Mars has water.
This means that when the ancient interstellar alien civilization flooded the Earth with the components necessary for life some missed its mark and ended up on Mars.
Move on folks. Nothing to see here.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Word of the Day
gov·ern·ment n.
- An institution employed by the rich to legally plunder humanity.
- A cartel capable of acquiring the encouragement of its victims.
- An entity whereby wealth is redistributed from the poor and productive to the super rich and unproductive under the guise of social responsibility.
- The business of selling false hope.
- The abstraction whereby consciousness is exchanged for abstraction.
- An organization whose success is measured by its intentions rather than its results.
- An association that profits most from failure.
- The primary beneficiary of thoughtlessness.
- The means through which humanity dissolves virtue and prosperity.
The will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object.
Thomas Jefferson
Government is not reason; it is not eloquence; it is force. Like a fire, it is a dangerous servant and a fearful master.
Attributed to George Washington, but apocryphal
Monday, July 14, 2008
Brandon and the Stick
The smell was burnt rain and the sound was ringing, accompanied by the dull roar of thunder far off in the distance. Spears of light shot through the forest, and shimmering droplets pattered against the large leaves on their way to the bed of pine needles below. Petrified from the moments of chaos, the bravest bird began singing cautiously in the still, moist air. It might have been the scorched earth between opposing trenches. Or, perhaps it was Eden. Brandon couldn't be sure. He did not want to look. He tried to, then failed. Suddenly, it was his only passion.
His eyelids were too heavy; an anchor woven to every lash. Nothing.
He clenched his fist and a tuft of dirt and needles accumulated loosely between his fingers. It was delightfully cool, wet, and prickly.
He wiggled his toes and felt his sandals. Relief.
He hummed, and a weak cracking tone escaped from his lips. All there but one.
With great effort he elevated his arms. They ascended like powerful twigs and he brought his knuckles to his eyes. The bright sun was welcome pain, and he squinted forcefully against the wicked brilliance. Sight. He had them all.
What faint senses they were would be his escape or his torture; that thought bothered him. Either way, he somehow knew it was best that he had them.
Through the blurry small crack he analyzed his tattered, drenched clothes hanging off of him. He knew it had not been minutes, but days. Maybe longer. He found his rib cage. Yes, it was longer. Leaning back he saw the splintered fresh crack above him. The enormous tree had been ripped in two. Zeus himself might as well have brought his ax from the sky clean down to the top of his head. The wood smoldered, as did his stocking cap, which he removed and smacked against the ground to salvage.
The welcome sensation of dirt and leather elevated to tingling and then pain. It became excruciating. He had thanked the shock for awakening him, but what good could have it done? Could it bring him out of this place? Even still, how had he arrived? He was confused and uncomfortable. He only knew he needed to get out, somehow.
He focused on the beauty of the forest, the robust flowers and exotic birds. Better. He closed his eyes again and focused on his favorite place. For a moment he was relieved, but then the burns came alive, searing his flesh.
Perhaps he was best left comatose. Through the waves of agony he asked himself that question. Was he to waste away in peace or die suffering? He wished for sweet peace to return. His wish became all-consuming.
Suddenly his eyes became wide and his pain tolerable. At once he knew who he was again, why he had come, and what had brought him there. He remembered what had exhausted him, and why he had fallen to sleep.
It was the stick...
It protruded from the top of a giant boulder in front of him. It was beautiful and mysterious. It wasn't actually a stick, rather a little Banzai tree. It had a few little branches and some green needles. Its roots somehow gathered enough nutrients from the lichen on the rocky surface to survive. It looked like a stick at first glance, so that was the word that popped in his mind when he saw it again. It was certainly more than a stick, or a simple Banzai tree for that matter.
This was why he had come, the cause of all curiosity, life's persistent distraction. A stirring welled inside of him, overpowering the pain. He stood and slowly approached its tiny twisted branches.
"You!"
"You did this to me."
"It wasn't me, Brandon. I'm a tree, and an insignificant one at that. You have done this to yourself."
"And just how does a talking tree pretend to be insignificant?"
"Brandon. Think carefully about what you just said."
"You put me to sleep just to awaken me with a lightning bolt. What am I to you, entertainment?"
"I don't do much else but stand here. Sometimes I sway. I can't put you to sleep, and I certainly can't summon a lightning bold. Trust me, I've tried."
"But you revealed so much to me. How could you say that."
