Monthly Archives: July 2013

Other Critter Photos

Ye olde brain is a bit fried. It’s been a long day and there may be some bad juju brewing (although there has been some good news in the last day or two). It may be a good night to curl up with a good book or watch some cartoons. (Looney Tunes, not Cartoon Network or anime.) Or take Brother Bluto’s advice and start drinking heavily.

In the meantime, have a picture of a lizard, taken in our yard last week – we call him Fred:

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And a bunny – they all look alike to us so we haven’t named any of them:

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A big grasshopper:

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We have a fair number of crickets around. We used to find them in the house all the time and I would take them outside instead of squishing them. I heard they were supposed to be good luck. But we haven’t seen any inside for a while. I wonder if Rocky & Raquel are munching on them:

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And, as always, more squirrels than you can shake the proverbial stick at:

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One of my favorite birds around is this beautiful woodpecker that we see every now and then:

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Best of all, I managed to write this post, insert photos, and edit it all using the iPad app and I (to the best of my knowledge) did not hit the wrong buttons or post it or send out emails to everyone with it looking half baked. Woo-hoo!!

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The Forgotten Final For The Forgotten Class

A few days ago I mentioned here (at the end of the second blatheration) the common “anxiety dream” or nightmare that many students have. It involves suddenly realizing that you have a class that you desperately need in order to graduate but you completely forgot about. It’s now time for the final exam and you never went to a single class, you’re 100% unprepared, but YOU MUST ACE THIS TEST!!

Like many college students, I would occasionally have such an anxiety dream when I was an undergraduate, more than thirty years ago at UC Irvine. But one year, circumstances and a shot in the dark conspired to let me beat that subconscious torture, and I’ve rarely had such dreams again.

It was probably some time in my junior year when the classes I took all coincidentally had their finals on Monday and Tuesday. This totally sucked because I had to take four or five finals in just two days. On Tuesday night following the barrage of intense cramming and testing, I had a bad anxiety dream of this variety.

When I remembered the dream on Wednesday morning, something from an earlier Psychology 101 class popped up. It concerned treating phobias by aggressively forcing the patient to confront what they were phobic about. Someone’s terrified of spiders? Get them a tarantula! Are they catatonic just thinking about getting in an airplane? Take them skydiving! That sort of thing.

I wondered if this kind of technique might work in dealing with these recurring nightmares. I had three days coming up in which I had no pressure, no stress, no finals.

What if I went and took a final exam for a class that I had never been to or never studied for? While it wouldn’t be a class that was required, I could easily make sure that I wouldn’t even know what the class was until I got into the auditorium for the test. What did I have to lose?

This obviously wouldn’t work for an upper division class, since they usually had only a couple dozen students at most. If you hadn’t been there for a single class but showed up for the final, you would stick out like a sore thumb. But for a lower division “core” class, it would be a piece of cake.

The “core” classes are taught in huge, tiered auditoriums seating hundreds of students. Also, the tests there are often multiple choice using some kind of Scantron form, possibly with a couple of essay questions that would get written out in a standard exam notebook.

The finals schedule was like scheduling for the movie theaters – something like a round at 8:00 AM, a round at 11:00 AM, a round at 2:00 PM, and a round at 5:00 PM. All of the major buildings had at least one auditorium. I got a couple of exam notebooks, a couple of Scantron forms, a couple of #2 pencils, and just showed up at an auditorium in one of the Fine Arts buildings. (I was a physics major.)

I was not disappointed. There was a final there and it was 100% multiple choice, no essay questions. A couple hundred questions, some kind of art history class, maybe “History of European Art 101”. No one paid me the slightest attention when I grabbed a seat near the back.

It was a little bit like playing a really long game of “Jeopardy” with just one category and no little ditty to hum along to at the end. I have always been an avid reader with pretty broad interests and a good head for (useless) facts, so my answers weren’t completely picked at random. I could often confidently eliminate one or two of the answers, which upped the odds.

I didn’t do anything to try to make a mockery of the whole thing, like filling in bubbles at random and finishing the test in the first ten minutes of the two hours allowed, thus freaking out everyone else in the room. I took my time and did my best. Yes, there were a lot of questions where I was guessing at random, but there was no pressure. Who cared if I got every single answer wrong?

The next week I went to check how I had done. In the hallway outside of the professor’s office was a computer printout with student ID numbers, scores, and grades. They were in order by student last names, which weren’t shown for privacy reasons, making the list look like it was in random order. Way down at the bottom, following a couple of blank lines, was my student ID number and score, with a big question mark drawn next to it along with the notation, “See me”.

