Floating off the shore from one particular nondescript point at sea, one could observe in awe each community going about their daily business.
At one tip of Gimmee Island steam rose from Beet Village, home of the Beeticans (Pop. 1000). Today, like every day, the Beetican's enormous cauldrons were being fed by conveyor from large piles of freshly harvested beets. Beets were their only crop, and only food requirement.
Turning an eye to the other tip of the island, one could distinguish the bustle of activity from Bean Village, home of the Beanies (Pop. 1000). The Beanies feverishly piled enormous mountains of their own delicacy, beans, using giant cranes, ropes and and pulleys. Beans were their only crop, and only food requirement.
The Beanies and Beeticans, although lacking in culinary diversity, did enjoy abundance...
One Beetican was capable of consuming several dozen tons of beets in a single day. In fact, no red-blooded Beetican would arise from slumber ten minutes without a sensible breakfast of at least one ton. Steamed, fried, boiled or roasted, the Beeticans were pleased to spend every waking moment either preparing for their next feast, or enjoying their current one.
On the other side of the island, the Beanies were also afflicted with ravenous hunger. The average Beanie delighted in several dozen tons of their own crop on a daily basis as well. Baked, refried, or even raw, mountains of beans were digested with frantic haste upon their harvest. When the mountains could be replenished fast enough, Beanies could hardly sleep, overwhelmed by their delirious, insatiable obsession with the scrumdidlyumptiousness.
The Beeticans and Beanies were farmers, but didn't actually do any farming themselves. Actually, farming was quite beneath them. They had laborers to deal with such things, who they called the Goways (or "Go Aways"). Both the Beanies and Beeticans called them this because they just wanted them to bring food and go away. The Goways didn't have much of an appetite, and could pretty much live on the tiny scraps of Beans and Beets that flew from the Beanies' and Beeticans' enormous mouths during the constant, rampant mastication. Goways had no preference, and ate either beans or beets, whichever was available. They lived among the countryside and numbered about 500.
There was one main difference between Beet Village and Bean Village. Due to the digestive process, Bean Village was under continuous siege from the inescapable effects of perpetual flatulence. On still days, a great cloud of methane filled the air over nearly one-half of the island. This was something the Beanies had tolerated for centuries, and was not at all an issue in their quaint village. Ambitious Goways were also willing to endure the disagreeable environment for the slightly higher nutritional value of beans. Also, being upwind, Beet Village seldom if ever experienced a hint of the stench that loomed over the island's other half. All was well for many centuries.
Suddenly one day, the inevitable occurred. Beet Village awoke to what most considered the most horrific of possible conditions. As they loafed from their beds to their steaming piles of boiled beets, the horror was unbearable. An easterly wind wafted the unmistakable scent of digested beans forcefully against their nasal passageways. The effect was putrid enough to set some off of their breakfast. In fact, as the wind persisted, some of the Beeticans were even forced to skip lunch as well!
Some wept, some prayed, and some attempted silly little dances as great rolls of fat jiggled like whale blubber among their sedentary, morbidly obese figures. As much as they hoped, the relentless draft grew ever more pungent with each passing minute. The Beanie's filth was overpowering and relentless, and it was taking away the most important thing the Beetican's had...their appetite.
As the voraciousness of Beet Village diminished, pangs of grief were trumpeted by all. "Why, oh why, are they doing this to us!" women screamed. "Why can't they just eat Beets like the rest of us!" The public outcry was fierce, and the village council finally voted to have the Goways assemble a cart to haul Jim Bob, "The Cheif," to Bean Village to negotiate.
The Chief arrived three days later with his caravan of beets. As he was carried through the village gate, his eyes watered in disgust. "GO AWAY" he screamed as the Goaways threw off their yokes and scattered. The king of Bean Village, John, approached, carried by his own crew of Goways.
"Hey John, good to see ya. You've got one hell of a stank over here as usual."
"That's what they tell me Chief. Hardly notice anymore. How's the crop this year?"
"Oh, fine, crop's fine. You know, damn Goways."
"I hear ya, never want to go away, do they..."
"Nope, they sure don't."
The Chief grabbed a giant handful of beets, poured them down his throat and swallowed them whole like a snake choking down an over-sized rat.
"Well. Anyway, I thought you might like to try these. Mighty tasty!"
"Oh, thanks Chief, but I can't stand beets. You know, us Beanies do like our beans."
John squinted, and followed-up his response with a robust, lengthly series of repulsive explosions, which rocked his lazy-boy throne violently.
"Right, well, you see, this easterly wind just isn't letting up, and we were wondering if you could try eating beets for a couple days...you know, just so the town can enjoy their meals until the wind shifts. I've brought several dozen tons with me... "
"No-can-do partner. You know how popular that would be. The village would revolt!"
"Well, looks like another war, doesn't it."
"Sure does. Well, sheesh, nothing I can do about it, of course. The village is either against me or against you, and I'm no traitor. Let us have it partner."
"Will do. Take care now."
"Yep. Take care."
The Chief was carried back to Beanie Village and war was declared. Each side assembled 250 Goways and the battles raged. Beanie Village would protect its right to eat beans. Beet Village would have its appetite back. Piles of limbs and guts littered the countryside as the The Chief and John both staged public executions to demonstrate the cost of retreat. The Goways slaughtered each other ruthlessly. The Beanies and Beeticans cheered their Goways with parades and medals. The Goways were finally not asked to "go away," and that was somehow a sufficient consolation for their perilous situation.
When the entrails of all the Goways were strewn about the island but one, the war was officially over. Beet Village had won! The last Goway, Fred, stood bloody but triumphant over his cousin Goways he had just impaled through the face. Beet Village could finally eat in peace!
But, the wind had shifted long ago. In fact, the wind reversed direction before the first battle. But, neither the Beanies nor the Beeticans cared to back down, besides, it was the Goways fighting, and this was an excellent way to make them go away.
