark Twain for guys wearing bear furs. Since they didn't really have political institutions (that we know of) then there wouldn't have been a caveman Stephen Colbert . No witty rejoinders a la Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker, no clever cocktail party talk since they didn't have cocktails. Or probably parties for that matter.
   We're left with really broad humor, Three's Company kind of stuff, where Og shares a cave with Nee and Maa, two curvy, bouncy cave girls while putting one over on Old Man Nuk who only lets Og stay in the cave because Og pretends to be gay.
   Doubtless cavemen would have found face-slapping amusing, so the Stooges would have been a big hit. Also Gilligan's Island, although they might have found the premise more of tragedy than a comedy. And they probably would have killed Gilligan the first time he cost them a trip off the island.
   Maybe I'm selling our caveman ancestors short here, but I think they would have found farts immensely funny. I know I thought farts were funny when I was little and they're still hilarious to this day, so I don't think cavemen would have taken the high ground on this one.
   Did cavemen have limericks? 'There once was mastodon from Nantucket...'
   See? This is why I need a time machine, so I can solve this kind of question. Let's get the egghead scientists cracking on this one.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Arm Bars And Leg Locks

I was in the gym locker room this morning, minding my own business, when I was drawn into a conversation against my will. Not that I actually participated, but I did eavesdrop shamelessly. Normally at the gym I ignore other people's discussions, and the locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, so it's mostly just 'hi-bye' if you see someone you know. But not this time. Two guys met and I just couldn't help listening in.
   They were MMA fighters.
   For those of you who have been living under a rock for the past ten years, MMA is Mixed Martial Arts fighting, 'the battle in the octagon.' At least UFC uses an octagon, others don't. It's like boxing and kickboxing with grappling thrown in. High-enery, high-octane fights, and there's always blood. Makes me feel sixteen again just watching it.
   Anyway, these two guys recognized each other from MMA events they'd participated in, but I didn't recognize them at all. They introduced themselves and then got to talking. You might think that listening to two guys talk about where to get boxing equipment and how to punch past someone's guard might be boring, but it wasn't. I was actually surprised by how fascinating I found everything they said.
   I once spent an entire flight from Dulles Airport to San Antonio wedged between two flight engineers. I thought that would be interesting but I was wrong. Dead wrong. I had never wanted to claw my eyes out from boredom before that flight. And I figured that listening to these two fighters talk would be the same thing. Wrong.
   They were both older, mid-thirties, on the lower rungs of the MMA ladder and not going to climb any higher. They had day jobs outside of fighting, so they couldn't get completely beaten up in a fight because they had to go to work the next day. They knew which promoters were honest and which were crooks. They had families, wives and children that benefited from the little extra money fighting brought in. They were lamenting the loss of speed that comes with aging, but knew they had an edge in experience. Kind of like old wolves in the pack, they knew their time was past but they were going to fight on until they just couldn't do it any more.
   It was a fascinating glimpse into a world I'm not part of, making guys who are superhuman on TV seem all to fragile and normal, beset by the same problems and worries everybody has. One guy even said 'I got so much running through my brain now it's hard to turn it off and just fight.'
   I also learned that the economic downturn has hit the boxing supply stores hard too. There's a sale this weekend on gym equipment, but it's priced so cheap now - over half off - that it's now affordable for your home. So if you want a six-foot-tall Muy Thai heavy bag, let me know, I'll hook you up, evidently this weekend they're less than a hundred bucks.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Boxing Tigers

How come you never see boxing tigers?
   I saw an old video - used to be 8mm film - of cats boxing. I don't know the context, but it was clearly a pre-PETA thing, where some guy in a dark suit had built a cat-sized boxing ring and then put gloves on two cats. He'd pick them up by scruff of their necks and they'd flail at each other with their boxing gloves until he set them down again.
   It was terrible, and not just because it was cruel, but because it wasn't funny. It was clearly supposed to be funny - cats with boxing gloves, hilarious! - and the guy in the suit certainly had a good time picking up the cats, but it didn't deliver the goods.
   As a matter of fact, back in the 30's, 40's, 50's, when we saw the world in black-and-white newsreels or kinescopes of old TV shows, they'd put boxing gloves on just about any animal. Kangaroos, orangutans, little monkeys, ostriches, otters, I remember seeing all of these at one time or another. Clearly intended to be funny, but not really funny at all.
   Ah... but tigers with boxing gloves, now we're talking something entirely different. Why would this be funny when the others aren't? Because somebody has to go put the gloves on the tiger. See, it's easy to force gloves onto cat's paws, or onto a compliant orangutan's hands, but tigers aren't really down with the sweet science, and they certainly don't like people screwing around with their feet. And, assuming someone actually does get boxing gloves onto a tiger's front paws, chances are good the gloves aren't going to last very long, seeing as how tigers have big ol' claws and fangs.
   I think we should have a reality show where we take people from other reality shows and have them try to put boxing gloves on tigers. I figure we take everybody from Survivor and see just how tough they really are, and the douchebags from Jon and Kate, and all of the Kardashians. I'll bet we'd have some pretty fat tigers after a while.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Uneasy Dreams

