I've been slowly converting the light bulbs in my house to LEDs. Slowly because LEDs are expensive - REALLY expensive - and because sometimes they don't give enough light for my purposes. I think LEDs are the way to go for the sustainable future instead of poisonous and awful compact flourescents, which I predict will become the 8-track tapes of the lighting world. Let's hope.
Today as I was surfing the web looking for what's on the cutting edge of LED technology (you can't rely on Lowe's to lead innovation), I saw an application that had never crossed my mind.
Grow lights. Indoor grow lights.
I know, I know there are legitimate uses for indoor grow lights. Like... uh... well, I'm sure there are some. But I know and you know and everybody in the country knows the real use for indoor grow lights is pot farming.
I had an Indian friend* who bought a house years ago. It was a bank repo long before that was common, and he got a fantastic deal on it, mostly because the previous owner defaulted after some legal problems. Criminal legal problems.
My friend had me over to his new castle and showed me around. It was an older house in Pasadena and so didn't have AC. Except, he pronounced, in the attic which was colder than penguin turds. When he and his wife wanted AC they just pulled down the step ladder and let the cool air waft over them.
He showed me into the attic, which was indeed painted perfectly, finished out, with a great-big AC unit in one end. There were also electrical outlets every 18 inches on-center, and a hook above a weathered circle in the finished attic floor between each and every rafter for the length of the house, both sides.
"You know what this used to be, don't you?" I asked him. Blank stare back. "Pot farm."
He didn't believe me. At first. But as he looked I saw the realization dawn in his eyes; the guy before had one marijuana plant between every set of rafters, a huge grow light hanging from the hook above each plant, a pan to catch the water below, and Arctic air conditioning to keep his stash from wilting in the heat. Pretty slick setup except for managing the heat from all those grow lights.
Fast forward to today and the modern, eco-minded pot farmer. If you used LED grow lights you wouldn't have any of the temperature control problems you have with regular grow lights. And no heat would mean your pot farm wouldn't be betrayed to infrared sensors on police helicopters. PLUS you'd be saving electricity which means more profit for your illegal operation. Win-win-win all around. Of course, you'd have to not be totally baked all the time to have your wits about you enough to make this a reality. It could happen.
Like everything else, I'll bet vice drives innovation in the LED lighting market too.
* Slurpee Indian, not casino Indian
Showing posts with label doomsday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doomsday. Show all posts
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned the garbage man may have it in for me. As far as I know I've done nothing to him to merit his wrath, yet I still feel persecuted.
Back in the day, when there were three channels on TV plus PBS, there were three men on the garbage truck. One drove, presumably the senior member of the crew, and two clung to the sides of the truck like remoras.* The truck would rumble down the alley, the two guys would leap off and grab what you'd left out, toss it into the gaping maw, leap back on and go to the next pile of bags. They were usually convivial, even joking, and kept one another company as they did what had to be a miserable job.
Now, though, there's just one garbageman. One loner in his truck, operating a remote-controlled claw. No exercise, no fresh air, no companionship. The lone garbageman is like the lone gunman, except his tower is a five-ton truck and his sniper rifle is the claw.
We used to leave gifts for the garbagemen at Christmas. Really, just like we did for the paper boy, the postman, and the ritzy homes did for their milk men. Little notes with a couple of bucks inside and a 'thanks for doing a great job!' message. But now, with the garbageman hermetically sealed in his cabin, silently seething, teeth gritted in all-consuming resentment, I don't know how I'd get a gift to him. Maybe carrier pigeon?
This is why I think he's pissed off - aside from the way he leaves the huge can smack in the middle of my driveway - he knows he's never going to get a Christmas gift.
I tried to wave to him today, but he refused to acknowledge me. I think one day he's going to drive his truck through my front door, grab me with the big yellow claw, and toss me into the bin.
Sure, call me crazy, but one day, when there's a garbage-truck sized hole in the front of my house, you'll all feel pretty guilty.
* that kind of simile is probably what pisses off garbagemen...
Back in the day, when there were three channels on TV plus PBS, there were three men on the garbage truck. One drove, presumably the senior member of the crew, and two clung to the sides of the truck like remoras.* The truck would rumble down the alley, the two guys would leap off and grab what you'd left out, toss it into the gaping maw, leap back on and go to the next pile of bags. They were usually convivial, even joking, and kept one another company as they did what had to be a miserable job.
