Monthly Archives: October 2013

Scientific American And The Epic Fail

One of the more emotionally satisfying memories I have from my childhood involves Scientific American magazine. I was a voracious reader, wanted to be an astronaut, and didn’t have a whole lot of reading material or resources. In grade school I attended a private, Catholic school, and while there was a library, it had serious limitations regarding what I wanted to be reading. We didn’t have a whole lot of reading material in our home, other than a set of World Book and Childcraft encyclopedias. I had read them all cover-to-cover by third grade or so.

Then I found out that my father subscribed to a magnificent magazine called “Scientific American”. He had an engineering degree, and he told me that he liked Scientific American because it kept him up to date on a wide variety of areas of science and engineering. It was reliable, timely, and written at a higher technical and vocabulary level than the popular news magazines like Time or Life. You had to have a brain and some education to read and understand it, and it didn’t talk down to its readers. Not only did he subscribe, but he had stashed away several years’ worth of back issues. As long as I was careful and didn’t get them dirty or torn, I was allowed to read them.

Yeah, that was pretty cool.

Here was a source of real, actual grown-up science stuff, and not the pap that the other magazines had. Granted, Life magazine had a lot of big, color pictures from NASA and those were fantastic, but Scientific American had the knowledge and the science behind the pictures.

Not surprisingly, when I got out on my own, one of the first magazine subscriptions I got was Scientific American. There were years when I was putting myself through college when I might be looking for couch change for the rent, gas, utilities, insurance, tuition, or food, but I never let that subscription lapse.

Today, I still get the print edition and, like my father, I still keep the back issues. In fact, after my father passed away ten years ago, one of his possessions that I got which I prize the most was the boxes and boxes of Scientific American magazines from the 1960’s. Going through those boxes I can still identify them and remember articles just from the cover illustrations. It’s like a time machine that takes me back to a happy place.

With all of that said about my personal background in order to give everyone some context —

I’m baffled and terribly disappointed by what has happened over the last twenty-four hours with Scientific American’s blog website.

In summary, Dr. Danielle N. Lee, Ph.D., is a noted biologist who writes a Scientific American blog, The Urban Scientist. Yesterday she reported an exchange that almost defies belief in its foulness, complete lack of professionalism, and misogyny. In a brief exchange of emails with someone who claimed to represent Biology-Online.org, she was asked to contribute articles for free, a request which she politely declined. The response was, “Because we don’t pay for blog entries? Are you an urban scientist or an urban whore?”

Understandably shocked and outraged by this response, Dr. Lee wrote a blog article reporting what had happened and posted it to her site. She also started telling her friends and fellow bloggers about what had happened. At first, people started to realize that Biology-Online.org has some sort of marketing and advertising relationship with the Scientific American blogging site. Secondly, people noticed that Dr. Lee’s blog article wasn’t showing up on her Scientific American site. When inquiries were made, it was found that the article had been deleted by Scientific American.  The justification for the deletion came in a tweet (hereincluding the repsonses) from Mariette DiChristina, Scientific American’s Editor in Chief and Senior VP, who said, “@sciam is a publication for discovering science. The post was not appropriate for this area & was therefore removed.”

Incredible.

Infuriating.

Absolutely, 100%, completely unacceptable.

While the editorial leadership at Scientific American appears to have completely dropped the ball, the blogosphere reacted quickly. Dr. Lee’s friend and fellow blogger, Isis the Scientist, reposted the deleted article and started spreading the word. Dr. Isis followed it up with a second article today. The reaction also included many other bloggers who write on the Scientific American blogging site. As of this evening, Janet D. Stemwedel, Dana Hunter (here and here), and Kate Clancy have all posted articles that are quite pointedly not about “discovering science” but instead are wondering what the major malfunction is at Scientific American.

Other prominent bloggers have weighed in, including Maryn McKennaAnne JeffersonDavid WescottSean CarrollJoshua Drew, and Greg Laden. John Scalzi commented on it on Twitter, and the entire conversation generated in that thread is quite enlightening. My two cents worth on Twitter was:

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As someone pointed out, even Buzzfeed is calling Scientific American to task for what they’ve done. Isn’t that a bit like the New York Times screwing up and being chewed out by the National Enquirer?

This is not rocket science. The proper response to seeing an employee or associate treating anyone with a lack of respect is to say, “Stop”.

When an employee or associate treats a woman like Dr. Lee was treated, the appropriate response starts with, “STOP! You are relieved of your duties effective immediately. We will discuss your future or lack of one with this organization later. We offer our utmost and sincere apologies to Dr. Lee. This despicable offense should never have happened. We will immediately begin a review of all corporate policies and procedures to make sure that all company personnel understand that such behavior toward anyone is completely unacceptable and that anyone displaying such behavior will be held responsible for their actions.”