Thus was life at Gimmee Island. Beet Village and Bean Village decided it was worth a temporary diet of twelve tons a day. They sold some beets and beans, and bought Fred a nice big tractor and combine so he could supply all the beans and beets by himself (and go away faster). Before long the Beanies and the Beeticans could focus all of their energy on gorging themselves once again.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Test Audience
If I have seemed aloof here, it's because I'm working on my next project. Consequently, my inspirations are usually funneled in that direction these days. So, here is a recent snippet on the subject of note entry (or, just more shameless self-promotion from a struggling tech writer).
Ah yes, entering the actual notes and stuff. I’d like to say you will be able to follow my exact instructions and then soar like an eagle as a fluent Finale typist entering one thousand notes a second at your slightest passing whim. That will not happen. As I strap you into the hanglider I won’t make assurances you’ll get a feel for it when you’re airborne. I’ll be realistic. This might take a bit of getting used to…
The problem with entry isn’t a particularly difficult interface. Finale’s options are virtually limitless and you can almost certainly find a method that works well for you. But, it is sometimes difficult to discover the one that best matches your unique abilities and requirements. Do you like to press buttons or are you the point-and-click type? Are you drawn to the dark inner secrets of Finale’s Transcription Mode, or perhaps a slave to your MIDI guitar? I can’t claim to know these things (thankfully), and I certainly can’t begin to suspect the outrageous ideas you you have in mind for your composition.
So, when you fly off the ledge, I will wish you well, and expect you’ll be somewhat prepared to avoid disaster on the way down. Yes, the wind may bite and you might lose some altitude as you figure it all out. Just stay calm. Things will work out. If they don’t you probably won’t feel a thing anyway.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Bullyville
Bullyville begs for bread. Bill needs a bakery and Bart needs billions and billions. So, Bart the banker brokers a bargain with Bill the baker. Bart and his banking buddies bring boatloads of bucks to Bill. Bill brings in the best bakers, bakes the best bread, and bills the buyers bits. Before long, Bullyville buries Bill's bakery with business. The balance of Bullyville's bakeries go broke. Bart bails them out, buying them for bits, and brands them "Bill's." All bread is now brought to Bullyville through Bill's, and Bart and his buddies benefit beautifully. Bill and Bart buy barley in bulk, they balloon the bounty, and bums in Bullyville that used to bake now blow big bucks buying bread; bemused they can't buck up the bank for their own beloved bakery. Bart won't bring a bargain to any baker but Bill. So, Bullyville basically breaks their backs bringing barley to Bart and Bill, who belly laugh to the bank bound in bling believing they brought Bullyville bread as they busted it bankrupt. Belligerent, brash, and total bullshit.
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Ultimate Mystery
How does it look?
How does it smell?
How does it taste?
How does it feel?
How does it sound?
Yes, of course, the ultimate mystery is beer!
Is it served in a tall clear glass, shining like golden wheat fields beneath a white fluffy head? Or, is it rich, hazed amber, in a regular pint glass, with a necklace of foam wrapped around the perimeter? Lift it to your nose, close your eyes, and take it in. Focus. Is it crisp with a balanced floral aroma, tingling with fruity esters? Or, is it rich and malty with alcohol sweetness and a tiny suggestion of oak? How does it taste? Take in a hearty mouthful. Is it rich and earthy, or light and quaffable? Soak it all in, letting the experience persist long into the finish. How does it feel? Is there warming from the alcohol? A lingering sweetness? Bitterness? Open your eyes. Was it satisfying? Are you thirsty for more? Is your glass empty? Can you still stand?
I hope so! The mystery has only begun. What was in the grist? What was the mash temp? What makes this beer so different from all the others? Who was the brewer? When, where, how, why was it brewed? What the hell was he doing with underwear on his head?
The brewer doesn't care if you know the answer to these. He doesn't mind telling you, usually. But, he only cares that you drink happily, heavily, and are left wanting more...that the mystery persists with accelerating intensity in each new glass, with each new ingredient, and each new undergarment blinding him from the water's edge.
With that, a toast to beer, the ultimate mystery.
How does it smell?
How does it taste?
How does it feel?
How does it sound?
Yes, of course, the ultimate mystery is beer!
Is it served in a tall clear glass, shining like golden wheat fields beneath a white fluffy head? Or, is it rich, hazed amber, in a regular pint glass, with a necklace of foam wrapped around the perimeter? Lift it to your nose, close your eyes, and take it in. Focus. Is it crisp with a balanced floral aroma, tingling with fruity esters? Or, is it rich and malty with alcohol sweetness and a tiny suggestion of oak? How does it taste? Take in a hearty mouthful. Is it rich and earthy, or light and quaffable? Soak it all in, letting the experience persist long into the finish. How does it feel? Is there warming from the alcohol? A lingering sweetness? Bitterness? Open your eyes. Was it satisfying? Are you thirsty for more? Is your glass empty? Can you still stand?
I hope so! The mystery has only begun. What was in the grist? What was the mash temp? What makes this beer so different from all the others? Who was the brewer? When, where, how, why was it brewed? What the hell was he doing with underwear on his head?
The brewer doesn't care if you know the answer to these. He doesn't mind telling you, usually. But, he only cares that you drink happily, heavily, and are left wanting more...that the mystery persists with accelerating intensity in each new glass, with each new ingredient, and each new undergarment blinding him from the water's edge.
With that, a toast to beer, the ultimate mystery.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sunshine
Pete still had one eye left to see through, and he waited for the sunrise. His shackles had become loose overhead, but the blood continued to drip down over his eyebrows each time he adjusted himself. Slipping out of them would be futile, even if he could, surrounded by the dank stone chamber walls shrouded in black death. His only comfort was his cache of delirium. He spent it frugally.
His chains rattled as the first hint of light shot through the single tiny crack in the stones across from him. He winced and hung like a statue as it slowly approached. One minute, two, ten, thirty...he sensed it from the corner of his eye. It floated at an imperceptible speed across the adjacent wall. One hour, two. It glistened off the moist rock. He was helpless to prevent its approach. He recognized the absurdity, but there was no stopping it, not in this place. Closer. The irrational pangs of hope clenched tightly as he forced himself to acknowledge the absolute certainty of his fate. He would perish that evening, or perhaps during the night, but it couldn't be long now...