"I only revealed what you already knew, or rather, what you would eventually figure out anyway. I think it knocked you out. That's when you took your extended nap under the tallest tree in the forest. Idiot. It was bound to get struck sooner or later."
"Tell me more. I must know more."
"Since I haven't revealed anything, I certainly can't reveal more. Brandon, I'm a tree. Sometimes I drop a needle onto the ground. You don't need my help."
"You're bluffing. Cooperate, or I'm going to tell everyone what you've told me."
"These are not secrets. And go ahead, tell whoever you want. You'll find many questions can only be answered if they are asked. When you came here you asked the right questions. That was all you needed to do. You were capable of answering them all yourself. Now, go home. I'm busy."
"Busy doing what? You're a tree."
"Now you're starting to make some sense. Yes, when I'm not solving the worlds problems sometimes I sway back and forth, and occasionally I drop a needle on the ground. I'm going to be silent now so you can go back to second-guessing yourself."
Brandon watched the stick. It indeed went silent. As the woods grew dark into the evening he tried to provoke it. He tried singing, tickling, calling it names. It stood obstinately, taunting him through the night. Finally, he slouched and fell back against the shattered tree. Somehow all he had discovered seemed useless. He needed more, and knew the stick was the only thing capable of giving it to him. He began to sob. Realizing the absurdity of it all, he decided the talking tree was probably a figment of his imagination.
"How is that possible?" As dawn approached, ashamed of himself, he decided he must be losing his mind. Holding his wounds, he decided it was true; "I am certifiably crazy."
"What good is the tree's supreme knowledge if there was no tree at all? Worse, if the tree was right, and I already knew the answer to all my questions, how can I possibly know they are correct? After all, I'm just some loon who likes to talk to trees!" Brandon resolved to never have a conversation with an inanimate object again.
Suddenly, the Banzai uprooted, stood poised for a moment, and adeptly performed a twelve-toed tap dancing routine. This was not good. Brandon closed his eyes tightly. He covered his ears. He shook his head. It was not real! It was a banzai tree! He could not watch. It would destroy him. Yet, as much as he tried to ignore it, having deafened his senses, the delicate roots could still be felt subtly bouncing gleefully against the forest floor. There was simply no doubt about it...the tree was still there. He struggled against the corners of his mouth, which began to rise. He pushed his eyebrows back to their usual place. But, it was no use. It was the gentle thud of the makeshift cane that did it. His meditation broke, shattered to bits. He opened his eyes and covered his mouth, chuckling at the absolute insanity in front of him, smiling broadly. He was doomed, and it never felt so good.
His eyelids were too heavy; an anchor woven to every lash. Nothing.
He clenched his fist and a tuft of dirt and needles accumulated loosely between his fingers. It was delightfully cool, wet, and prickly.
He wiggled his toes and felt his sandals. Relief.
He hummed, and a weak cracking tone escaped from his lips. All there but one.
With great effort he elevated his arms. They ascended like powerful twigs and he brought his knuckles to his eyes. The bright sun was welcome pain, and he squinted forcefully against the wicked brilliance. Sight. He had them all.
What faint senses they were would be his escape or his torture; that thought bothered him. Either way, he somehow knew it was best that he had them.
Through the blurry small crack he analyzed his tattered, drenched clothes hanging off of him. He knew it had not been minutes, but days. Maybe longer. He found his rib cage. Yes, it was longer. Leaning back he saw the splintered fresh crack above him. The enormous tree had been ripped in two. Zeus himself might as well have brought his ax from the sky clean down to the top of his head. The wood smoldered, as did his stocking cap, which he removed and smacked against the ground to salvage.
The welcome sensation of dirt and leather elevated to tingling and then pain. It became excruciating. He had thanked the shock for awakening him, but what good could have it done? Could it bring him out of this place? Even still, how had he arrived? He was confused and uncomfortable. He only knew he needed to get out, somehow.
He focused on the beauty of the forest, the robust flowers and exotic birds. Better. He closed his eyes again and focused on his favorite place. For a moment he was relieved, but then the burns came alive, searing his flesh.
Perhaps he was best left comatose. Through the waves of agony he asked himself that question. Was he to waste away in peace or die suffering? He wished for sweet peace to return. His wish became all-consuming.
Suddenly his eyes became wide and his pain tolerable. At once he knew who he was again, why he had come, and what had brought him there. He remembered what had exhausted him, and why he had fallen to sleep.
It was the stick...