The entirely logical assumption was that some legitimate member of the class had foolishly filled in the student ID number incorrectly on the Scantron form and now was in danger of not getting credit for the class. I never heard from anyone, so I guess it never occurred to them to work backwards and find the student associated with the actual student ID number given. That just wouldn’t make any sense.

And by most normal standards they were correct, it didn’t make any sense. Who in the world goes and takes a final exam for a class that they never took? Well, I did. And it worked. I have almost never had that particular recurring nightmare again. (I have other recurring nightmares to deal with, but that’s another story.)

Oh, how did I do? I don’t remember the exact score, but it was less than 50% correct, somewhere in the high 40% range. But I remember getting a C- since they were grading on the curve. That score would have passed the class.

That score also meant that I did better than a significant number of students who had actually taken the class and needed the grade.

Those guys are probably still having nightmares.

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Filed under Art, Paul

Final Notes On 2013 Hugo Nominated Novels

My review of “Throne of the Crescent Moon” by Saladin Ahmed is here.

My review of “2312” by Kim Stanley Robinson is here.

My review of “Redshirts: A Novel With Three Codas” by John Scalzi is here.

I want to make a couple of quick notes about the other two novels nominated for the 2013 Hugo Awards.

The other two novels nominated are “Blackout” by Mira Grant (Orbit) and “Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance” by Lois McMaster Bujold (Baen). I have not read either one yet, primarily because they’re both part of a series of books and I haven’t yet read any of the preceding novels either.

Blackout” is the third book in the Newflesh Trilogy, an urban horror story about the world after the zombie apocalypse and the replacement of the traditional news media with social media on steroids. I have started reading “Feed” (on a trip a paperback copy was in my backpack as my non-electronic reading) and it grabbed my attention hard. But time constraints have prevented me from getting back to it yet and on to “Deadline” and “Blackout”. Sorry, Seanan!

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance” is apparently Book Fourteen of the Vorkosigan Saga. I have not read any of the previous thirteen books, but I know many friends in fandom who are huge fans of the series and of Ms. Bujold. The fact that Ms. Bujold has won six Hugo Awards and three Nebula Awards is a testament to the quality of her writing.

The awards ceremony will be September 1st at LoneStarCon 3. (Final nag, if you want to vote, you can do so online, you have to be an attending or supporting member of the con, and the deadline is on Wednesday, July 31st, at 11:59 PM Central Time.)

Last year, Worldcon in Chicago tried to live stream the Hugo Awards (with John Scalzi as Master of Ceremonies), but the program got cut off by an errant DRM-bot after clips from the Best Theatrical Presentations were shown. LoneStarCon will live stream the ceremony again this year, hopefully with better advance communications with UStream and their bots.

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Review: “Redshirts: A Novel With Three Codas”

The clock continues to tick if you’re planning on voting for this year’s Hugo Awards. The clock runs out at 11:59 PM Central (Texas) time in two days, Wednesday, July 31st. You can vote online, but you need to be an attending or supporting member of LoneStarCon 3 in order to vote.

As is my wont around this time of year I’ve been trying to read all of the nominated novels. My review of “Throne of the Crescent Moon” by Saladin Ahmed is here, and yesterday I reviewed Kim Stanley Robinson’s “2312”. Today I’ll review John Scalzi’s “Redshirts: A Novel With Three Codas” (Tor Books). (As always, I’ll try to avoid any major spoilers for those of you who haven’t read it yet.)

Just so we all know where we stand, full disclosure and all, I’ll make it clear here for those who don’t already know – I am a huge fan of John Scalzi and his writing. I discovered his “Old Man’s War” series a few years back and it’s one of my all-time favorite SF series (and I’ve read a lot of SF and fantasy.) I’ve started reading his other books and I haven’t been disappointed yet. I’ve met him at conventions and book signings.

I discovered his “Whatever” blog about two years ago. Mr. Scalzi’s writing on “Whatever” is one of the key factors behind my decision to start this blog. He takes on some tough subjects there and has a voice as clear, reasonable, and sane as anyone else I see these days, except possibly Paul Krugman. I highly recommend you read “Whatever”.

“Redshirts” (I’ll refer to it by the shorter title) is a standalone novel, not related to any of Mr. Scalzi’s other works.

It is in many respects a comedy, although there are aspects of it that will sneak up on you and possibly leave you in tears. This is a quality that I have often found in the best entertainment (think television shows such as “M*A*S*H” or today’s “Modern Family”) and seeing the same range of emotions brought out in an SF novel is a wonderful experience.