Have you ever eaten something really spicy or really rich and then you have some freaky sort of dream that night? Seems common enough, and it happens to me from time to time.
   But I gotta tell you, if I start pondering imponderables just before bed, or in bed... look out.
   So, last night I was laying in bed and I started thinking about stuff. The kind of stuff I think about - I've discovered over the years - is not necessarily what other people think about. Specifically, I was thinking about two things, bent time again and the nature of sub-atomic particles. I still haven't figured out what bent time is, but I'm working on it, and the imprecise nature of our models of sub-atomic particles has always bothered me, since high school. For instance, if you measure an electron one way it acts like a particle, but if you measure it another way it acts like a wave. What does that really mean? At the very least it means an electron is neither a particle nor a wave but another thing entirely. But what is that other thing?
   Anyhoo... after about half an hour of thinking this stuff over I fell asleep, only to have some of the freakiest dreams ever. I don't remember them really, they're kind of hazy and indistinct, but I do remember waking up thinking 'what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I dreaming this stuff?' The only part I remember specifically is when I was dreaming about the curvature of space-time (so sue me, I'm weird), and I thought that I probably shouldn't go too much farther down the line of reasoning I was following, because I might think myself out of existence. How's that for seriously f'ed-up dreaming?
   I think I'm on to something, though. My mind wouldn't shut me down unless I was pretty close to some kind of revelation. So if I suddenly cease to exist you'll know that I figured out something big. Unless my ceasing to exist is retroactive along the curvature of space-time, and nobody remembers that I ever was here... aw, crap, it's gonna be a long night.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

A Guy Walks Into A Bar...

Hey, buddy, what'll it be?
   Something with an umbrella in it.
Sorry, closest thing we have is a lemon peel twist. Got maraschino cherries too.
   I don't know. Surprise me.
You got it.
   Well, aren't you gonna ask?
About what?
   The clown costume. I'm wearing a clown costume and I'm looking to get drunk in a dive bar.
You'd be surprised by how much that doesn't surprise me. We get clowns all the time. A couple are regulars.
   Really? I thought I was treading new ground. Another failure to add to the list. I'm Notes, by the way. Notes the Clown.
Harvey.
   I've never met a Harvey before. That's a good name. Not like Notes.
What's wrong with Notes?
   Duh. It's lame. I'm supposed to be one of those clowns that communicates through music. Who doesn't speak and doesn't need to. Like Harpo Marx.
But you're in here holding a conversation with me.
   See? Complete failure. I can't even play the recorder, let alone something difficult like the harp. Third-graders play the recorder better than I can. I'm a washout.
So you're drowning your sorrows.
   Trying to. What is this?
An apple-tini.
   Seriously? I might be a clown but I'm not gay.
Sorry, I just thought, you know, with the eye liner, that bowler hat, and the unitard...
   It's a performance art concept! Jeez!
I said I was sorry. How about a boilermaker? On the house.
   Now you're talking. But I shouldn't be mad. You're not the first to assume Notes played for the other team. I'm starting to think it's all my fault.
Gonna look for another line of work?
   Doing what? I have a BA in Psychology.
Oooh. Yeah, tough one.
   'You want fries with that?' That's what I'm looking forward to. At least it's honest work.
Hey, look who's here! It's Patches. Haven't seen her in a while.
   Patches? She's the hottest thing on the clown circuit. Oh, God, is my tie on crooked? Is my flower droopy enough?
You look fine. Why don't you go talk to her?
   You think I should?
She comes in alone, she leaves alone. I'm guessing she's looking for the right clown to come along. Could be you.
   All right, I'm going in. Wish me luck.
Break a leg, buddy.
   It's Notes. Notes the Clown. And he's back in the game.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Tales From My Past - Condemned