Through the red hue he saw the faintest outline of his emaciated torso as the spec neared. By now not even the sight of his body could remind him he was human. His breathing became shallow and measured. He reminded himself to ignore it, to restore sanity and hopelessness...sound reality. Resolved, he opened his eye to discover the strands of his hair and beard dancing in the light. It was a sight he hadn't seen for days. It fascinated him. The magical gnarled tufts crusted with dried blood were like vines over his childhood pond. He watched in desperation, trying to remind himself of the horror draped in front of him, but could not.
He backed up and ran, swinging into the wind, brushing his feet gently across the cool water. He couldn't feel his bony heels burning beneath him. He returned to the grassy bank and looked to the sky only to be blinded by the beating sun, which washed over him like a warm shower. Chills shot up his spine and he shuddered like an epileptic, grinding his sores violently against the course granite. Holding on tight he ran again, flying high and crashing forcefully into the water. Every ounce of his being tingled fiercely and uncontrollably. He basked in the brightness as long as he could, writhing in terrible bliss, wanting desperately for it to stay. He adjusted his stance, stretching his neck to soak in every moment of fortune, sharp metal cutting deep into his flesh...
The speck finally drifted past and onto the wall on the other side. He resisted with all his strength but finally collapsed into maniacal laughter, splashing blood against the stone and all over his face before screeching in horrific agony. The light disappeared and he hung, motionless.
His chains rattled as the first hint of light shot through the single tiny crack in the stones across from him. He winced and hung like a statue as it slowly approached. One minute, two, ten, thirty...he sensed it from the corner of his eye. It floated at an imperceptible speed across the adjacent wall. One hour, two. It glistened off the moist rock. He was helpless to prevent its approach. He recognized the absurdity, but there was no stopping it, not in this place. Closer. The irrational pangs of hope clenched tightly as he forced himself to acknowledge the absolute certainty of his fate. He would perish that evening, or perhaps during the night, but it couldn't be long now...
Through the red hue he saw the faintest outline of his emaciated torso as the spec neared. By now not even the sight of his body could remind him he was human. His breathing became shallow and measured. He reminded himself to ignore it, to restore sanity and hopelessness...sound reality. Resolved, he opened his eye to discover the strands of his hair and beard dancing in the light. It was a sight he hadn't seen for days. It fascinated him. The magical gnarled tufts crusted with dried blood were like vines over his childhood pond. He watched in desperation, trying to remind himself of the horror draped in front of him, but could not.
He backed up and ran, swinging into the wind, brushing his feet gently across the cool water. He couldn't feel his bony heels burning beneath him. He returned to the grassy bank and looked to the sky only to be blinded by the beating sun, which washed over him like a warm shower. Chills shot up his spine and he shuddered like an epileptic, grinding his sores violently against the course granite. Holding on tight he ran again, flying high and crashing forcefully into the water. Every ounce of his being tingled fiercely and uncontrollably. He basked in the brightness as long as he could, writhing in terrible bliss, wanting desperately for it to stay. He adjusted his stance, stretching his neck to soak in every moment of fortune, sharp metal cutting deep into his flesh...
The speck finally drifted past and onto the wall on the other side. He resisted with all his strength but finally collapsed into maniacal laughter, splashing blood against the stone and all over his face before screeching in horrific agony. The light disappeared and he hung, motionless.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Molten Lead?
In a frenzy of concentrated editorial muck, where each word of technical documentation must be chosen with supreme care, I will attempt a strand of writing in real-time with no (make that minimal) editing. Ahhh, that feels sooo much better.
No, stopit! Stop rereading and just type damnit! But, no, I have to fix my mistakes. What if something is wrong? What if I say something I don't mean. Get a grip on yourself and remember that nothing you write will be taken seriously in this place. This is a comfortable place where you are among friends and the gods will grant you immunity from the droves of software users pointing out every type or inconsistency. You are free from the scourge of mis-information. No engineer can fail to report a design change making your documentation completely in error...
NO. STOP RE-READING. This is in real-time. Ouch, this is actually very difficult. Now I am stressed by the opposite...I am a freight train pounding downhill (how the hell does a freight train "pound") against gravity and the perils of the steep rock cliff only inches from the rails. I am steaming ahead with no brakes, tilting percariously off the side. MAKE IT STOP, oh, please make it stop....
No, it is a train, and it is not stopping until you are completely at ease with freeing your mind in an un-edited, unrehearsed, raw, unpolished, shaky, over-described mess of text whose only benefit is complete honesty and candor. Keep going Mark you can't stop now it's working, you kind of feel relaxed and alright with the fact that the train is destined for destruction and there is no stopping it. You have accepted the fact that you just aren't a very good writer when you need to think fast. Hell, it's almost as uncomfortable as speaking.
Oh, wow, I will probably delete this immediately, but will not go back and check this out until after it is posted which is already making me paranoid...why am I doing this to myself. There was some reason, wasn't there? Oh, man, now I'm going to look...wait. Cyclical thought process beginning...reroute.
Alright, I think this about wraps up this one ladies and gentleman and now I conclude in a fevered pitch and hope you didn't actually read the flow of uncensored thoughts pouring like, um, what the hell is it pouring like, ug, like molten lead, LIKE FRICKING MOLTEN LEAD all over your brain. Okay, this is starting to hurt so I am going to go back to text that I can reread over and over and over and over and over again until every nuance is perfect. And I know I am going to hate it but anything is better than this...
No, stopit! Stop rereading and just type damnit! But, no, I have to fix my mistakes. What if something is wrong? What if I say something I don't mean. Get a grip on yourself and remember that nothing you write will be taken seriously in this place. This is a comfortable place where you are among friends and the gods will grant you immunity from the droves of software users pointing out every type or inconsistency. You are free from the scourge of mis-information. No engineer can fail to report a design change making your documentation completely in error...