The book’s title and basic premise come from a central meme of Star Trek, particularly the original series from the 60’s. If an away team beams down to an alien planet facing belligerent aliens and a hostile environment, danger all around, phasers set to stun, you’ll always see Kirk in a gold shirt, Spock and another senior officer in blue shirts, and some nameless security dude in a red shirt. Guess who gets eaten by the bug-eyed monster?

Ensign Andrew Dahl has just been assigned to the Universal Union flagship Intrepid. It’s a sweet assignment and he quickly makes friends with a handful of other junior officers who are transferring onto the Intrepid. But they all soon find out that things are odd on board.

Dahl’s in Xenobiology and his lab mates seem to almost magically disappear just before senior officers appear in the lab. Dahl’s new friends all notice that everyone on board is almost obsessed with away teams – and how to avoid them. As they start to put the pieces together, they realize that being picked to go on an away mission is not the dream job they believed it would be when they were at the Academy. As the lowest ranking member of the away team, their life expectancy will be very low.

It quickly also becomes apparent that everyone else already on board has also figured this out. At least, everyone except for the senior officers. But while the existing crew has found coping mechanisms to avoid being picked for an away team, Dahl and his friends decide to try and find out what the hell’s going on and how to change it.

The story grabs you and sucks you in quickly. Since we’re starting with a good chunk of story framework that we’re already familiar with, it doesn’t take long to get our bearings. And then Scalzi starts changing it up and messing around with the characters and the readers. “Meta” is a term I’ve seen used often in describing “Redshirts” and it’s quite appropriate.

But “Redshirts” is much more than meta. It’s very clever in showing us how the various pieces of the puzzle are discovered, how the various threads tie together, and how the problem is ultimately resolved. Scalzi’s style is breezy, witty, and funny. You’ll quickly get quite attached to our plucky protagonists as they try to save their asses and solve the mystery of their existence.

The “novel” portion of “Redshirts” is short for a novel and it’s a quick, fun read. Following that are the three “codas”, smaller stories that are tangential to the main novel, but not a part of it. They each give us a much deeper look into what happens next to one of the relatively minor characters from the “novel” section. And if you’re anything like me, they’ll break your heart.

After 231 pages of snappy repartee, quick comebacks, and raucous adventures, the three codas smacked me right in the feels. It was a very, very good thing.

I most highly recommend you get a copy of “Redshirts” and relish it. I suspect it may be a book you’ll read over and over. When you’re at that next party and someone asks if you’ve read anything good lately, you’ll have an answer.

If I were voting for this year’s Hugo Awards Best Novel, it would probably be a toss-up for me between “2312” and “Redshirts”. In my mind it’s a choice analogous to the Academy Award voting for Best Movie, where the film that was the “deepest” and most “serious” almost always wins over the terribly entertaining movie that made $500M, sold a zillion tickets, and had people seeing it three or four times.

“2312” was deep and serious, but “Redshirts” would have to win my Hugo vote simply because it was just so much fun to read.

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Review: “2312”

First of all, a reminder to any and all of my fannish friends, the deadline for voting for this year’s Hugo Awards is in three days, on July 31st. You need to be an attending or supporting member of LoneStarCon 3 in order to vote. It is highly unlikely that I will be able to attend Worldcon this year, but that hasn’t stopped me from trying to read as many of the nominated stories as possible.

A few weeks ago I wrote about “Throne of the Crescent Moon” by Saladin Ahmed. Today I would like to share with you what I thought after reading “2312” by Kim Stanley Robinson (Orbit Books). (I’ll try to avoid any major spoilers for those of you who haven’t read it yet.)

“2312” follows a series of events across the solar system in a near future which sees mankind divided. On the one hand, Earth is a swollen, rotting cesspit dealing with a population of eleven billion, pollution, and the consequences of climate change. On the other hand, spacers have spread across the solar system to build cities and outposts in almost every possible place, even (or especially) in places that we as readers in the present day wouldn’t believe possible.

The story starts with Swan Er Hong, an artist and free-thinker who we learned has previously been a designer of customized habitats. She lives on Mercury in the planet’s single great city of Terminator. The city constantly travels around the planet on tracks to keep it on the dark side of Mercury, since the heat and radiation from the sun would be extremely lethal.

When Swan’s grandmother Alex dies, Swan is introduced to Jean Genette, a detective from the asteroid settlements. Genette is a “small”, a member of a human subspecies modified to be about half the size of average humans. He indicates that Alex’s death may not have been natural and that Alex had been working with a number of other leaders and leading scientists across the solar system on some very secret project.