Notice that deleting her complaint in an attempt to shut her up isn’t part of that response? Nor is coming up with a completely false and nonsensical excuse for deleting her account. Nor is then going silent.

We’ve seen this kind of unacceptable behavior over and over with politicians, both the disrespectful treatment of women and the ignorant belief that it can be swept under the rug once exposed to the light of day. (Can you say “Anthony Weiner”? Sure, I knew you could.) Politicians, unfortunately, are not expected to be tech savvy or internet savvy. (That’s so sad in its own right, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

While this kind of behavior has gone on (literally) forever, we’re supposed to be doing better in 2013. As a society, we’re supposed to now be more mature, more educated, more intelligent, more empathetic, more understanding, more responsible, and more civilized than we have been in the past. Yet in the past weeks and months there have been far, far too many examples of inexcusable behavior toward women in the tech industry, in science, in academia, in publishing, in SFF fandom, and in every aspect of everyday life.

When will people get it through their heads that this sort of behavior IS NOT ACCEPTABLE?

No excuses.

No exceptions.

And who in their right mind thinks that you can delete something and make it go away? Barbara Streisand and her lawyers were not tech savvy or internet savvy. Well-meaning buffoons and Luddites who try to ban books generally are not tech savvy or internet savvy. The folks at Scientific American, particularly the folks at Scientific American who are running their web sites and science blogs, really are supposed to be tech savvy and internet savvy. There appears to be no evidence of that in how they’ve handled this issue.

It’s tempting to say, “It’s a holiday weekend, this hit the fan late on Friday, so for the moment only, let’s give Scientific American the benefit of the doubt. We’ll wait until Tuesday and see what they do to make this right.” Tempting, but I’m going to resist that temptation. Unless the entire organization management is off in a retreat, sealed in a cave in the Pyrenees with no outside contact with the world, they must surely be aware of what’s going on. When you make a mistake this big, you can either hunker down and hope it blows over (a truly terrible strategy and proof that you shouldn’t be in charge of anything) or you can get on top of it by immediately starting to make things right. The problem has ballooned out of control over the holiday weekend — surely the corrections could be started in the same time frame.

One way or the other, the clock is ticking.

Your move, Scientific American. One hundred and sixty-eight years of excellence hangs in the balance.

Would you like to admit that you screwed up big time, apologize sincerely and honestly, and tell us what you’re going to do to make things right and keep them that way? Or would you like that 168-year-old reputation to be history?

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The Grand Canyon (Part Two)

When we last saw our vacation couple at the Grand Canyon, we were at Hopi Point on the afternoon bus tour. From there, we went to Mohave Point.

Mohave Point MapGoogle Maps

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IMG_0368_smallRemember to click on any picture to get the full-sized version.

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IMG_0350_smallAs you can see, every view at every stop is new and different. Endless variety in how you see the canyon, the outcroppings, the geologic layers. Infinite changes to it all as the lighting changes from hour to hour, minute to minute.

 

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Flash Fiction: Forgotten Mechanism

Chuck Wendig has flung his carcass across the great watery depths to Australia, but before he left he gave us this task for this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge. It’s the usual “1,000 words or so” based on a randomly generated title. I rolled a 1 and a 2 (so tempted to make the story about Lawrence Welk…) which gives me the title “Forgotten Mechanism”. As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

FORGOTTEN MECHANISM

Do you believe in Providence? (Not the one in Rhode Island.) Divine intervention? (Not the Julia Ecklar album.) Kismet? (Neither the 1944 movie nor the 1955 one.) Fate? (Not the magazine, RPG, or video game.)

I didn’t use to believe, but now I’m wondering.

I had been going out with Chris for three months. For the most part we were pretty good together. He had more of the “dumb jock” persona than I was used to in my boyfriends, but there were a lot of other things that made up for that. He was funny. My friends all liked him. And the sex was fantastic.

We had met at a party thrown by a mutual friend. I had been drifting from one short term, casual relationship to another, content with that arrangement. I had my hands full with my career and I had the freedom to travel a lot. Beyond that, I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.

A month later, Chris and I were a thing. He had finally gotten me interested in watching a professional, team sport – who knew that ice hockey would be my downfall? Even more amazing, who knew that I would love playing it even more than watching it?

Chris had learned to appreciate classical music, at least the “Top 40”, Boston Pops versions. It beat the country twang that he usually listened to. It had been a lot easier getting him to appreciate good barbecue. Fast food sucks.

We were really getting comfortable together. Chris’s best friend had hinted that he might be about to suggest a swap of house keys and closet space. Then, on the rainiest day in recent memory, I got a call from Chris that changed everything.

“Hey, Pat, it’s me. I need some help, I’m having a car problem.”

“I’m getting ready for a meeting,” I answered. “What’s up?”