NO. STOP RE-READING. This is in real-time. Ouch, this is actually very difficult. Now I am stressed by the opposite...I am a freight train pounding downhill (how the hell does a freight train "pound") against gravity and the perils of the steep rock cliff only inches from the rails. I am steaming ahead with no brakes, tilting percariously off the side. MAKE IT STOP, oh, please make it stop....
No, it is a train, and it is not stopping until you are completely at ease with freeing your mind in an un-edited, unrehearsed, raw, unpolished, shaky, over-described mess of text whose only benefit is complete honesty and candor. Keep going Mark you can't stop now it's working, you kind of feel relaxed and alright with the fact that the train is destined for destruction and there is no stopping it. You have accepted the fact that you just aren't a very good writer when you need to think fast. Hell, it's almost as uncomfortable as speaking.
Oh, wow, I will probably delete this immediately, but will not go back and check this out until after it is posted which is already making me paranoid...why am I doing this to myself. There was some reason, wasn't there? Oh, man, now I'm going to look...wait. Cyclical thought process beginning...reroute.
Alright, I think this about wraps up this one ladies and gentleman and now I conclude in a fevered pitch and hope you didn't actually read the flow of uncensored thoughts pouring like, um, what the hell is it pouring like, ug, like molten lead, LIKE FRICKING MOLTEN LEAD all over your brain. Okay, this is starting to hurt so I am going to go back to text that I can reread over and over and over and over and over again until every nuance is perfect. And I know I am going to hate it but anything is better than this...
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Dyrnwch
Deprived the much needed paint ball catharsis I was forced to redirect my energy elsewhere...to brewing, of course. And, as it happened, it was a fierce day over the kettle indeed. Last night I discovered that I am not the only brewer contributing to a party at the end of May. Another homebrewer has also been invited to contribute...a shrewd move by the host.
I would like to think I am equally committed to every batch; that I am giving it my all every time whether it's for the esteemed guests or my own lush self. When the result is good beer, it seems like anything less than my best effort is unacceptable. Things like monitoring the temperature, proper stirring, and boil-over avoidance should never be options. Criminal shortcuts like a fast sparge or an early flame out tend to annoy the gnome, and are therefore off limits completely.
But, in the heat of battle there seems to be some sort of intangible force working behind the scenes. It's like Sputnik beeping ominously over-head. Suddenly the mash temperature is perfect, the gravity, as predicted, and the clarity, brilliant. I am running through the same motions, but for some reason the fermentation is explosive and I come home to see krausen erupting through the airlock...next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees mopping up all the delicious wasted beer covering the floor. Not the worst problem to have.
I had that sort of experience today. The stars aligned somehow and I managed a batch that, if awful, can be attributed completely to my inexperience and lack of aptitude. I hate to admit I drop the ball sometimes out of laziness or carelessness with regards to something as important as beer, but I guess maybe I'll view it like a volume dial that goes up to 11 rather than a design flaw...I know it just won't shred as hard at 10, but sometimes that's just as high as it's going to go.
So, it was a long day brewing indeed, and I met my adversary in every ingredient, measurement, and taste test. There I stood like Dyrnwch the Giant over my cauldron ensuring a vigorous boil. The day may have been grueling, but I expect the reward to be sweet.
I would like to think I am equally committed to every batch; that I am giving it my all every time whether it's for the esteemed guests or my own lush self. When the result is good beer, it seems like anything less than my best effort is unacceptable. Things like monitoring the temperature, proper stirring, and boil-over avoidance should never be options. Criminal shortcuts like a fast sparge or an early flame out tend to annoy the gnome, and are therefore off limits completely.
But, in the heat of battle there seems to be some sort of intangible force working behind the scenes. It's like Sputnik beeping ominously over-head. Suddenly the mash temperature is perfect, the gravity, as predicted, and the clarity, brilliant. I am running through the same motions, but for some reason the fermentation is explosive and I come home to see krausen erupting through the airlock...next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees mopping up all the delicious wasted beer covering the floor. Not the worst problem to have.
I had that sort of experience today. The stars aligned somehow and I managed a batch that, if awful, can be attributed completely to my inexperience and lack of aptitude. I hate to admit I drop the ball sometimes out of laziness or carelessness with regards to something as important as beer, but I guess maybe I'll view it like a volume dial that goes up to 11 rather than a design flaw...I know it just won't shred as hard at 10, but sometimes that's just as high as it's going to go.
So, it was a long day brewing indeed, and I met my adversary in every ingredient, measurement, and taste test. There I stood like Dyrnwch the Giant over my cauldron ensuring a vigorous boil. The day may have been grueling, but I expect the reward to be sweet.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Maurice
The boys called Maurice Essie. No one knows why for sure, but it probably means S.C., for space cowboy. He didn't seem to mind. He had the same not-so-sane stare all the time, like he wasn't all there. Hell, you could call him a fagot, or shit for brains, or whatever...the smoke would pour out of his nose at the same, slow, demented speed. Either nothing got to him, or everything, we couldn't be sure.
They say Essie enlisted to improve his character, but twice nothing is still nothing if you want to look at it that way. He was most popular among sniper fire. It made him smile, and he liked the sound of a limp gook against the rows of branches; probably for his own amusement. He didn't make time for congratulations. They say he demanded the front lines because it frightened him most. You might say bullshit, but Essie regularly volunteered for cave duty and other unmistakable suicide attempts. I mean completely unaffected by fear. Probably not so bright either. Couldn't have been, a guy like that. Almost like he had nothing to lose. None of us really did, but he actually seemed to believe it.
==============
You guessed it. Tomorrow I load up on guns and ammo and play war games with the guys. It will be wet, gritty, painful, and exhausting...just how I like it. I can already feel the blood lust welling in my bones and the adrenaline shock that comes with knowing I'm about to be pummeled with a full-body assault of automatic fire. This will be fun.