Swan then is introduced to Fitz Wahram, a diplomat and leader from Titan. Wahram is a very large man from Titan, his human subspecies having been modified with frog-like genes. Neither Wharam nor Genette will talk about what they and Alex were supposedly involved with, but they both believe that Alex would have left some sort of message or information with Swan.

What follows is a combination of detective mystery, spy thriller, and travelogue. We quickly see that there are indeed malevolent forces at work, but the who, what, how, and why need to be puzzled out.

In the process we get a peek into almost every corner of this bustling solar system. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, the moons of Jupiter, the moons of Saturn, Saturn itself, Saturn’s rings, multiple asteroids and transport vehicles created out of asteroids – all are shown to us in some considerable detail as the story progresses.

The story is told in a unique and interesting fashion, with chapters of third-person narrative (each chapter following one main character or another) interspersed with chapters of “Lists”, “Extracts”, and (in the second half of the book) “Quantum Walks”.

Each of these short chapters (just a couple of pages each) is a different way of giving us information about what is going on in the story. Instead of exposition, we get some no-so-random raw data to start fermenting in our memory. We’re on our own to figure out what it might have to do with the story. It’s a really good way of involving our brain and getting us a head start on what’s coming up.

“Lists” are just what they sound like. For example, “Lists (9)” is two pages of space propulsion systems.

“Extracts” are collections of paragraph-length bits of data on some subject or theme. Each bit starts and stops in mid sentence, like newspaper or magazine clippings cut out at random. Nonetheless, I found it quite effective at getting my thought process primed with new information.

“Quantum Walks” are stream of consciousness exercises from a computer.

As with Robinson’s earlier “Mars Trilogy”, I really enjoyed the detail in which he showed both the technical wonders of this universe and the economic and political realities that went along with it. We get to follow Swan and friends around and be sightseers through the entire solar system. We also get deep into the nitty-gritty of how this messy political and economic balance is maintained.

Earth is deeply dependent on the energy, food, and resources being shipped down from the space colonies. The colonies are still dependent on Earth both for its diverse (if damaged) biosphere and for the effect its gravity has on human longevity. Yet both factions are jealous and distrustful of each other. The average human on Earth is poverty stricken and downtrodden, yearning to leave for the colonies. The average human in the colonies is very well aware of just how dangerous the various space environments are and how fragile their existence is.

While I enjoyed cruising around the solar system and seeing the wondrous sights, I was less satisfied with the thriller and mystery aspects of the story. The plot thickens and various violent events occur, but in the end I had uneasy feelings that there were several important loose ends. For example, we never do get any idea of Alex’s death was natural or a homicide. (I can’t discuss my other unanswered questions further without major spoilers, so if you want to discuss further, please contact me by e-mail.)

Finally, there was one long narrative chapter in the middle of the book that was key for developing the long-term relationship between Swan and Wahram, but I found it to drag on interminably. I thought that the same portion of the story could have been told in half as many pages. That one chapter almost derailed the entire book for me.

If you’ve read Robinson’s “Mars Trilogy” you will recognize his style and it is very tempting to think that “2312” is set in the same universe, just in a slightly different setting and time. I know that for the longest time while reading, I kept looking for points where the two story lines intersected. But while similar, this is not the universe of the “Mars Trilogy”. Same planets, similar time frame, similar tech, similar societies, but different story, characters, and universe.

Robinson’s web site says that “2312” is a standalone novel and not the first novel of a trilogy. That may well be true, and the book does stand on its own, but I can’t help but wonder if some of what I perceived as loose ends weren’t actually plot points to be explored further in another book. But that’s just speculation on my part, possibly brought about by my discomfort with the unanswered questions.

I was really looking forward to reading “2312” and despite the couple of nits that I picked, I was not disappointed. “2312” won this year’s Best Novel Nebula Award in May and it might very well win this year’s Hugo Award in the category next month.

If I were voting, it would probably be a toss-up for me between “2312” and…

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Adams Old House Flowers

Would we like some more pretty pictures of flowers tonight? Good, because that’s what I want to post tonight. I’m sure we’ll return to our regularly scheduled snark tomorrow.

These pictures are from the gardens at the Adams National Historical Park Old House in Quincy, Massachusetts. The Long-Suffering Wife and I were in Boston (a great city!) a couple years back. Since she knows that I’m a huge fan of John Adams, we made time to get down to Quincy to visit the park there and see where he lived.

The Old House grounds are a pleasure to walk around and there are several large gardens. We were there in September and everything was in full bloom.

I’m not a horticulturist by any means so I can’t tell you what any of these are. They caught my eye and were beautiful, so I took pictures. (I take a lot of pictures.) If anyone wishes to chime in and identify any of them for us, I encourage you to chime in in the comments section.