It protruded from the top of a giant boulder in front of him. It was beautiful and mysterious. It wasn't actually a stick, rather a little Banzai tree. It had a few little branches and some green needles. Its roots somehow gathered enough nutrients from the lichen on the rocky surface to survive. It looked like a stick at first glance, so that was the word that popped in his mind when he saw it again. It was certainly more than a stick, or a simple Banzai tree for that matter.
This was why he had come, the cause of all curiosity, life's persistent distraction. A stirring welled inside of him, overpowering the pain. He stood and slowly approached its tiny twisted branches.
"You!"
"You did this to me."
"It wasn't me, Brandon. I'm a tree, and an insignificant one at that. You have done this to yourself."
"And just how does a talking tree pretend to be insignificant?"
"Brandon. Think carefully about what you just said."
"You put me to sleep just to awaken me with a lightning bolt. What am I to you, entertainment?"
"I don't do much else but stand here. Sometimes I sway. I can't put you to sleep, and I certainly can't summon a lightning bold. Trust me, I've tried."
"But you revealed so much to me. How could you say that."
"I only revealed what you already knew, or rather, what you would eventually figure out anyway. I think it knocked you out. That's when you took your extended nap under the tallest tree in the forest. Idiot. It was bound to get struck sooner or later."
"Tell me more. I must know more."
"Since I haven't revealed anything, I certainly can't reveal more. Brandon, I'm a tree. Sometimes I drop a needle onto the ground. You don't need my help."
"You're bluffing. Cooperate, or I'm going to tell everyone what you've told me."
"These are not secrets. And go ahead, tell whoever you want. You'll find many questions can only be answered if they are asked. When you came here you asked the right questions. That was all you needed to do. You were capable of answering them all yourself. Now, go home. I'm busy."
"Busy doing what? You're a tree."
"Now you're starting to make some sense. Yes, when I'm not solving the worlds problems sometimes I sway back and forth, and occasionally I drop a needle on the ground. I'm going to be silent now so you can go back to second-guessing yourself."
Brandon watched the stick. It indeed went silent. As the woods grew dark into the evening he tried to provoke it. He tried singing, tickling, calling it names. It stood obstinately, taunting him through the night. Finally, he slouched and fell back against the shattered tree. Somehow all he had discovered seemed useless. He needed more, and knew the stick was the only thing capable of giving it to him. He began to sob. Realizing the absurdity of it all, he decided the talking tree was probably a figment of his imagination.
"How is that possible?" As dawn approached, ashamed of himself, he decided he must be losing his mind. Holding his wounds, he decided it was true; "I am certifiably crazy."
"What good is the tree's supreme knowledge if there was no tree at all? Worse, if the tree was right, and I already knew the answer to all my questions, how can I possibly know they are correct? After all, I'm just some loon who likes to talk to trees!" Brandon resolved to never have a conversation with an inanimate object again.
Suddenly, the Banzai uprooted, stood poised for a moment, and adeptly performed a twelve-toed tap dancing routine. This was not good. Brandon closed his eyes tightly. He covered his ears. He shook his head. It was not real! It was a banzai tree! He could not watch. It would destroy him. Yet, as much as he tried to ignore it, having deafened his senses, the delicate roots could still be felt subtly bouncing gleefully against the forest floor. There was simply no doubt about it...the tree was still there. He struggled against the corners of his mouth, which began to rise. He pushed his eyebrows back to their usual place. But, it was no use. It was the gentle thud of the makeshift cane that did it. His meditation broke, shattered to bits. He opened his eyes and covered his mouth, chuckling at the absolute insanity in front of him, smiling broadly. He was doomed, and it never felt so good.
Wall-E
I'm usually not too keen on animated films, but learning that Pete Doctor helped conceive the story and write the script (along with Andrew Stanton), I had to go check it out. Pete and I never met, but I spent my formative years singing along to his mother's guitar. We also suffered some of the same high-school teachers (although he went to Kennedy not Jefferson). I decided K and I had to go see what Pete's been up to. After watching the film I felt a connection far greater than just hometown nostalgia. This is one of the most heartfelt, thought-provoking, beautifully choreographed stories I have ever seen. All Minnesotans can be proud a local hero helped bring this one to life. I suspect many others will feel right at home after watching this one too.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Wisconsin law bans sex with dead bodies
Party's over.
No more quick jaunts over the border to find a decent corpse brothel. I'm afraid the days of easy coffin love are over, my friends.