“I’m locked out of the car. Can you give me a ride? I’ve got to get back to the office ASAP or I’m screwed.”

“I can’t leave, I’ve got to meet with my boss in ten minutes. Can I come and get you in an hour? How did you get locked out?”

“It’s really wet out here, something must have shorted out in the key thing. I’m really short on time, I can’t wait an hour.”

“What do you mean, your keys are broken? Is there something wrong with your car? I don’t understand. Can’t you get a cab?”

“The car is fine, but I can’t open it to get in. Like I told you, my keys are broken. It will take too long to call a cab. Come on, I need your help here!”

“Chris, I can’t leave, but I’m trying to help. It sounds like you’re saying that your remote control is fried – but can’t you just use the key to open the car?”

I could hear the exasperation building in Chris’s voice. It sounded like he was counting backwards from ten in German before answering.

“Pat, the keys are broken. I keep saying that. I can’t get into the car. Can you help me or not?”

“Chris, listen, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” I said as calmly as I could. “I think you’re talking about your remote control. I’m talking about the key. The key, not the remote control. How could the key be broken by getting wet?”

“You use the god damn key to unlock the car! Are you an idiot all of a sudden, Pat? It’s broken, I can’t open the car!”

It was my turn to count backwards. “Chris, can’t you unlock the door by inserting the key into the keyhole in the door? Just like in the old days before you had a car with a remote control to lock and unlock the door? Have you forgotten about that ancient mechanism?”

The line clicked dead. I was left to stew, wondering what the hell had just happened.

During my meeting I felt my phone buzz a couple of times as text messages came in, but I wasn’t able to check them for almost two hours. When I got back to my office, I found that the situation had finally been resolved. Sort of.

“Thanks for nothing! Called AAA, they opened the car.”

“Missed my meeting! Got chewed out!”

“Went to dealer and got the key fixed. Sorry that you were useless.”

“Let me know when you want to apologize.”

OK, we had had fights once or twice. Like all couples, most of our fights were over stupid things. We cooled off, we talked, we apologized, we had smoking hot makeup sex, we moved on.

This felt different.

What should have been a simple “duh!” moment had turned into a huge confrontation. What should have been a goofy brain cramp (on his part, not mine) to be laughed about for years instead had Chris completely losing his cool and becoming rude and abusive toward me.

Was he going to cool off and realize what had happened? What was he going to do when he did?

I knew that I wasn’t going to be apologizing. I hadn’t done anything except try to help. I hadn’t flown off the handle, started yelling, or started calling names.

I just let it slide overnight, but the next day his next text message wasn’t what I had hoped for.

“Ready to apologize yet?”

“We need to talk,” I texted back.

He wasn’t interested. For whatever reason, all of the good things we had done together meant nothing compared to what had happened that afternoon. Or, more correctly, his interpretation of what had happened.

That was a side of him that I hadn’t seen. It was a side I really didn’t like. Over the next week there were a few times when I missed him and felt like caving in and calling. Those moments faded every time I thought about apologizing for something I hadn’t done and admitting I was wrong when I hadn’t been, all just to stay in a relationship with someone who lost his temper and blamed me over something this stupid.

Needless to say, we didn’t swap keys or closet space. And it was all because Chris had forgotten how to open a car door with a key. What were the odds of that happening?

Providence. Kismet. Fate.

Whatever. I’m going to book a two-week trip to India.

Alone.

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Yeah, It’s Country Music, But…

I have pretty eclectic tastes in music, as demonstrated by the list of my favorite albums. Rock, punk, new wave, country, bluegrass, classical – I like to listen to them all. That having been said, over the past dozen years or so I have listened to a disproportionate amount of country music.

Given the genre and its history, there have been more than enough songs over the years that have generated controversy due to their portrayals of violence. In the years that I’ve been listening, for example:

  • Garth Brooks was criticized for “The Thunder Rolls“, the third verse of which depicts a battered wife shooting her abusive and cheating husband, supposedly to prevent him from sexually abusing their daughter. The label wouldn’t release the song either on the album or as a single with that verse included, although he still always sings it in concert.
  • The Dixie Chicks were taken to task for “Goodbye, Earl“, which tells the story of two women poisoning and killing an abusive husband who “walked right through that restraining order and put her in intensive care.”. Despite the subject matter, it’s actually a very upbeat and funny song. And a great video.
  • Toby Keith got a bit of grief from some folks about “Courtesy of the Red, White & Blue” because of its gung-ho patriotic values post-9/11, particularly the line about how “we’ll put a boot in your ass, it’s the Amercian way”.
  • Martina McBride’s “Independence Day” was quite controversial, telling the story of a mother who burns down the house with herself and her drunken, abusive husband inside, thereby gaining “independence” for her daughter.
  • Carrie Underwood took heat over her “Before He Cheats“, where she gets revenge on her cheating boyfriend by trashing his prized pickup truck, slashing the tires, ripping up the seats, taking out all of the glass and lights with a baseball bat, and so on.