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I Was The Rock (Updated)

(A truncated, partial first draft of this got posted by mistake while I was writing it a few minutes ago. I apologize if you got a funky, messed up version in your email. This is the correct version. I guess next time I’ll know better than to try to write long posts on my iPad while watching the ball game.)

When I was a pre-teen in the late 1960’s I was active in the Boy Scouts in the Chicago suburbs. We did the usual activities – hiking, camping, merit badges, and so on. When summer came around we had the opportunity to go off to summer camp in Wisconsin for a week or two weeks. I think I was 12 when I first went.

On the first morning I was introduced to an aspect of Boy Scout summer camp which threatened to turn my two weeks there into a living hell.

We had several great activities planned for later in our stay, including a couple of canoe trips and daily swimming opportunities. In order to make sure we could participate safely, we had a swimming test.

As Bill Cosby so eloquently points out in his classic “Niagara Falls” routine, the water in our lake had just melted that morning and was at 33F. (That’s how my 12-year-old brain remembers it and I’m sticking to that story.) We weren’t given any warning, just herded into the water among the ice floes and told to see if we could swim out past the dock, past the rope, to the raft, and back.

I had never had any formal swimming lessons of any kind. When we had lived in Kansas City in grade school we had always gone to “the pool” a lot during the summer, but I had always just puttered around in the shallow end. If I was occasionally brave enough to go off of the diving board (by which I mean timidly falling off the end six feet from the edge, no actual diving involved) I would furiously paddle and flail back to the safety of the wall. Not to mention that the water was about 75F, crystal clear, and heavily chlorinated.

Finding myself in freezing lake water with mud and plants between my toes and snapping turtles and walleyes and muskies and barracuda ready to attack, I did not do well. I flailed and paddled as best I could, but when I thought I would go into hypothermia and shock and drown at any second, I was told by the lifeguard to just stand up and walk to the beach. I had made it about thirty feet and was in about three feet of water.

When everyone had taken their tests, we were sorted out into our different classifications. Those who had made it out to the raft and back (a hundred yards or so each way) were deemed to be “Sharks”. Those who could make it out to the rope and back were “Trout”. Those who could only go out to the dock were “Perch”. I was in my very own special group. I was a “Rock”.

I resigned myself to not going into the water other than wading a bit when we would have daily swims, and I would probably have to wear two life vests when we went on canoe trips. It was humiliating, but I could live with that.

The reality was far worse. The Boy Scouts of America could not allow any of their scouts to not know how to swim, and swim well. The Perch and I were told that we would have daily swimming lessons until we were Sharks. At six freakin’ AM every single morning. In that water with rime ice on the beach.

I have never been so miserable in my life. But they made it quite clear that they were serious. They wanted to teach me the crawl, the back stroke, the breast stroke, and the side stroke. I was not going to be able to get out of those classes until I could do all four strokes, float for five minutes, and make it all the way out to the raft and back using some combination of strokes. Paddling and flailing were not allowed.

Since they were going to be sadistic and cruel about it, I realized (to quote Frost) that “the only way out is through”, so I learned to swim. It took about four days, but I was actually one of the first in the remedial group to pass their test and get out of that 6AM class.

This did in fact serve me well later in life, particularly when I was a midshipman at Annapolis. (The Navy is almost as gung ho about swimming as the Boy Scouts are.) But I have never, ever liked swimming since then and I hate being in cold water.

Give me a nice Jacuzzi any day!

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Flash Fiction: Guardian Angel

This week’s Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck Wendig is to use an online plot scenario generator that amuses him. The random plot scenario generator gave me:

Capture

In response, I’ll give you “Guardian Angel”. (Enjoy! Comment! Critique! Bathe me in your adoration! Point out typos and how I use too many run-on sentences!)

Guardian Angel

The train’s momentum was building unmercifully as it slid out of the Chatsworth station, slowly gathering speed and completely oblivious to Elizabeth’s cries for it to stop. She valiantly chased it all the way down the platform. She was almost catching up to it when the last car cleared the platform’s end and Elizabeth was forced to skid to a halt before crashing into the railing there.

For half a second she realized logically that she couldn’t have done anything even if she had caught up with it. Logic’s embrace was fleeting and she immediately found herself clinging to the rail for support, sobbing, trying to see through the tears and haze to find a bench.

This was the last straw. The rock bottom of her struggles was still to come but her fate was sealed with the lights of the train disappearing to the east toward Pacoima. She would inevitably get fired for being late. Then she would lose her apartment. She couldn’t even think of what would come after that. Her life was now completely in free fall.