They say Essie enlisted to improve his character, but twice nothing is still nothing if you want to look at it that way. He was most popular among sniper fire. It made him smile, and he liked the sound of a limp gook against the rows of branches; probably for his own amusement. He didn't make time for congratulations. They say he demanded the front lines because it frightened him most. You might say bullshit, but Essie regularly volunteered for cave duty and other unmistakable suicide attempts. I mean completely unaffected by fear. Probably not so bright either. Couldn't have been, a guy like that. Almost like he had nothing to lose. None of us really did, but he actually seemed to believe it.
==============
You guessed it. Tomorrow I load up on guns and ammo and play war games with the guys. It will be wet, gritty, painful, and exhausting...just how I like it. I can already feel the blood lust welling in my bones and the adrenaline shock that comes with knowing I'm about to be pummeled with a full-body assault of automatic fire. This will be fun.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Ascent
It was a cold evening at 25,000 feet, but nothing I couldn't handle. I had discovered the unique benefits of warm Eskimo furs, layers of long johns, and a hearty supply of sourdough. I stood in perfect stillness, palms against the wicker, admiring the sun approach the horizon. It was the most impressive arrangement of yellows, oranges, reds, purples and blues. Beams of light broke through the clouds and mist like spotlights over the miles of checkered corn fields. It was not a sight that could be photographed.
The basket was an interesting junction between freedom and prison. There was no certainty in these skies, no charting the wind or predicting the destination, no telling what sights or sounds I would experience. Each foot aloft brought me closer to the unknown and subject to the mercy of the elements. I had two choices...up or down, both precious options.
Hanging from a few threads, an engineer of terror could hardly compete with such a device...A cage destined for the dreaded numinous. But, a prison for some is concentrated life for others. Among the office politics and team meetings seldom did a minute pass without vivid dreams of my next ascent. No amount of hardship in the skies could possibly compare to the insipid ground below. Problems seemed so small up there, and I would imagine I was above them all. And, for those moments, I probably was.
It is not a choice. Not for some anyway. Sure, the dry air bites the cheeks and the currents drift on unexpected courses. But, something insists we blast the fire that lifts us toward those perilous updrafts. Then, when confronted with the indescribable and unexpected we can only hope to scrawl incomprehensible sketches. The sunset persists as a memory or a dream indelibly stamped beneath the bedrock of our skull; subtle tremors seldom hint of its existence.
Perhaps that's what draws one to the skies...the .001 on the Richter scale that somehow moved the first foot in front of the other. It brought us to the ballooning store where we wasted our hard-earned money on a large sheet of canvas and a wicker basket...wasted time assembling the burner and arranging the flight. Trading one problem for another. Which we did. But perhaps not one we expected.
So, I float silently with the first stages of hypothermia setting in; the sun completely gone in exchange for the sublime glow of the nimbus terrain. The burner is too high to provide much heat, so it will be a cold one as usual. But its sound is comforting, kind of like waves against the rocks. Fortunately I think have enough fuel to drift over the ocean as long as I maintain altitude...as long as there is air to breath and the slightest wind to carry me. If I can't make it, well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about either.
The basket was an interesting junction between freedom and prison. There was no certainty in these skies, no charting the wind or predicting the destination, no telling what sights or sounds I would experience. Each foot aloft brought me closer to the unknown and subject to the mercy of the elements. I had two choices...up or down, both precious options.
Hanging from a few threads, an engineer of terror could hardly compete with such a device...A cage destined for the dreaded numinous. But, a prison for some is concentrated life for others. Among the office politics and team meetings seldom did a minute pass without vivid dreams of my next ascent. No amount of hardship in the skies could possibly compare to the insipid ground below. Problems seemed so small up there, and I would imagine I was above them all. And, for those moments, I probably was.
It is not a choice. Not for some anyway. Sure, the dry air bites the cheeks and the currents drift on unexpected courses. But, something insists we blast the fire that lifts us toward those perilous updrafts. Then, when confronted with the indescribable and unexpected we can only hope to scrawl incomprehensible sketches. The sunset persists as a memory or a dream indelibly stamped beneath the bedrock of our skull; subtle tremors seldom hint of its existence.
Perhaps that's what draws one to the skies...the .001 on the Richter scale that somehow moved the first foot in front of the other. It brought us to the ballooning store where we wasted our hard-earned money on a large sheet of canvas and a wicker basket...wasted time assembling the burner and arranging the flight. Trading one problem for another. Which we did. But perhaps not one we expected.
So, I float silently with the first stages of hypothermia setting in; the sun completely gone in exchange for the sublime glow of the nimbus terrain. The burner is too high to provide much heat, so it will be a cold one as usual. But its sound is comforting, kind of like waves against the rocks. Fortunately I think have enough fuel to drift over the ocean as long as I maintain altitude...as long as there is air to breath and the slightest wind to carry me. If I can't make it, well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about either.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Brew Years Eve
And tonight we celebrate the 75th anniversary of the repeal of prohibition! What better reason to crack open a Hercules Double IPA and toast to your health, wealth, stealth, and, wow, nothing else rhymes with that. But you'll drink to it anyway, or at least I will. In any case, I encourage you to sit back and thank your local governing officials for not taking beer away again this year! And if you don't drink, thank them for not taking beer away from me.
Mmmm, the first sniff of this one is like a floral smack across the face...a sun-drenched prairie of tempting wickedness. It begs me to frolic as an inmate just moments off the asylum.
Mmmm...yes. The bewilderment of wide open spaces brings excitement and giddiness as I engage the blue sky with the limits of my dexterity. I swipe the long, sagging arms of the weeping willow and grasp at billowing clouds in wonderment before rolling through the bright wildflowers brushing against my flailing limbs. This is the moment. This is the time of times. I am freer than a bird, above the great wide open, comfortably exhilarated. If only these moments could be captured somehow, placed in a jar, or sealed in one of those clothing storage vacuum bags so they don't take up much space.