For the record, I had no problems at all with any of these songs. All five are in my “Favorites” playlist. None of the depictions of violence, revenge, suicide, or vigilantism bothered me at all.

On the other hand, there are a couple of new songs that have gotten the hairs on the back of my neck standing up a bit, and it’s their portrayal of domestic situations that are doing it.

Redneck Crazy” by Tyler Farr came out about five months ago. I distinctly remember hearing it for the first time and immediately wondering how it ever got on the air. Now, it’s a Top 20 hit and I’m still wondering every time they play it, about every other hour.

Check out the lyrics and the video. The guy has lost his girlfriend and she’s now got a new boyfriend. Our singer is parking his truck on her lawn at night, getting drunk, shining the truck lights into her bedroom window. He’s throwing empty beer cans at the shadows in the bedroom windows. He’s TPing her house and yard with all of his buddies, who are in camouflage, blacked out faces, and surrounding the house in ATVs. He’s blaring the music at full volume and waking up her and her family. He didn’t come here to start a fight, but he’s up for anything tonight. “You know you broke the wrong heart, baby. You drove me Redneck Crazy.”

Her offense? She broke up with him. His response? Stalking, threatening and aggressive behavior, and vandalism.

Country music has a long history of songs about broken hearts, loves lost, and relationships tested and torn by drinking and infidelity. Friends, this isn’t one of those. In my opinion, our “hero” in this song is in need of a call to 9-1-1 and a restraining order, not a reconciliation.

This morning, after the video for “Redneck Crazy” was played on CMT (I muted it), a new premier video came on for “Stay” by the group Florida Georgia Line. It was the first time I had seen the video or heard the song. Again, my first and immediate impression is that it’s way over the line into inappropriate.

She’s leaving and taking the dog with her. He’s done her wrong and is begging forgiveness, sending one text after another asking her to come back and give him another chance. She keeps driving. He realizes that it’s over.

So what does he do? Be patient and hope she changes her mind? Make changes to his life and demonstrate to her that he can re-earn her trust and love? If nothing else, learn from the experience and be a better man for the next relationship that comes along?

Yeah, that would be one way to go.

Instead our “hero” throws all of her furniture, clothes, and stuff into a pile out in the yard and torches it. After putting his guitar in his truck (you gotta have your priorities) as the belongs bonfire burns, he then blows up the trailer that they lived in, leaving it a flaming pile of scattered debris.

Really?

For a genre that strives to balance its wholesome, All-American side against its drunken, rowdy, good ol’ boy side, these two songs are woefully misguided.

They’re not about mourning heartbreak, they’re about celebrating domestic violence.

Take a look at the news, people. Somewhere in the whole music chain of command between the song writers, the artists, their managers, the record labels, the radio stations, the guys making the videos, SOMEONE needed to take a step back and say, “Um, maybe we should think about this just a bit more. Maybe this isn’t OK.”

I don’t know why the first five songs mentioned didn’t bother me at all and these two new ones do. Maybe it’s just me.

But I don’t think so.

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Filed under Moral Outrage, Music

What Do Our Representatives Owe Us?

I haven’t written much on the current political deadlock in the US because I find that the whole mess tends to do bad things to my blood pressure. In addition, given that it’s a pretty central story to just about every news conduit every second right now, there are some far, far better wordsmiths than I weighing in. For example, Jim Wright has a truly excellent, civil, even-handed, and logical article over on his Stonekettle Station blog. There are body parts I would sacrifice or exchange if I could write that well.

Nevertheless, today a couple of thoughts came together in my brain that I need to put out there for discussion.

First, one of my all-time favorite plays, musicals, and movies is “1776“. We studied it in high school in 1971 or 1972 and I was enthralled. There was talk of our school doing it as our senior play and I was ready to just nail the part of John Adams. (We eventually did “Harvey” instead and I played Dr. Chumley.) I can still do whole sections of “1776” at the drop of a hat. If I see it being done live anywhere here in LA, I’m there.

A line from John Adams’ opening soliloquy has been widely quoted during the current (and previous) Congressional deadlocks:

“I have come to the conclusion that one useless man is called a disgrace, that two are called a law firm, and that three or more become a Congress. And by God, I have had this Congress!”

You won’t get an argument from me.

Secondly, today I read probably the 100th news story quoting a member of the Republican “Suicide Caucus” (a term coined by Pulitzer Prize-winning, conservative columnist Charles Krauthammer) justifying what they’re doing as follows – while a huge majority of Americans may think that what they’re doing is completely deplorable and despicable, their constituents from back in their (gerrymandered) districts are telling them to fight on, stay the course, keep doing what is perceived back in the district as the right thing.