What made it all worse was how close she had come to getting out of this precarious existence and on to the next level, where she could relax just a touch, pay off the bills, put some money in the bank, maybe even be able to afford a car or take a vacation. For two years she had worked in that miserable discount outlet store downtown, trying to get noticed, trying to get a little bit of overtime, trying to get a better position.

Elizabeth had found herself in that job after she had been forced to put her design career on hold. Times were tough and no one cared that she had an art degree and a knockout portfolio. So instead of working in New York or Miami, she worked eight hour days doing alterations in Los Angeles, cuffing pants and sewing hems for customers who needed it instantly or sooner.

All the while she had been battling Amanda.

Amanda had joined the shop as a tailor shortly after Elizabeth had. She had once been a designer of some small fame. Amanda’s design career had taken off for a couple of years but had ended with alcohol and an auto accident. Five years of in an ultra-competitive field had been a lifetime, leaving Amanda to start over.

Elizabeth and Amanda had been at odds for the whole two years they had been there together. The situation had finally come to a head with a notice that their small store was being sold to a much bigger chain of men’s clothing stores. But while the new company would be paying better and giving better benefits, they were also consolidating. That meant that either Elizabeth or Amanda would get their pink slip this morning.

Crying on the bench, Elizabeth couldn’t focus at all. For several minutes she was consumed with panic. There was no other way for her to get downtown, and the next train wouldn’t be for over an hour. The interviews with the new supervisor were scheduled this morning at 9:00 sharp. Could she call in sick and hope that they would put off her interview until tomorrow? Or would that just make their decision easy?

It took a moment for Elizabeth to realize that someone was trying to get her attention. As she looked up, still hunched over and hugging herself in her misery, she saw a dirty pair of sneakers and black slacks. From far away she heard someone saying, “Lady, are you OK? Lady? Ma’am, do you need help?”

Elizabeth sat up and wiped her eyes, focusing on the young girl standing there and reaching out tentatively towards Elizabeth’s shoulder. It took several seconds for the questions to register. Suddenly feeling terribly exposed and ashamed for having a breakdown in public, she lurched to her feet.

Elizabeth tried to run away. Running was all that she could think of. She had no idea where she would go or how she would get there but she had to get away. But her legs would not cooperate and Elizabeth lurched and almost fell. She was caught and held up by the young girl.

“Lady, you’re not OK! Do you need me to call 9-1-1 for you? Are you hurt? What’s going on? Just sit back down here for a minute and let’s see what I can do for you.”

Defeated, Elizabeth slumped back onto the bench, eyes closed. She felt the young girl sit down next to her, and then felt her shift her weight. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see the young girl pulling out her cell phone.

“No! Don’t do that, don’t call. I don’t need help. I’m not hurt.”

“If you say so. If you’re not hurt, why are you crying like that? There must be something pretty bad going on.”

Elizabeth tried to pull herself together, taking in a deep breath but at least holding the next crying jag at bay. She realized that she recognized the young girl from somewhere. In a second before she remembered where.

“You’re from the place on the corner, the all-night coffee place. I’ve seen you working there late, when I have to take the last train home.”

“Yeah, I thought I recognized you, too. I’m Teri, I usually work the graveyard shift so I can go to school during the day. My dad owns the coffee place.”

“Right. Thanks, Teri. Sorry, I’m pretty much a mess. I’m Elizabeth.”

“What’s going on, Elizabeth? You seem pretty upset.”

“Yeah, I am. I just missed my train and today I’ll get fired if I’m late. Things are already pretty shaky and this is just too much. Give me a second and I’ll be OK.”

“Can I give you a ride? Where do you work?”

“I’m downtown in the garment district. Unless you can bring that train back or you have a genie in your pocket, I think I’m just screwed, but thanks anyway.”

“Get up and let’s go, I’ve got this covered. I’ll get you there.”

“Thanks, Teri, but even Mario Andretti couldn’t get downtown in a car during rush hour in LA. Do you have a helicopter that I don’t know about?”

Teri stood up and started pulling Elizabeth to her feet. Elizabeth was startled, but let Teri pull her along toward the parking lot.

“We’re burning daylight,” Teri said. “As a matter of fact, yes, I do have a helicopter. That’s what I’m going to school for, to get my commercial ticket. It’s your lucky day. We should be at Whiteman in twenty minutes, and from there it’s only ten minutes by air to downtown.”

“A helicopter? But you can’t just drop me off in the middle of downtown, it’s all buildings and skyscrapers and houses!”