Now, though, there's just one garbageman. One loner in his truck, operating a remote-controlled claw. No exercise, no fresh air, no companionship. The lone garbageman is like the lone gunman, except his tower is a five-ton truck and his sniper rifle is the claw.
We used to leave gifts for the garbagemen at Christmas. Really, just like we did for the paper boy, the postman, and the ritzy homes did for their milk men. Little notes with a couple of bucks inside and a 'thanks for doing a great job!' message. But now, with the garbageman hermetically sealed in his cabin, silently seething, teeth gritted in all-consuming resentment, I don't know how I'd get a gift to him. Maybe carrier pigeon?
This is why I think he's pissed off - aside from the way he leaves the huge can smack in the middle of my driveway - he knows he's never going to get a Christmas gift.
I tried to wave to him today, but he refused to acknowledge me. I think one day he's going to drive his truck through my front door, grab me with the big yellow claw, and toss me into the bin.
Sure, call me crazy, but one day, when there's a garbage-truck sized hole in the front of my house, you'll all feel pretty guilty.
* that kind of simile is probably what pisses off garbagemen...
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
If I Had A Robot...
We're through the first decade of the Twenty-First Century. Jeez... already... We're supposed to have flying cars and jet packs and friendly robots. So far, though, the only robots like the kind I expected are small and made by the Japanese, who no doubt have some sort of deviance planned for them. I want my robot, dammit.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Geek Musings
I'm about to get really nerdy on you, so send the kids out of the room.
I was just watching a bit of STNG* and one of the characters was holding a candleholder with a lit candle in it. There was some talk about taking it back up to the ship** and the scene continued. But my attention didn't go with them.
I was wondering what would happen if one of those characters tried to use the transporter while carrying an open flame.
We can indulge our willing suspension of disbelief and admit the existence of a transporter, which disassembles things - rocks, fences, people - on a sub-atomic level, moves those sub-atomic particles from one place to another, and then reassembles them into a perfect duplicate of the original. It takes matter from one location and puts it instantaneously into another location.
But fire isn't matter, it's energy. So how would the transporter work? There's no material to get ahold of, nothing there to disassemble that could be reassembled somewhere else. I'm thinking the process would just extinguish the candle. Or blow up in a massive explosion. Or rip a hole in the space-time continuum that only Wesley Crusher could fix.
This is the kind of stuff that would occupy my mind all the time if I let it. Which I don't. Mostly.
I got a few more questions along those lines:
If a lightsaber is made of light (duh), how does it come to a point instead of scattering like a flashlight?
If warp drives really worked, why would it take any time at all to get from point A to point B? Wouldn't the engines just warp space-time and make point A right next to point B and the ship would move across like walking through a doorway?
If future Earth is populated by intelligent apes, why have they given up their feces-flinging ways? Wouldn't that become their football? Wouldn't they have a Super Feces-Flinging Bowl?
If someone invented time travel, wouldn't there almost instantaneously be millions of time travelers invading every moment in time?
* that Star Trek the Next Generation for the uninitiated
** that's the Enterprise, NCC 1701-D
I was just watching a bit of STNG* and one of the characters was holding a candleholder with a lit candle in it. There was some talk about taking it back up to the ship** and the scene continued. But my attention didn't go with them.
I was wondering what would happen if one of those characters tried to use the transporter while carrying an open flame.
We can indulge our willing suspension of disbelief and admit the existence of a transporter, which disassembles things - rocks, fences, people - on a sub-atomic level, moves those sub-atomic particles from one place to another, and then reassembles them into a perfect duplicate of the original. It takes matter from one location and puts it instantaneously into another location.
But fire isn't matter, it's energy. So how would the transporter work? There's no material to get ahold of, nothing there to disassemble that could be reassembled somewhere else. I'm thinking the process would just extinguish the candle. Or blow up in a massive explosion. Or rip a hole in the space-time continuum that only Wesley Crusher could fix.
This is the kind of stuff that would occupy my mind all the time if I let it. Which I don't. Mostly.
I got a few more questions along those lines:
If a lightsaber is made of light (duh), how does it come to a point instead of scattering like a flashlight?
If warp drives really worked, why would it take any time at all to get from point A to point B? Wouldn't the engines just warp space-time and make point A right next to point B and the ship would move across like walking through a doorway?