Time was, I used to work for the US Government as a contractor. I deployed military medical systems across the country and across the globe. I got to go to England, Japan, and Germany on the taxpayer's dime, so thank you very much, those who paid their taxes. But for every time I got to go to a different country, I paid for it with a trip to places like Beaufort, SC, or O'Fallon IL. Uncle Sugar giveth, Uncle Sugar taketh away...
   This tale, however, is about a building. A creaky, condemned building that was my office for quite a while. It had been built during World War I - seriously - when Brooks AFB was brand-new,and had a twenty-year life span. Which would put the building's demise some time during the Depression. The one in the 1930's, not the one now. But the Army Air Corps didn't tear it down, and neither did the Air Force. In the decades between the Great War and my time there, it had been a mess hall, a morgue, a place to store office furniture, temporary living quarters, a supply depot, and even a youth center.
   It had been condemned since the late 80's as a place unsuitable for habitation, a twenty-year building that had lasted seventy years. That didn't stop commanders from claiming it as soon as it was empty, however, including the commander of our element. The place was crumbling, literally, and was not level, not plumb, and it was wracked. Not a straight line in the place. The windows didn't shut properly so it was drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. One conference room was the worst, as we measured an eleven-inch difference in the height from one corner to the diagonally opposite corner. You could lay a pencil on the high side of the conference table and it would roll down and shoot off the far side as if someone had thrown it. I'm sure it was full of mold and whatever you get from corpses in a morgue, and there were for certain mice, rats, possums, skunks, and armadillos all vying for space under the building. Ah, good times, good times...
   At long last our commander surrendered the place and we moved to better quarters. The Engineer Corps did something amazing to this building to finally put it out of its misery. They got six guys with chainsaws and took one side of the building away. I watched them do it, the engineers sawed the back half of the building off, to make it completely unsuitable for habitation, and to make it so that no one would try to squat. But it gets better.
   Fast forward to six months later. I've gotten another job, working for an insurance company, and I came back to Brooks to visit the old team. We went by our old place, the one they'd sawn in half. The Engineer Corps had salted the earth. They had torn up the curbs and put entirely new ones in, they'd torn up the parking lot and put in grass, they'd torn up the sewer lines, the water lines, the electric transformer, and the gas lines. They dug up the foundation posts and hauled the cement away. They even re-numbered the street address, made it appear that there had never been any structure there in the first place. They erased the building.
   That's ruthless efficiency right there. Admirable and yet a little disturbing at the same time. Makes you realize that with the right motivation and the right people in charge, almost anything can get done.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

On A Rampage

With all apologies to EPMD and LL Cool J, I think I have a solution to our country's economic crisis. It's so simple, so easy, and straightforward that I can't be the first person to have thought of it. I just wonder why the government hasn't done anything to implement this master plan. What is the plan? Glad you asked.
   We need to get giant monsters to rampage through our cities.
   Yup, it's just that easy. We get someone to go to Monster Island - I'd say Raymond Burr but he's dead - rile up a few of the bigger, more aggressive monsters, let them know that the provocation is coming from the USA, and then sit back and watch the rampaging begin.
   Sure, there would be some destruction, but you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and think of all the jobs created during the eventual re-construction after the monsters bust up a few of our cities. You'd need platoons of carpenters, masons, engineers, plumbers, landscapers, and all sorts of other professions that actually do something, as opposed to stock brokers or other financial parasites. People would need raw materials, there'd be a boom in recycling, probably a run on giant monster meat before it spoiled, all sorts of demand for lasers that could penetrate foot-thick monster hide. I tell you, commerce will just start humming along again. And don't even get me started on all the local landmarks that will need special attention when the monsters are done. Believe me, when Godzilla comes stomping through Seattle he's gonna use the Space Needle as a weapon, and they'll want to replace it once he's subdued.
   It'll be like Eisenhower and his Interstate Highway System, only with giant monsters.
   I'd want Gamera to come through LA, because he's nicer than the other monsters so he'd likely be more choosy about what to destroy, and because he does gymnastics, like a 200-foot-tall Mary Lou Retton with a turtle shell on her back.
   Somebody get the President on the phone.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

What's Wrong With Being Weird?