With that article still rattling around in my head, I started humming something from “1776”. I thought about a scene late in the movie, just before the July 4th vote is taken on the Declaration of Independence. In this scene, a Congressional Congress delegate who has been instructed by his constituents to vote against independence instead changes his vote to what he believes is right, i.e., approval of the Declaration and freedom from England.

During this scene, a quote from British Parliamentarian Edmund Burke is given as a key part of the logic and thought process behind the change in his vote. I went and found the exact quote, from Burke’s 1774 Speech to the Electors at Bristol at the Conclusion of the Poll (section 4.1.22 – worth reading the whole section even if you don’t read the whole speech):

“Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his judgment; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion.”

Let’s think about that for a minute, current 2013 members of the House of Representatives.

You repeatedly claim that you’re taking these actions, as harmful and damaging as they are, because the folks back home who elected you are telling you that’s what they want? That’s really your story? That’s really your justification?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” is causing serious damage to huge sections of the country?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” is a real threat to put the country right back into another recession, or worse?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” has a legitimate chance of causing incredible damage to the entire world’s economy?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” can destroy the United States’ position as a world power?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” is a corruption of the US Constitution, not a defense of it?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” is insane?

What if “what they’re telling you to do” is treason?

(For the moment we’ll overlook the question of whether “what they’re telling you to do” is actually what they’re telling you to do, or just what some multi-billionaire, ultra conservative campaign contributors are telling you to do.)

In researching the Burke quote, I was surprised to find several sources referring to Burke as one of the philosophical fathers of modern conservative thought. It was also fascinating to find that Burke thought as he did because he believed that the common masses would be slaves to emotional and impassioned impulses, while a governing body of the elite upper class would be able to make rational, unbiased decisions when governing.

I’m open to the judgement that we could be doing that part wrong, also.

Let’s assume that the current conservative factions in our government would or should listen to the philosophy of one of the founders of their movement. Let’s assume that the current representatives are sane and intelligent, able to make rational, unbiased decisions. Let’s assume that they take seriously their responsibilities to “protect and defend the Constitution of the United States”.

Given those assumptions, how in the world can the “Suicide Caucus” justify their current actions based on the argument that “the folks back home are telling us to do it?” Would Burke clearly not demand that the representatives do what is right (based on reasoning and logic) instead of what the masses instruct them to do (based on uninformed or uneducated bias and impulsiveness)?

Conversely, if Burke is wrong and the “Suicide Caucus’s” responsibility is to either pass laws that their constituents demand or work to hold the entire country hostage, would they use the current legislative tactics if “the folks back home” had other extreme views?

What if the folks back home thought that women shouldn’t vote?

What if the folks back home thought that blacks shouldn’t vote, or even be granted citizenship?

What if the folks back home thought that only those born in the United States of US parents should have citizenship?

What if the folks back home thought that only property owners should be able to vote?

What if the folks back home thought that only approved Christian churches should be allowed, not Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, or any other?

Would any of these Representatives ever dream of blackmailing the entire country and holding the economy hostage over any of those extreme issues? If not, why do they think it’s somehow ethical, just, and justifiable to do that over the ACA, which is the law of the land after having been debated for years, modified, compromised, passed by Congress, challenged, ruled constitutional by a conservative Supreme Court, and given a mandate by the 2012 national elections?

The logic isn’t there – but we all know that. The question at this point is how we get the Congressional leaders to bother listening to their own founders, and be sane and intelligent enough to understand what he was telling them.

If only it were that easy.

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Quick, Go Look!

I just took these pictures of the setting crescent moon and Venus eight to ten minutes ago. If you’re on the US West Coast and it’s not cloudy, for the next half hour or so you can go see the same thing in your western sky!

Also, a quick note, the LA area has great ISS flybys on Wednesday and Thursday nights, the 9th and 11th, at 19:48 and 19:00 respectively. Check your location for details, but it’ll be great (except for the rain predicted in LA on those two nights).

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The Grand Canyon (Part One)

I’ve recently shared photos from northern Arizona showing Oak Creek Canyon on Arizona Route 89A and the town of Sedona. When the Long-Suffering Wife and I were in those places, we were taking the long way home coming from the Grand Canyon.

I can not emphasize this enough — if you never visited the Grand Canyon, it MUST be on a trip somewhere in your future.

The Grand Canyon, even in a two-day visit to just hit the most popular, easily accessible sites on the South Rim, is way, way too big of a subject for just one post. (I take a lot of pictures.) We’ll spread these out a bit.