If future Earth is populated by intelligent apes, why have they given up their feces-flinging ways? Wouldn't that become their football? Wouldn't they have a Super Feces-Flinging Bowl?
If someone invented time travel, wouldn't there almost instantaneously be millions of time travelers invading every moment in time?
* that Star Trek the Next Generation for the uninitiated
** that's the Enterprise, NCC 1701-D
Friday, August 27, 2010
Shorts 'N Boots
I know it's been hot here in SoCal lately, and I want to be understanding. Really, I do. The AC in my apartment works only halfway at best, and the AC in my truck doesn't hardly work at all. I can sympathize with someone who's just trying to make the best of a bad situation.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Dumpster Diving Don
I had to get into the garbage bin in my apartment complex today.
This was not a pleasure cruise, I had serious business. Vital business. The kind of crucial business that would make me jump into a dumpster filled with other people's leavings.
I went down into the garage and emulated what I'd witnessed the garbage man do before. You see, you have to really put your back into it to move those things around, even though they're on wheels. They're heavy enough by themselves, but when you put a couple hundred pounds of...
I'm sorry? What's that? What was so important that I had to crawl into the dumpster in the first place? Yeah, um... that's... uh... classified. Sure. Classified.
So once I got the dumpster out of the little tiny space they keep it in, I pulled myself into it, right over the side like I'd been doing it all my life. Even landed on my feet. I made sure I was wearing nothing new, nothing that I wouldn't mind just leaving there in the dumpster if I needed to.
Okay, you, with the hand raised, looks like you have something on your mind. What do you mean I didn't answer the question? Of course I did. I was in the dumpster on vital, classified business. Meaning, Mr. Smarty-Pants, that if told you what I was doing in there I would be in violation of all sorts of national security stuff. Secret clearance, all that.
Excuse me? Yes, well... okay, you're right, my clearance did expire something like five years ago, but... I'm still bound by... there are some things that civilians... Okay. Fine.
I was in the dumpster retrieving Lotto tickets for tonight that I'd accidentally thrown out this morning.
There. Are you happy?
What's so funny? Huh? Bet you'll all feel like chumps when I win a million bucks tonight. That'll make dealing with the garbage juice worth it.
This was not a pleasure cruise, I had serious business. Vital business. The kind of crucial business that would make me jump into a dumpster filled with other people's leavings.
I went down into the garage and emulated what I'd witnessed the garbage man do before. You see, you have to really put your back into it to move those things around, even though they're on wheels. They're heavy enough by themselves, but when you put a couple hundred pounds of...
I'm sorry? What's that? What was so important that I had to crawl into the dumpster in the first place? Yeah, um... that's... uh... classified. Sure. Classified.
So once I got the dumpster out of the little tiny space they keep it in, I pulled myself into it, right over the side like I'd been doing it all my life. Even landed on my feet. I made sure I was wearing nothing new, nothing that I wouldn't mind just leaving there in the dumpster if I needed to.
Okay, you, with the hand raised, looks like you have something on your mind. What do you mean I didn't answer the question? Of course I did. I was in the dumpster on vital, classified business. Meaning, Mr. Smarty-Pants, that if told you what I was doing in there I would be in violation of all sorts of national security stuff. Secret clearance, all that.
Excuse me? Yes, well... okay, you're right, my clearance did expire something like five years ago, but... I'm still bound by... there are some things that civilians... Okay. Fine.
I was in the dumpster retrieving Lotto tickets for tonight that I'd accidentally thrown out this morning.
There. Are you happy?
What's so funny? Huh? Bet you'll all feel like chumps when I win a million bucks tonight. That'll make dealing with the garbage juice worth it.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Man's Best Friend
Hey Beans.
Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
Can I sniff your butt now?
COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days
Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
Can I sniff your butt now?
COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days
Thursday, December 31, 2009
It's Not The End Of The Decade
I've seen all sorts of 'Decade in Review' stuff on TV these past two days, and I've let it go. But the more I think about it, the more I hate it. It's not the end of the decade, just like the year 2000 was not the start of the new millennium.
Our Western method of noting the years begins with the birth of Christ, or at least when people generally assume Jesus was born. The whole CE-BCE academic conceit aside - don't get me started on that one - the Gregorian calendar begins with the year 1. There is no year 0. Since a decade is ten years, the first decade would have ended on Dec 31st, 10, and the next decade would have begun on Jan 1st, 11. This means the first century would have ended on Dec 31st 100, the second century would have begun on Jan 1st, 101, etc. etc. etc. The second millennium began on Jan 1st, 2001, which means the first decade of that millennium ends next year, on Dec 31st, 2010.