The soft cushion of vegetation pads my naked back as I flip down the steep grade of the valley and onto the sandy beach. The glistening stream rages, its beauty intoxicating. It does not resist. I approach carefully and dip a toe. Brisk. It soon cascades over my neck and back. This is it. Millions of droplets fly skyward and in every conceivable direction as I engage nature to its fullest. The small white paper cups have always disappeared so quickly; the finger dipped and then cautiously flicked. The impossible dream was at hand. This was my moment. I smashed the endless waves in hysterical relief after the wanting decades.
Away barking! Time is far too precious for the hounds now! I will not let them win. Not for the next ten seconds. These are my seconds! I raise my fists and scream to the great white engorged Jiffy Pop pan in the sky: "You haven't won these seconds! Not these seconds! HAHAHAHA! I have them right here in my bloody fists and I'm never letting go!" This one would not have a silver lining.
I would probably write that on the scoresheet too, if they gave us time. But they don't. They don't give us enough space for accurate tasting descriptions either. So, I usually just use the standard vocabulary of beer terms to describe the various entries. "Ample citrus hop aroma with some melanoidin nuttyness and a substantial malt backbone." Backbone...ha.
Last night in a lovely social gathering I said I had no backbone. Well, I actually said "it's difficult to go through life with small balls," referring to the size of bocce balls, but trying to allude to the fact that, as an introvert, I am seldom as forthcoming as I should be. But, having "balls" is not a measurable attribute. You either have them or you don't. (Anyone can have "balls," male or female.) Their size doesn't correlate to the amount of courage in any way. You would never say "man, it takes pretty huge balls to say something like that." No. You would say..."that guy's got balls." So, what came out actually meant "I am disappointed with the inferior size of my testicals." Which must have sounded rather odd and out of place. Nothing I'm not familiar with in excruciating detail (the situation, not my ball size). But, a fun story to blog about.
Woah. Well, after a couple hearty beers it looks like it's already past midnight. I will have to do better next year, although I am perpetually reminded why I should affix a locking breathalyser widget to my laptop to prevent the inevitable post that went too far. Oh, I know one of these days it will get there, just a matter of when...
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Ron Paul Dominates the 5th District Convention
I'll say a quick word regarding the MN 5th district (THE FIGHTIN' FIFTH!) Republican convention yesterday, because I didn't sit in the back of a dark auditorium during the first beautiful spring day for nothing.
Kami was actually seated as a delegate, so she had an up-front view of the action. As an unseated alternate, I got to observe the full breadth of the mayhem, which was considerable. To put it kindly, democracy appears very rough around the edges. To put it bluntly, democracy is completely devoid of any semblance of order except when looked at with the most discriminating scrutiny, and while taking into account humanity's underwhelming incapacities.
If this system is actually the one best suited for humans, we are a mediocre, chaotic, over-opinionated, paranoid breed. It seems impossible we created it. But, it was actually a few perceptive individuals who realized such a system could marginalize our collective incompetence, and, in that respect, it seems to be working, barely. As a system specifically designed to highlight our weaknesses, it is painfully effective. And, if not taken too seriously, a very entertaining thing to watch.
9:30: Arrive at Robinsdale High School. Eat a donut. Talk to a delegate seeking election. Have some tea (coffee not available - water issues).
10:00: Enter the auditorium. Admire the stage adorned with a single-file herd of patriotic elephants impaled on tall posts (one for each senate district) bookended with two burning braziers whose (simulated) fire flickers off each side of the dark auditorium walls and ceiling. I can't help thinking I'm in a cave and this is some tribal ritual. A net of balloons occupies the width of the auditorium. The six "ordained" delegates hand-picked by the nominating committee are situated on the walls.
10:30: Listen to Tim Pawlenty give a beautifully crafted and inspirational speech about unity. He referenced the reporter, who turned from Michael Jordan after a record-breaking 56 point game to a rookie who, in the same game, had scored his first NBA point. The reporter asked for his thoughts, and the rookie responded "I will remember this as the game Micheal Jordan and I scored 57 points." Awe. A touching story...unless you recognize Michael Jordan is actually an unstoppable rebel war machine in an ideological battle for world domination under the gun of corrupt business interests. And, the rookie is your unflinching, unquestioning support. Probably not front of mind during the standing ovation.
11:00: Listen to Norm Coleman give a speech almost as deft and inspirational. Also about unity. Closes to a another standing ovation.
11:30: (I really don't know the exact times). Barb White and her campaign storm the auditorium with cult-like enthusiasm. Music, dancing, and a speech dedicated to usurping Keith Ellison 's congressional seat. The delegates nominate her as Ellison's opponent. The net containing the few thousand balloons starts to move; time for the balloon-drop. They can't seem to get it to open. A guy starts poking at it with a long stick. Some of them pop. Finally, the net breaks free from the other side, releasing the red, white, and blue orbs like emptying a package of skittles over the crowd. A luke-warm finale at best. All pretend they don't notice the inescapable omen-like quality of the situation and continue cheering, hitting the balloons into the air.
12:00: Non-ordained delegates are nominated. All delegates give a short 2-minute speech. The three Ron Paul supporters (who we all agreed on beforehand) give short, fired-up oratories about the proper role of government and underlying philosophical principles to cheers and ovations. Unwavering Republican nominees spout the party line saying things as immature as "if it's conservative, I'm on it." Ug, and getting applause. (Thus highlighting the aforementioned human weakness).
1:00: The seated delegates vote for three national delegates. Ballot confusion. General hilarity ensues as everyone approaches the mic with a different solution. The chair's original solution prevails. Time wasted. As people vote there is a persistent percussive sound of cannon fire. Balloons being popped. At first the finale to the 1812 overture plays in my head. And then, and I know this is geeky, our national anthem, with bombs bursting in air as I imagined everyone voting for Ron Paul. Probably a stretch (maybe I'll discuss later).
1:15: Some post-adolescent guy in a suit walks up to me standing in the back. "It's all the Ron Paul supporters that are messing things up ya know. They don't know what they're doing. He can't win."