We made reservations for one of the lodges at the South Rim and rode the train up from Williams, Arizona. (This is a great way to do it, highly recommended.) But you can also just drive up there in your own car and camp or stay at a lodge. (Well, you can’t right now because of the Freakin’ Idiots in Washington, but once all of our “leaders” all get back on their meds you’ll be able to.) Once you get to the village there, you can take a couple of different bus tours that go to different parts of the South Rim, all within a couple dozen miles east or west of the Village.

For the record, there are a ton of other ways to see the Canyon and other things you can do there, depending on your schedule and physical conditioning. You can walk trails down to the bottom of the Canyon – but then you’ve got to walk back up. (This is seriously non-trivial.) You can also just walk down a trail a quarter mile, half mile, a mile or two, whatever, and then walk back up. You can camp out (with permits) at the bottom of the Canyon.

You can go to the North Rim instead of the South Rim – much more out of the way, a much longer drive to get there and get back out, much more isolated, but a truly incredible place to visit in its own right.

The areas around the two rim villages are just a tiny part of the park itself. There are plenty of other camping, hiking, and sightseeing places in the park. But the South Rim Village area is where about 95% of the tourists go. (I can’t even get links to work right now to send you to the appropriate National Park Service web sites because of this idiocy in DC – google it when the sites come back online.)

These pictures are from the first area that our first bus stopped at, Hopi Point.

Hopi Point MapGoogle Maps

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“Gravity”

A few days ago I mentioned that I was in awe of the trailers coming out for the movie “Gravity”. I had concerns simply because the last time I saw trailers that grabbed me this hard, the movie in question (“Pearl Harbor”) really sucked. I can still taste the betrayal and disappointment.

Today the Long-Suffering Wife and I saw “Gravity” in IMAX 3-D. It was the first time in years that we’ve tried to go see a film on its opening weekend. Especially a movie that could end up being one of the year’s blockbusters. There was a huge crowd, even at the 2:00 afternoon show, so it was also the first time in years that we had stood in line for a movie. Was it worth it all?

Oh. My. God.

I can guarantee you that “Gravity” is no “Pearl Harbor”!

Everything you have heard about “Gravity” is true. It is an incredible feast for the eyes. It is on-the-edge-of-your-seat tense for about eighty-seven of its ninety minutes. It has multiple intricate, amazing, spectacular tracking shots, some of the longest that I’ve ever seen. (The opening scene that establishes the setting and story must be at least fifteen minutes long, one humongous, diving, looping, zooming, roller-coaster like tracking shot.) For many of us, this may be as close as we ever get to really being in low Earth orbit.

Amazingly, during the whole film we only see two actors and a couple of voices on the radio. What you see on the screen is probably more than 95% special effects. But what a job! The special effects are never of the “gee whiz, look what I can do” variety. Instead, they allow a fantastic story to be told that couldn’t be told any other way. The special effects are tools, used like a surgeon’s instruments, not an end unto themselves.

No spoilers from me here — but I will let you know that there aren’t any little treats or “easter eggs” buried in or after the credits. So if the credits start rolling and your bladder is about to explode but there was no freakin’ way you were going to leave during the movie, it’s OK the to start your applause and sprint for the restroom.

If you have the option, I would highly recommend seeing the 3-D version at least once. There is so much depth to “Gravity” that gets brought out in that format. Even better if you’ve got the option, see it in IMAX 3-D. That extra $5 or $6 will be the best money you spend this year. You can thank me later.

Is the movie 100% factually accurate? No, it’s not a documentary. But having said that (and for the record I am a real nit picker when it comes to continuity and stupid, unbelievable crap in movies), the attention to detail and realism in “Gravity” is simply astonishing. I have seen articles, comments, and tweets from a number of astronauts that have said that “Gravity” nails the little details and facts like no movie ever has before. (Later on, after everyone’s seen it, I’ll be happy to do an analysis of the nits to be picked, why I’m willing to ignore the one really huge one, and why the one that bugged me the most is probably one that no one else paid any attention to at all.)

Go see this movie. I command you by all that is good and sacred and holy, you must see this movie. Probably multiple times. Maybe not “Star Wars” kind of multiple times, but more than once, for sure.

(And we also got to see the new trailer for “Ender’s Game”… I’m sure more on that and the debate surrounding it as we get closer to its release date.)

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Flash Fiction Follow-Up: Midair II

Last week I wrote a cliffhanger short story for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. This week I finished up someone else’s story from that first exercise. However, while I got several very nice comments about my cliffhanger story (thanks y’all, very much appreciated!), no one chose my story as their starting point for this week’s challenge. Yet several folks have said that they still want to know what comes next in my cliffhanger. So, here’s a bonus bit of fiction to tie up those loose ends. Even better, I can make it as long as it needs to be. None of this “1,000 words or so” to deal with! 3,200+ words! Whoo-hoo!