“No worries. There’s a public helipad at the hospital at Olive and Venice, right by the freeway. I’ll drop you there and you’re about three blocks from the fashion district, right? You’ll be the first one in the office and I’ll get a good start on the solo work I’m supposed to do today.”

As Elizabeth got into Teri’s car she was staggered by the turn of her fate. She was going to get her shot to keep her job after all. She looked in stunned amazement at Teri.

“This is unbelievable. Are you my guardian angel?”

“No ma’am, I only fly like an angel. I’m a pilot.”

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Odds & Sods For Wednesday, July 24th

Item The First: Today’s APOD (Astronomy Picture Of the Day – what, you’re NOT looking at it every day? I’ll wait while you fix that…) is freakin’ brilliant. It’s a simple idea carried to an extreme and used to create something beautiful. Ken Murphy pointed a camera at the sky and had it record a picture every ten seconds. For an entire year. He then took all of those pictures and put them into a HD composite image.

Capture

Image credit & copyright Ken Murphy (MurphLab)

Looks cool? Yeah, but it’s not just a still picture, it’s a video.

He synched up the time so that each frame shows the time-lapse video for that day starting and ending at the same time, then has them run simultaneously. And because he starts before sunrise and ends after sunset, and because he’s in San Francisco and not at the equator, at the beginning and end you can see how the days lengthen and shorten with the seasons. You see pink sunrise clouds, orange sunset clouds, rainy days, sunny days, an entire year in one short video.

Item The Second: This is another truly amazing video, showing all of the Space Shuttle flights (well, at least snippets from every one of them) in 8:01. Do yourself a favor and watch it full screen, HD, and turned up LOUD. Repeat as necessary to regain your sanity after dealing with freakin’ idiots. Except of course it made me think of the freakin’ idiots who mothballed the Shuttles… Breathe. Breathe. Om, om, om, om…

Item The Third: I knew that when telephone area codes were assigned in the late 1940’s we had only rotary phones, so New York City got “212”, Los Angeles got “213”, Dallas-Fort Worth got “214”, Chicago got “312”, Detroit got “313”, and so on so that the users in the big cities could dial long distance faster.

What I didn’t know is that in 1999 a relatively “low” area code was given to a less densely populated area of Florida instead of to densely populated suburban Chicago. A behind the scenes campaign by Florida lobbyists convinced the numbering agency to change their mind and thus Florida’s “Space Coast” got the “3-2-1” area code. (That whimsical bit of trivia just about made my day!)

Item The Fourth: Pop Quiz!! What is it you never, EVER do when taking simple astrophotos of the sun with your $1 “Solar Viewer” card? Your answers will be graded on creativeness as well as on accuracy.

Item The Fifth: The gremlin body count is slowly rising, which is a good thing. It was getting pretty frustrating there for a couple of weeks.

The cable television problem finally got fixed by a great repair guy from Time-Warner, but only after some serious frustrations with their service department before I could get him out. I had already done a fair amount of troubleshooting on the problem and had eliminated the first several dozen things they wanted me to try. (“Reboot your cable box and wait three days – if that doesn’t work, get a new cable box.” “Really? Have you listened to a single word I’ve said to describe the problem?”) I was about 99% sure I knew what the problem was and where, but I can’t access that equipment and I don’t have the parts to replace it. Once the cable guy got here, confused by the notes the service department had left him, I quickly showed him what I already knew, he came to the same conclusion I did, found the fried parts, replaced them, and we’re all happy now.

The computer that died is really dead. It wasn’t the power supply, probably the mother board or CPU, but on an eight-year-old computer it’s not possible or worth it to repair. The hard disks were all fine (no data lost) as were the video card, sound card, RAM, and so on, so a new motherboard & CPU got the system back up and going. Of course, Windows 7, MS Office, and a number of other programs are freaking out and wanting to re-authenticate since they’re seeing a “new” system, but so far that’s been an inconvenience, not a killer.

The iShower bluetooth speaker is back up and running with some new batteries. The first one I had died after three and a half months but they were great about giving me a full replacement anyway – kudos to their customer service department! But when that first one ran low on batteries I got warnings for about a week before the batteries were completely dead. This second one has given me no warnings at all, it just died. But replacing the batteries seems to have been the only problem. It was about time for new batteries, based on my experience with the first one, I just wonder why I didn’t get warnings this time. Whatever, it seems to be working again now and I really like having it in the shower to play tunes in the morning.