1:30: We start going through resolutions. The delegates, with high contention, vote to make the following things part of the official Republican party platform (not exact language):
The rest of the day was going through more boring resolutions. There was some roudyness and bickering as the delegates stood split on the issue of gay marriage...The Ron Paul folks don't think it's government's business to get involved in private issues (yay!). The neocons want to "save" marriage by officially defining it as between a man and a woman.
The seated delegates also voted for two alternate national delegates. Both Ron Paul supporters.
SOOOOO....I saw how democracy really works. It isn't "the people" who give the consent of the governed...it's "the people who give a shit." And, they are either protecting the rights of the rest of us or trying to protect the rights/entitlements of their privileged organizations. Yesterday those who are working to protect our rights are the ones who prevailed against the ones trying to protect the rights of government and big business. But, it was in heated contention. Many were repulsed believing we must unify with McCain to protect the reputation of the Republican party. I'm afraid dedication to nothing more than saving face is one of the very things our democracy was designed to protect us against. And, it looks like it's actually working.
Yesterday we protected the right to go to an auditorium and watch a boondoggle of folly ensue as two half-civilized bodies of opinionated ideologues faced off in a reminder that humans are at their best when they appear to be at their worst. Because a few thoughtful individuals aligned in principle managed to coordinate themselves, we might again have the right to flail about indiscriminately in the future.
But, as I once did with the Reagan revolution, I again wait for the inevitable day the descendants of the Ron Paul revolution put pride before principle. And, when that happens, we will again be waiting in silence to protect the precious core of human liberty. If the Republican party chooses to one day abandon this core, it will be adopted by a different party, or (God forbid) a different country, but it can never be eliminated.
We will never go away until its tightened grip chokes the last vestiges of liberty, prosperity, and life itself.
In other words, when you are right, you are right. Just because everyone finally realizes it doesn't make it any more or less right. Just be sure you remember what that is, and why you will certainly be tempted to forget it.
Kami was actually seated as a delegate, so she had an up-front view of the action. As an unseated alternate, I got to observe the full breadth of the mayhem, which was considerable. To put it kindly, democracy appears very rough around the edges. To put it bluntly, democracy is completely devoid of any semblance of order except when looked at with the most discriminating scrutiny, and while taking into account humanity's underwhelming incapacities.
If this system is actually the one best suited for humans, we are a mediocre, chaotic, over-opinionated, paranoid breed. It seems impossible we created it. But, it was actually a few perceptive individuals who realized such a system could marginalize our collective incompetence, and, in that respect, it seems to be working, barely. As a system specifically designed to highlight our weaknesses, it is painfully effective. And, if not taken too seriously, a very entertaining thing to watch.
9:30: Arrive at Robinsdale High School. Eat a donut. Talk to a delegate seeking election. Have some tea (coffee not available - water issues).
10:00: Enter the auditorium. Admire the stage adorned with a single-file herd of patriotic elephants impaled on tall posts (one for each senate district) bookended with two burning braziers whose (simulated) fire flickers off each side of the dark auditorium walls and ceiling. I can't help thinking I'm in a cave and this is some tribal ritual. A net of balloons occupies the width of the auditorium. The six "ordained" delegates hand-picked by the nominating committee are situated on the walls.
10:30: Listen to Tim Pawlenty give a beautifully crafted and inspirational speech about unity. He referenced the reporter, who turned from Michael Jordan after a record-breaking 56 point game to a rookie who, in the same game, had scored his first NBA point. The reporter asked for his thoughts, and the rookie responded "I will remember this as the game Micheal Jordan and I scored 57 points." Awe. A touching story...unless you recognize Michael Jordan is actually an unstoppable rebel war machine in an ideological battle for world domination under the gun of corrupt business interests. And, the rookie is your unflinching, unquestioning support. Probably not front of mind during the standing ovation.
11:00: Listen to Norm Coleman give a speech almost as deft and inspirational. Also about unity. Closes to a another standing ovation.
11:30: (I really don't know the exact times). Barb White and her campaign storm the auditorium with cult-like enthusiasm. Music, dancing, and a speech dedicated to usurping Keith Ellison 's congressional seat. The delegates nominate her as Ellison's opponent. The net containing the few thousand balloons starts to move; time for the balloon-drop. They can't seem to get it to open. A guy starts poking at it with a long stick. Some of them pop. Finally, the net breaks free from the other side, releasing the red, white, and blue orbs like emptying a package of skittles over the crowd. A luke-warm finale at best. All pretend they don't notice the inescapable omen-like quality of the situation and continue cheering, hitting the balloons into the air.
12:00: Non-ordained delegates are nominated. All delegates give a short 2-minute speech. The three Ron Paul supporters (who we all agreed on beforehand) give short, fired-up oratories about the proper role of government and underlying philosophical principles to cheers and ovations. Unwavering Republican nominees spout the party line saying things as immature as "if it's conservative, I'm on it." Ug, and getting applause. (Thus highlighting the aforementioned human weakness).
1:00: The seated delegates vote for three national delegates. Ballot confusion. General hilarity ensues as everyone approaches the mic with a different solution. The chair's original solution prevails. Time wasted. As people vote there is a persistent percussive sound of cannon fire. Balloons being popped. At first the finale to the 1812 overture plays in my head. And then, and I know this is geeky, our national anthem, with bombs bursting in air as I imagined everyone voting for Ron Paul. Probably a stretch (maybe I'll discuss later).
1:15: Some post-adolescent guy in a suit walks up to me standing in the back. "It's all the Ron Paul supporters that are messing things up ya know. They don't know what they're doing. He can't win."
1:30: We start going through resolutions. The delegates, with high contention, vote to make the following things part of the official Republican party platform (not exact language):
- Abolish the Minnesota state income tax
- Eliminate the fiat monetary system and restore gold and silver as the only type of legal tender
- Oppose a national ID card
The rest of the day was going through more boring resolutions. There was some roudyness and bickering as the delegates stood split on the issue of gay marriage...The Ron Paul folks don't think it's government's business to get involved in private issues (yay!). The neocons want to "save" marriage by officially defining it as between a man and a woman.