(Another good reason for writing this is that it’s windy as all get out here in SoCal today, which has in turn knocked out the power. It may be a couple of hours before we get it back- but I can write most of this on my iPad! Let’s here it for living the First World! Now if I could just open the fridge to get a cold Diet Coke…)

MIDAIR II

Coming down deadstick over the forest, I was trying to watch five things at once.

I needed to keep my airspeed pegged for maximum glide, but with the master switches off and all of the electronic avionics dead, I was watching the backup “steam” gauges over on the passenger’s side.

I was also looking at the terrain to make sure that I would clear the trees and land somewhere in the fields beyond.

I was also trying to watch the approaching fields through the busted windshield to see if there were any obstacles to dodge at the last second.

I was also trying to glance at the emergency checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything critical.

I was also trying to get any clue from the trees and fields about the wind direction, since it would be much safer and easier to land into the wind. With the wind would be bad, a strong crosswind could be fatal.

I was trying as hard as I could to clot and coagulate so that blood would stop running into my eyes.

Finally, I was trying to remember to always fly the plane. Fly the plane. FLY THE PLANE!

Adrenaline is great stuff — ask for it by name!

About thirty seconds out I had cleared the trees and saw a big field of corn stretching out before me. There were some large farm buildings, barns, and a tent on the right side, but I didn’t need to get anywhere near them. The way the corn was waving clearly showed me that the wind was blowing straight at me. I had half expected that since I had been flying with a stiff tail wind when I had collided with the flock of geese a few minutes earlier, but it was great to get confirmation.

Perfect! It would be like landing in a big pit of foam packing peanuts.

Two seconds after that thought, I saw how wrong I was. Instantly, my intended landing sit was just as unacceptable as it had previously been wonderful.

As I approached I could finally see the far side of the barns. There sat three school buses. The corn I could now see wasn’t smooth, but had paths cut through it.

I was flying at eighty-seven knots with tanks half full of highly flammable avgas straight into a corn maze full of school kids. With my engine out, I was almost completely silent. They would never know what hit them.

It was too late to make any drastic moves. I was only one hundred feet up, with no engine. I had nowhere to go but down. But if I lost control and spun or stalled now, not only would I be down on top of the kids, I would be out of control, spinning, and crashing. Exploding and burning.

Without thinking I banked to the left as much as I dared, away from the corn field and the farm buildings. My headwind was now a crosswind, working to lift my right wing and try to roll me. The turn started killing my speed and threatened to make me stall. I lowered the nose to keep the speed up, fought to keep the turn shallow, and hoped for the best. It wasn’t much of a turn, I was way too low, but it was enough.

The trees at the south side of the farm came up at me like a freight train. They were mostly some kind of pines and it was like hitting a row of bushy telephone poles. I had just enough time to get level, pull back hard, try to flare to bleed off some speed, and brace for the crash.

The fact that I came back to consciousness meant that the plane’s cabin hadn’t hit a tree head on. I was leaning back with the nose of the plane up about twenty degrees or so. I was also leaning about forty-five degrees over to the left. The broken windshield had even more damage now and there were broken pine branches sticking through it.

I could smell avgas, so there was obviously a fuel tank rupture someplace. If that gas was soaking into the pine needles underneath me, this was a really bad place to be if anything sparked. I had to get out, fast.

That was easier said than done. I took off my headphones and unbuckled my seat belt, trying to shift my weight to start sitting up. Instead of sitting however, I almost passed out again as waves of pain came up from my right leg and foot. I settled back for a second, caught my breath, waited for the bright, red stars to go away, then carefully raised my head to check out what I had injured.

My arms and ribs had gotten bashed, but nothing seemed broken. I could move them around as long as I didn’t try to shift my lower body. The cuts on my head were oozing again and seemed to have joined by at least two walnut-sized lumps. I tried moving my left leg and found that I could shift it and wiggle my toes, but there was something holding it tight. Any attempt to move my right leg brought on incredible amounts of pain.

It looked like the plane had gone between a couple of trees and sheared off the wings, which was good. That probably also caused the fuel in the wing tanks to spill, which was bad. Missing the wings, the plane cabin had carried forward until it hit another tree, stopping nose up and sideways. The collision had pushed the engine back toward me and the firewall down by my feet had buckled, trapping my left foot and probably breaking my right leg in a couple of spots.

Adrenaline will only take you so far. I had already used a lot of it in the last half hour. I needed some help, badly, or I was going to die.

Help arrived in the form of a woman’s voice connected to jeans and hiking boots. I heard her running through the underbrush and yelling at someone to stay back. I saw the boots and jeans appear outside the smashed door window next to me.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help?” she yelled.

“Yes, I’m hurt and I need help. I think… I’m pretty sure that I’ve got a broken leg, plus some other cuts and bumps. My leg is trapped and I can’t get out right now.”