I've noticed a trend lately - and maybe it's just because I'm home during the day during my time 'between assignments' - but it seems that everybody needs a diagnosis nowadays.
   You get kids with ADD or ADHD or anxiety disorder or OCD, you have celebrities with sex addiction, people with detachment disorders, maladjusted loners have Asperger's syndrome, fat people have eating disorders... I mean, seriously, it's getting so that people who don't have some sort of medical condition explaining their behavior are in the minority.
   What the hell? Back in the day, when I was a kid, we had the fat kid (yes, me), the angry kid, the sneaky kid, the hyper kid, the sissy kid, the smart kid, and the artsy kid. None of us had or needed a diagnosis, we were all cool with who we were and what others expected of us. And if the angry kid suddenly decided he loved animals and stopped being angry, well, we just accepted it. If the fat kid stopped eating so much and lost weight, well, he wasn't fat kid any more. No biggie.
   Our behavior was something we did, not something we were. Which meant that we were responsible for how we acted, we didn't have an excuse to point to: 'Oh, I have a detachment disorder, that's why I hit people with rulers.' No way, no how could we get away with that. And the weird kid was just the weird kid, he didn't have autism or a personality disorder or a metabolic defect. He didn't need an explanation and we didn't want one.
   I think this business about giving everybody a diagnosis is the worst sort of communism, because it assumes not only is there a middle ground for what is acceptable behavior, but that everyone should strive to meet that middle ground. Which is bullshit of the worst kind. I wasn't there, I don't know for sure, but I can guarantee you Albert Einstein was the weird kid in his school. So was Picasso, and Leonardo, and for sure Hemingway who was also probably the sissy kid. If any of these men - or any of the iconoclast high achievers during all of human history - had parents who looked for a diagnosis and then for drugs to 'fix' their weird kids, where would our society be?
   Enough already. Let kids be kids, stop pumping them full of drugs, and hold them responsible for their behavior. They'll rise to your expectations.
   Just keep them off my lawn...

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Just Call Me Sgt. Schultz

I have been trying to re-examine the way I interact with the world. Lately I have noticed that I'm not noticing things, or at least not looking at things with the same kind of critical eye I used to. This is part of growing older, I suppose, but it's also part of growing lazier. Adults are used to having the answers, experience has taught us what things are and what they are not. At least most of the time.
   But I think it's better to stay ignorant sometimes. Or, at the very least, to let go of the idea that I need to have all the answers all the time. I need to be able to pick something up, turn it over and around and upside-down and get to know it for what it is, not for what I think it is.
   Little kids do this automatically. Toddlers, especially, discover something new all the time, every hour of every day. Things that adults know and have dealt with for years are things they've never encountered before. Corners on coffee tables, dust bunnies under the bed, fringe on carpets, tupperware, it's all new, all something to be examined and re-examined, broken and put back together again.
   So that's what I'm gonna do. Break stuff. Metaphorically, of course, some of my stuff would be pretty expensive to replace.
    note: for those of you who have no idea who Sgt. Schultz is, he was a character on Hogan's Heroes, which you can probably catch on Nick at Night. If that still exists, I don't know I don't have cable any more. His motto was 'I know nothing,' which is amazingly Socratic for a TV sitcom Nazi.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Sometimes I worry that I might get hit by a meteor. And not because I'm afraid I'll get a white-hot piece of space rock embedded in my skull, I'm just worried that getting hit by a meteor will completely blow my chances of winning the lottery.
   See, the odds of actually getting hit by a meteor - or is it meteorite? - are vanishingly small. But not zero. It could happen. So, let's say that the odds are 1 in 10 trillion. Pretty long odds, but stranger things have happened to me.
   The odds of winning the Mega Millions drawing are about 1 in 175 million. That's six orders of magnitude less than 10 trillion. It's waaaaay more probable that I would win the lottery. Which does give me hope.
   If you think about it, though, as uncommon as it is to win the lottery, it's far, far, far, far more uncommon to win the lottery TWICE. And that's what would happen if I got hit my a meteor and then also won the lottery. Just not gonna happen.
   This is why I keep my eyes on the skies. If I see a streak of flaming debris headed my way, I'm going to jump aside. Because they don't give you money for getting hit by rocks.