Is it so hard to get this right?
And don't try to tell me that if everybody thinks the decade ends on the last day of 2009 that makes it so. The truth cannot be altered by ignorant consensus. If I get a bunch of morons together who all agree that the sky is yellow, that does not mean that when I step outside I'm going to look up to see a lemon heaven. The sky is blue, no matter what people say otherwise, and this is not the end of this decade, even though all the jackasses on TV say it is.
Maybe I'll be less cranky with the new decade. You know, in 2011.
Our Western method of noting the years begins with the birth of Christ, or at least when people generally assume Jesus was born. The whole CE-BCE academic conceit aside - don't get me started on that one - the Gregorian calendar begins with the year 1. There is no year 0. Since a decade is ten years, the first decade would have ended on Dec 31st, 10, and the next decade would have begun on Jan 1st, 11. This means the first century would have ended on Dec 31st 100, the second century would have begun on Jan 1st, 101, etc. etc. etc. The second millennium began on Jan 1st, 2001, which means the first decade of that millennium ends next year, on Dec 31st, 2010.
Is it so hard to get this right?
And don't try to tell me that if everybody thinks the decade ends on the last day of 2009 that makes it so. The truth cannot be altered by ignorant consensus. If I get a bunch of morons together who all agree that the sky is yellow, that does not mean that when I step outside I'm going to look up to see a lemon heaven. The sky is blue, no matter what people say otherwise, and this is not the end of this decade, even though all the jackasses on TV say it is.
Maybe I'll be less cranky with the new decade. You know, in 2011.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Uh-oh...
After a particularly surreal phone interview in which I was turned down because I made too little in my prior job - yup, you read that right, I didn't make enough to be considered for this new position - I had to take a few minutes to unwind. So I clicked through the broadcast channels and settled on 20.1, which in Pasadena is a Spanish-language channel. I don't really speak Spanish, just the curse words, but I was following the story, and after a few minutes it was all making sense to me. Then, in horror, I made a terrible, terrible, shocking revelation. With that one simple act, watching Spanish-language TV even though I don't speak Spanish, my life had completely changed.
I had turned into my father.
Once, years ago, I walked into the house to find him watching 'The Seven Samurai' on channel 41, Univision in San Antonio. The movie was spoken in Japanese, but subtitled in Spanish, and my father neither reads, writes, nor speaks either of those languages. When I called him on it he outlined the story for me and continued watching.
And now the curse has fallen on the next generation. On me. I can see that I will eventually turn into my own grandfather, no use in fighting it, I'm gonna grab this bull by the horns and ride it to the bitter end. I'll need polyester jumpsuits in colors not found in nature, a fedora, black socks with worn dress shoes, and a great-big American land yacht of a car.
I drive a Chevy Tahoe, so I already got the last one covered. Pray for me.
I had turned into my father.
Once, years ago, I walked into the house to find him watching 'The Seven Samurai' on channel 41, Univision in San Antonio. The movie was spoken in Japanese, but subtitled in Spanish, and my father neither reads, writes, nor speaks either of those languages. When I called him on it he outlined the story for me and continued watching.
And now the curse has fallen on the next generation. On me. I can see that I will eventually turn into my own grandfather, no use in fighting it, I'm gonna grab this bull by the horns and ride it to the bitter end. I'll need polyester jumpsuits in colors not found in nature, a fedora, black socks with worn dress shoes, and a great-big American land yacht of a car.
I drive a Chevy Tahoe, so I already got the last one covered. Pray for me.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Another Career
I've been watching the History Channel a lot lately, I can't get enough of R. Lee Ermey blowing away watermelons (he was Gunny Hartman in 'Full Metal Jacket'), or the hefty proprietors in Pawn Stars, or nerds on TV in The Universe. But I really get into the Nostradamus/2012/Armageddon stuff, probably for the same reason I love circus sideshows and carnival midways, it's just too crazy to ignore. Watching the nearly-unhinged people who delve into medieval French and Mayan calendar stuff made me realize there's a career opportunity there.
I'm going to become a Doomsday predictor.