The seated delegates also voted for two alternate national delegates. Both Ron Paul supporters.
SOOOOO....I saw how democracy really works. It isn't "the people" who give the consent of the governed...it's "the people who give a shit." And, they are either protecting the rights of the rest of us or trying to protect the rights/entitlements of their privileged organizations. Yesterday those who are working to protect our rights are the ones who prevailed against the ones trying to protect the rights of government and big business. But, it was in heated contention. Many were repulsed believing we must unify with McCain to protect the reputation of the Republican party. I'm afraid dedication to nothing more than saving face is one of the very things our democracy was designed to protect us against. And, it looks like it's actually working.
Yesterday we protected the right to go to an auditorium and watch a boondoggle of folly ensue as two half-civilized bodies of opinionated ideologues faced off in a reminder that humans are at their best when they appear to be at their worst. Because a few thoughtful individuals aligned in principle managed to coordinate themselves, we might again have the right to flail about indiscriminately in the future.
But, as I once did with the Reagan revolution, I again wait for the inevitable day the descendants of the Ron Paul revolution put pride before principle. And, when that happens, we will again be waiting in silence to protect the precious core of human liberty. If the Republican party chooses to one day abandon this core, it will be adopted by a different party, or (God forbid) a different country, but it can never be eliminated.
We will never go away until its tightened grip chokes the last vestiges of liberty, prosperity, and life itself.
In other words, when you are right, you are right. Just because everyone finally realizes it doesn't make it any more or less right. Just be sure you remember what that is, and why you will certainly be tempted to forget it.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Micro Managing
A quick glance into my dysfunctional parallel life as a technical writer:
If your personality has a power-hungry, dictatorial, control-freak bent, you are perfectly positioned to utilize Finale to its fullest potential. You may be relieved to hear that it doesn’t whine, protest, or file frivolous lawsuits. It will never strike, pull strings behind the scenes, or engage in all-out rebellion. As long as you stick to a few simple principles, no amount of abuse can possibly hurt Finale’s feelings.
Of course, break one of these basic principles and Finale’s personality may suddenly change. And when it does you will curse the upturned nose of the Special Tools Tool, or shake your fist at the evil eye of the Articulation Tool
. But, alas, the tools do not hear your screams. Finale was always just a combination of 1s and 0s, and it was only your composition that was touching and beautiful. When it comes right down to it, you brought your creation into the world despite the cold arrangement of bits, not because of it.
We all compose with the same combination of 1s and 0s, and there is little reason to fear the incredible power that comes with it. How you employ your own monarchical/tyrannical rule over Finale is up to you, but when the evil eye returns, it’s nothing personal. You probably just didn’t listen to something I said.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Outage
Brian clicked the remote and saw nothing but a blue screen. He picked up his laptop to look up the phone number of the cable company. No Internet. Damn. He tried retraining his cable modem, restarting his computer, and repairing his network connection. It was official. His cable was out.
He picked up his cell phone and tried calling information. No bars.
As he sat in silence, staring at the bleached wall of his apartment as the fear began to creep up his spine. It was a bewildering and unfamiliar feeling. He could feel his heart rate accelerating. He began to sweat.
After about 3 minutes the paranoia began en force. Who had emailed, who had called, who had texted since he lost service? Did everyone else know? Was everyone trying to warn him? He was sure they were. The vacant blue of the television taunted him.
He listened and noticed something. Nothing actually. No planes, no cars, no dogs. He walked to the window and looked outside. It was quiet, but also 4 in the morning. Still, this was exactly what he had expected, and he was prepared.
He opened his closet and hefted a large black case onto his coffee table. He opened it and withdrew the M24 SWS, affixing the telescopic sight. It was a beautiful sight, the sleek black metal exceptionally clean. He sat on his couch, polishing the barrel with his shirt. Within moments his heart rate decelerated, his palms dried, and his hands stopped shaking.
He waited for it to arrive, and was ready. He knew this would be the moment he was waiting for. He had made the decision long ago, and knew his chances. They were not good. But, the fear was gone knowing he would be able to pump out a few rounds before it consumed him. His breathing slowed to a crawl.
Suddenly, the blue snapped to Oprah. His phone chirped. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
He placed the rifle back inside the case and returned it to the closet. A part of him was relieved, but most of him had accepted his fate, and knew the inevitable was relentless and approaching. He was satisfied having come one step closer to welcoming it.
He picked up his cell phone and tried calling information. No bars.
As he sat in silence, staring at the bleached wall of his apartment as the fear began to creep up his spine. It was a bewildering and unfamiliar feeling. He could feel his heart rate accelerating. He began to sweat.
After about 3 minutes the paranoia began en force. Who had emailed, who had called, who had texted since he lost service? Did everyone else know? Was everyone trying to warn him? He was sure they were. The vacant blue of the television taunted him.
He listened and noticed something. Nothing actually. No planes, no cars, no dogs. He walked to the window and looked outside. It was quiet, but also 4 in the morning. Still, this was exactly what he had expected, and he was prepared.
He opened his closet and hefted a large black case onto his coffee table. He opened it and withdrew the M24 SWS, affixing the telescopic sight. It was a beautiful sight, the sleek black metal exceptionally clean. He sat on his couch, polishing the barrel with his shirt. Within moments his heart rate decelerated, his palms dried, and his hands stopped shaking.
He waited for it to arrive, and was ready. He knew this would be the moment he was waiting for. He had made the decision long ago, and knew his chances. They were not good. But, the fear was gone knowing he would be able to pump out a few rounds before it consumed him. His breathing slowed to a crawl.
Suddenly, the blue snapped to Oprah. His phone chirped. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
He placed the rifle back inside the case and returned it to the closet. A part of him was relieved, but most of him had accepted his fate, and knew the inevitable was relentless and approaching. He was satisfied having come one step closer to welcoming it.
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