But, with each end comes a new beginning. Now that the whoring of corpses is more difficult in our neighbor state, we might consider the black market opportunity here in our great state of Minnesota. Consider all the folks from the Twin Cities that previously drove to Hudson for their piece of recently deceased ass. The incentive is gone. No doubt about it. Sex with dead bodies is now equally illegal in both our great states! This is really good news for us at Six Feet Underground Inc.
In a recent study, "fear of prison" was the primary factor preventing Minnesotans from digging up graves in-state. Now, those seeking Morticia will exploit local resources, undoubtedly creating a boom for the previously non-existent necro-services industry. With an entrepreneurial spirit and a few cold calls, we might even attract Badger clientèle as well. This is an exciting time.
Recent media coverage has been excellent for business. We are surprised how few unintentionally celibate men had never considered the possibility.
"I just saw it on the news. Sex with a corpse...can you really do that?"
For $1200 and your name on the dotted line she's all yours. After that, it's between you, Stiff Sally, and the Dark One.
"But this just doesn't seem right."
We get that one all the time. Check it out...Criminal investigators dunk the heads of corpses in boiling water to remove the flesh all the time (haven't you seen CSI?). Morticians mangle internal organs as a matter of course. I put it to you...what possible harm can come from necrophilia? If she doesn't mind getting her head boiled, she certainly doesn't mind a little lovin. It's the fam we are protecting. If you're going to do it anyway, we might as well make sure Maw and Paw never hear about it.
We are really looking forward to some government program: "Corpse Control" or a "War on Necrophilia" would be ideal. That will really help get the word out. Once people hear this sort of thing is popular enough to establish a real law, it sparks curiosity, you know..."I never really thought about doing that - what do they know that I don't?" Well, now you know how to find out...
Dudes, when your short on cash and have absolutely no chance with a live one, consider the flip side.
www.sixfeetunderground.com
No more quick jaunts over the border to find a decent corpse brothel. I'm afraid the days of easy coffin love are over, my friends.
But, with each end comes a new beginning. Now that the whoring of corpses is more difficult in our neighbor state, we might consider the black market opportunity here in our great state of Minnesota. Consider all the folks from the Twin Cities that previously drove to Hudson for their piece of recently deceased ass. The incentive is gone. No doubt about it. Sex with dead bodies is now equally illegal in both our great states! This is really good news for us at Six Feet Underground Inc.
In a recent study, "fear of prison" was the primary factor preventing Minnesotans from digging up graves in-state. Now, those seeking Morticia will exploit local resources, undoubtedly creating a boom for the previously non-existent necro-services industry. With an entrepreneurial spirit and a few cold calls, we might even attract Badger clientèle as well. This is an exciting time.
Recent media coverage has been excellent for business. We are surprised how few unintentionally celibate men had never considered the possibility.
"I just saw it on the news. Sex with a corpse...can you really do that?"
For $1200 and your name on the dotted line she's all yours. After that, it's between you, Stiff Sally, and the Dark One.
"But this just doesn't seem right."
We get that one all the time. Check it out...Criminal investigators dunk the heads of corpses in boiling water to remove the flesh all the time (haven't you seen CSI?). Morticians mangle internal organs as a matter of course. I put it to you...what possible harm can come from necrophilia? If she doesn't mind getting her head boiled, she certainly doesn't mind a little lovin. It's the fam we are protecting. If you're going to do it anyway, we might as well make sure Maw and Paw never hear about it.
We are really looking forward to some government program: "Corpse Control" or a "War on Necrophilia" would be ideal. That will really help get the word out. Once people hear this sort of thing is popular enough to establish a real law, it sparks curiosity, you know..."I never really thought about doing that - what do they know that I don't?" Well, now you know how to find out...
Dudes, when your short on cash and have absolutely no chance with a live one, consider the flip side.
www.sixfeetunderground.com
Blovusberg
Blovusberg is a city 5 million strong; a charming metropolis with parks, rivers, lakes, and trails. Its schools are admired and its roads maintained. Beautiful from within, most visitors are distracted by the monstrous pair of chartreuse spires that tower over either side of town; each one-mile high and topped with its own type of vegetable.
Currently its citizens admire a blimp-size model of an eggplant on one. The other impales a gargantuan celery stalk, tilted at a 45 degree angle, as if ready to be dropped into a bloody mary. Both public works projects took ten years of R&D followed by ten more years of construction. They were completed last year, and no Blovusbergian can forget the unveiling.