Best of all, I also again tackled the problems with The Long-Suffering Daughter #2’s car. I’ll tell you some time about how this whole mess started (short version – a four-day lost holiday weekend in Coalinga) but for now I’ve just got her car sitting in the driveway gathering cobwebs. (She’s in China – or Europe, it depends.) I don’t want to let the car sit too long without being driven, and the added incentive was that her car needed a smog check to get registered for the year. I was able to get it started, got it smogged, ran some errands, and put it back into the driveway. We’ll get a permanent fix when one of us can afford $2,000 to replace a $20 part, but that’s another story.

First world problems, all. But like I said, I live here in the first world. You take your little victories where you can.

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Random Blatherationings for July 23rd

Feel lucky, punk? (If you’ve forgotten the rules, they’re here.) Tonight’s three random seed words are “disgest” (to digest), “panton” (a horseshoe to correct a narrow hoofbound heel), and “crustaceology” (that branch of zooumllogy which treats of the Crustacea malacostracology carcinology)

Disgest – Google comes up a complete blank on this one, simply assumes that I’m spelling “digest” incorrectly. (I double checked, I’m not.) The unabridged dictionary has it as an obsolete version of digest and cites something by Sir Francis Bacon.

Sir Francis Bacon was a prominent English orator, statesman, author, and scientist in the late 1500’s and early 1600’s. While looking up some facts on him my brain’s still quietly digesting art thoughts from The Getty visit, so what immediately caught my eye in the Google search was an image of a sculpture at the Oxford University Museum.

11465080_1a5dcbbc5a_z Photo by Kevin Walsh (CC BY-NC 2.0)

The “dead eye” thing on sculptures has always freaked me out a bit. I’m guessing that there’s some reason to do it that I haven’t heard of. (Having said that, there was a sculpture at The Getty that had the eyes done in silver inlay on a marble bust – that was even creepier.)

The detail in the stonework on this entire piece is just unbelievable, but the detail on the ruff goes even beyond that. Someone either was a huge fan of Bacon or was getting paid a lot of money for an incredible piece of art.

And I thought that the ruffs made of lace or cloth looked stiff & uncomfortable!

Panton – Google doesn’t find anything relating to horseshoes that I can see and wants to assume that I can’t spell “Pantone”. (Google is very big on thinking that I can’t spell tonight – don’t be so judgemental, Google!) But there are results returned for “panton chair” and “panton valentine leukocidin”. Let’s pick Door #2!

As the old Knight Templar in “Indiana Jones & The Last Crusade” said, “He did not choose wisely.” A CDC article pops up with a whole bunches of $35 words. “Panton-Valentine Leukocidin Genes in Staphylococcus aureus”.

Do you know what “tl;dr” means? I’ll summarize as best I can (i.e., badly). Panton and Valentine were researchers who in 1932 looked at a strain of staph cells that were particularly toxic and a source of all kinds of problems in cuts, injuries, and infections. This 2006 paper is from a group of researchers in Rotterdam that were looking at how infections caused by that strain of staph are currently distributed both by time and location.

What this reminds me most of is the recurring nightmares many college students have where you show up for a final exam in a critical class that you had totally forgotten about and never attended at all. Some time for extra credit your subconscious will have you show up naked and/or late for that forgotten class and final.

Remind me to tell you some time how I finally got rid of that particular nightmare.

Crustaceology – “That branch of zooumllogy which treats of the Crustacea malacostracology carcinology”? Are you freakin’ kidding me? “Zooumllogy” isn’t even in the first two unabridged dictionaries I look in – I finally find it in a scientific dictionary. It’s the subcategory of biology that refers to animals. (Why couldn’t they have just said that?) “Carcinology” and “malacostracology” both refer to zoological classifications of crustaceans, particularly lobsters and crabs. So from context it means… Ooh, look, a butterfly!

Who was the first guy who looked at king crabs and thought that they were edible? Who was the first guy who even saw king crabs? The reality TV shows on Discovery Channel always show these guys out in the middle of the Bering Sea in fifty-foot waves dropping traps down into hundreds of feet of water, so it’s not like someone just stumbled across one of these things.

So, ignoring that, let’s say that somehow you’ve managed to grab onto a king crab and it looks like a huge freakin’ armor-covered spider from the bottom of the ocean. My first response would be to run screaming and worry about getting clean underwear later. What inspired someone to instead say, “Man, if that thing doesn’t kill me, I’ll bet it’ll taste great with some drawn butter!”

It’s things like this that make The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy a much, MUCH better foundation for theology than the Bible. There’s too much just plain freakish and bizarre stuff out there every day that goes totally unnoticed and unthought about for there to be any intelligent design behind it all.

Are we done? Close enough, although we never did find anything relating to orthotic horseshoes, did we? Google that and see what comes up!

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