You know, one of those guys who gets on TV, wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket and looking all serious, proclaiming the end of the world is just around the corner. I don't want to be a crazy megachurch preacher - yet - I'm talking about the kind of guy who can get on a morning talk show and get people to buy into his ration of crap just by seeming to be sincere about it. I'll have a book to sell too, obviously. I'm thinking if I can get an appearance on Rachael Ray and The View, then Oprah can't be far behind. And everyone knows if you have the Oprah stamp of approval, you're golden.
The only thing is, I may be late to the bandwagon on this one. 2012 is only three years away, and if the shows on the History Channel are any indication, the crazy-eyebrowed Nostradamus-and-Mayan doomsday guys may already have the market sewn up.
But there's always room for one more loud, ill-informed pundit on TV, isn't there?
I'm going to become a Doomsday predictor.
You know, one of those guys who gets on TV, wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket and looking all serious, proclaiming the end of the world is just around the corner. I don't want to be a crazy megachurch preacher - yet - I'm talking about the kind of guy who can get on a morning talk show and get people to buy into his ration of crap just by seeming to be sincere about it. I'll have a book to sell too, obviously. I'm thinking if I can get an appearance on Rachael Ray and The View, then Oprah can't be far behind. And everyone knows if you have the Oprah stamp of approval, you're golden.
The only thing is, I may be late to the bandwagon on this one. 2012 is only three years away, and if the shows on the History Channel are any indication, the crazy-eyebrowed Nostradamus-and-Mayan doomsday guys may already have the market sewn up.
But there's always room for one more loud, ill-informed pundit on TV, isn't there?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Fun Games At Work
During your down time at work today - and let's be honest, you have a LOT of down time - why don't you engage your brain in some 'what-if' exercises? While you're growing more neurons you can confuse, concern, and enrage your co-workers, a win-win all around.
Who Survives?
You need at least one other person, so find a friend or make one real quick. Both of you sit down in a public area like a break room or dining facility, and take out a piece of paper. Make two columns on the page, one labeled 'In the Bunker' the other labeled 'Outside.' Your objective is to place all your co-workers, bosses, janitorial staff, etc. in one of these columns.
So what are the columns for?
The story is this: there has been a nuclear holocaust, and all that is left is your office. The only safe place is inside the building, but there aren't enough resources for everyone. At least half the people must be escorted outside the building where they'll succumb to the radiation. Or mutate horribly, or develop superpowers, whatever. Bottom line: the ones inside survive and the ones outside don't. You and your friend are in charge of who stays and who goes, of who lives and who dies. You'll need justification for each person you keep, Bob is a good cook, Dave knows how to skin a deer, Mary is necessary for repopulating the world, etc.
Once word gets out about what you're doing, you'll be surprised who takes an interest, especially if they're in the 'Outside' column. When they ask how you have the jurisdiction over life and death you can just tell them you wouldn't have the list if you didn't have the authority. Circular reasoning befuddles the masses.
Note: Don't create an 'airlock' to keep people in some kind of limbo, neither in nor out. Trust me, pretty soon you'll have more people in the airlock than outside or inside. You're the one making the tough decisions, so make them already.
Who Survives?
You need at least one other person, so find a friend or make one real quick. Both of you sit down in a public area like a break room or dining facility, and take out a piece of paper. Make two columns on the page, one labeled 'In the Bunker' the other labeled 'Outside.' Your objective is to place all your co-workers, bosses, janitorial staff, etc. in one of these columns.
So what are the columns for?
The story is this: there has been a nuclear holocaust, and all that is left is your office. The only safe place is inside the building, but there aren't enough resources for everyone. At least half the people must be escorted outside the building where they'll succumb to the radiation. Or mutate horribly, or develop superpowers, whatever. Bottom line: the ones inside survive and the ones outside don't. You and your friend are in charge of who stays and who goes, of who lives and who dies. You'll need justification for each person you keep, Bob is a good cook, Dave knows how to skin a deer, Mary is necessary for repopulating the world, etc.
Once word gets out about what you're doing, you'll be surprised who takes an interest, especially if they're in the 'Outside' column. When they ask how you have the jurisdiction over life and death you can just tell them you wouldn't have the list if you didn't have the authority. Circular reasoning befuddles the masses.
Note: Don't create an 'airlock' to keep people in some kind of limbo, neither in nor out. Trust me, pretty soon you'll have more people in the airlock than outside or inside. You're the one making the tough decisions, so make them already.
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