It was a bright summer day and the streets were completely empty. Every citizen stood on their lawn, hopes and chins high, anxiously awaiting the two cylindrical curtains to finally fall. They had endured the obnoxious jackhammers and unsightly cranes for over a decade, and were excited to see how their beloved town would be represented. After all, these statues would be their mark, their global identity. They knew that whenever they went abroad, the name "Blovusberg" would instantly evoke the image of whatever is behind those two curtains. Today they would find out...
Trumpets blasted over public radio as the commentator hollered the countdown. Fighter jets rocketed through the air and pyrotechnics blasted from all sides as the curtains finally fell. As the shiny purple hull and leafy stalk first became visible, a deafening silence enveloped the town. On one side, the curtain's top slipped gently over the smooth, bulbous curves of the enormous nightshade. On the other side, it slid down the slanted green stalk, catching for a moment on its end and then dropping off entirely.
A collective gasp shocked the region. Each turned their heads and covered their eyes in horror. Divided in many ways, for that moment, they could agree on one thing...neither spire could relieve the eyes from the hideousness of the other.
The radio commentator began shouting congratulations to the workers who anguished for so many years to complete the project. Half of Blovusberg, 2.5 million, were directly involved in its development. If it wasn't attractive, it was the blood, sweat, and tears of the whole town. Everyone had a brother, father, or sister who worked on the spires. It was their creation, their hard work. How could they be so unappreciative!
"One mile high!"
"500,000 tonnes of titanium! Each!"
"Cost: A mere 3 billion (each)"
From the radio came the statistics. This was their legacy! A permanent reminder of the productive, resourceful, and inventive people of Blovusberg. The overpowering voice congratulated 我们爱巨型菜, the lowest-bidding Chinese design firm.
To this day the spires sway gently as a constant reminder of the greatness of Blovusberg.
Currently its citizens admire a blimp-size model of an eggplant on one. The other impales a gargantuan celery stalk, tilted at a 45 degree angle, as if ready to be dropped into a bloody mary. Both public works projects took ten years of R&D followed by ten more years of construction. They were completed last year, and no Blovusbergian can forget the unveiling.
It was a bright summer day and the streets were completely empty. Every citizen stood on their lawn, hopes and chins high, anxiously awaiting the two cylindrical curtains to finally fall. They had endured the obnoxious jackhammers and unsightly cranes for over a decade, and were excited to see how their beloved town would be represented. After all, these statues would be their mark, their global identity. They knew that whenever they went abroad, the name "Blovusberg" would instantly evoke the image of whatever is behind those two curtains. Today they would find out...
Trumpets blasted over public radio as the commentator hollered the countdown. Fighter jets rocketed through the air and pyrotechnics blasted from all sides as the curtains finally fell. As the shiny purple hull and leafy stalk first became visible, a deafening silence enveloped the town. On one side, the curtain's top slipped gently over the smooth, bulbous curves of the enormous nightshade. On the other side, it slid down the slanted green stalk, catching for a moment on its end and then dropping off entirely.
A collective gasp shocked the region. Each turned their heads and covered their eyes in horror. Divided in many ways, for that moment, they could agree on one thing...neither spire could relieve the eyes from the hideousness of the other.
The radio commentator began shouting congratulations to the workers who anguished for so many years to complete the project. Half of Blovusberg, 2.5 million, were directly involved in its development. If it wasn't attractive, it was the blood, sweat, and tears of the whole town. Everyone had a brother, father, or sister who worked on the spires. It was their creation, their hard work. How could they be so unappreciative!
"One mile high!"
"500,000 tonnes of titanium! Each!"
"Cost: A mere 3 billion (each)"
From the radio came the statistics. This was their legacy! A permanent reminder of the productive, resourceful, and inventive people of Blovusberg. The overpowering voice congratulated 我们爱巨型菜, the lowest-bidding Chinese design firm.
To this day the spires sway gently as a constant reminder of the greatness of Blovusberg.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Technical Editors (gotta love'em)
The following is an exchange between the author of a technical book that describes how to compose music using a software product, and its technical editor. The topic is "layers," which are used to enter independent voices on a staff.
Author:
Author:
"The number of affective layers you introduce into your composition, no matter how uniformly trite and tragic, is in no way associated to the number of Finale layers employed. Although the melding of independent voices may be intended to speak to listeners at multiple levels, the practice itself cannot contribute to the accessibility of your composition any more than it can contribute to the intellectual depth of your audience."Technical editor's comment:
"your joke here is not clear"
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