She knelt down next to the plane and looked in at me. “We’ve called for help, but they won’t be here for at least thirty minutes. What can we do until they get here?”

“You have to get back away from the plane. There’s a huge danger of fire with the spilled fuel.”

She immediately sat up and looked away from me, back through the trees toward the farm.

“All of you kids get back at least fifty feet!” she yelled. “There could be an explosion and a fire. Stay back! Jennifer, you run back to the farm and meet the fire truck when it gets here. Tell them that there’s a fuel spill and a fire danger. Go! Run!”

She leaned back down toward the ground and looked around inside the cabin. She looked at my leg and reached in through the window to feel below my right knee.

“Can you feel if it’s bleeding or just broken? Are you losing blood down there?”

“I can’t feel any bleeding but I’m dead serious about the fire danger. Don’t be stupid. You have to get back away from here!”

“Duly noted. Nothing’s burning yet. I’ll run away and let you fricassee when I smell smoke, OK? Can you move your left leg at all?”

“Yes, I can move it, but not much.”

“OK. We may or may not have much time, so let’s not waste it.” She sat back on her heels and pushed gently at the plane. She rocked it a bit a couple of times, testing to see how well it would roll and shift. “This doesn’t weigh that much, so we’re going to try to shift this all back upright, then pull you out. Are you up for that?”

“Sure, it beats any ideas I have. Who is ‘we’?” I asked.

“Wait here, try not to move,” she said, ignoring my question. “I’ll be right back.”

The boots disappeared and I heard her jogging away. There was some conversation going on back behind me but I had no way of turning to see who it might be. Several minutes went by and I thought that I could hear running back and forth.

I moved only enough to reach down between the seats to gently pull lose the small fire extinguisher there. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. Meanwhile, I was straining my ears to hear sirens, hoping that the rescue crews were near. I was straining my nose to smell smoke, but all I could smell was my sweat and blood, mixed with the smell of gasoline.

Finally I heard several sets of footsteps crunching through the pine needles. My rescuer was giving instructions to her team, whoever they were.

“Ed, you go over on that side by the tail. Bobby, you stay on this side behind the door, there. Keith, you’re up there by the nose. Ed, stay on your toes, the tail is going to swing your way. You need to stay well clear of it as it goes. OK?

“If any of you see or smell anything that might be a spark or fire, you let everyone know and blast it immediately. Remember, aim for the base of the fire, don’t shoot up in the air at the flame. If that doesn’t work, if the fire catches or spreads, bail out of here, immediately. Run. If you get caught by the fire, remember to stop, drop, and roll. No panicking. Any questions?”

She moved up next to my broken window, her boots appearing on the ground near my head. Again she knelt and bent over to peer in at me.

“How are you doing in there? Still with us?”

“I’ve had better days but I’m still here. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, good. You’ve got an extinguisher too. You relax and try to keep still. The nose is caught up on a couple of trees here, but this whole thing is light enough. We’re going to swing the tail around so that the nose comes loose and the weight of the engine should drop you upright. I’ve got three guys here with the fire extinguishers from the buses in case anything sparks.”

“The buses? Who is all here? Who are you?”

“I’m Ellen, I’m a teacher and coach at Keys High. These guys are from my team, they’ve got the muscle to get this done. Are you up for it? I don’t know when the fire truck and ambulance will get here.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I was starting to get nauseous. I knew what that probably meant and it wasn’t good. I didn’t know if I was bleeding from that broken leg. Ellen’s plan seemed sound. I had gotten this far in this emergency by following the book, but there wasn’t any book for this part of it. We were making it up as we went along.

“Your guys, how old are they? Are they going to be safe doing this? Am I going to be rescued by a soccer mom and a bunch of ten-year-olds?”

That got a laugh from her. “Hardly! The younger guys are all back further and their girlfriends are all back at the farm. The guys who are doing the heavy lifting are all seventeen and eighteen. It’s not soccer, it’s football. You’re going to get your ass rescued by the Cougar varsity team. They’re smart, strong, and fast.”

“OK, let’s do it.”

Without another word to me, Ellen stood up and started giving instructions to the rest of her team. On the count of three, two big lineman leaned down on the tail while another two pushed the nose away from the trees where it was caught. In just seconds, the nose came clear and dropped with a thud, the plane rolling more or less upright.

The pain from my leg was overwhelming as we rolled and banged around. The final drop onto the bent up front landing gear led to the strut collapsing and dropping the nose down onto the ground. The engine pulled back forward, pulling the my trapped right foot with it. There was a great deal of screaming and cursing, all of it from me.

Then the plane door was pulled open and I saw Ellen for the first time. She was short, built a little bit like a fire plug, with short, flaming red hair caught up under a baseball cap. Behind here I could see a half dozen very large guys, some of them holding fire extinguishers at the ready.

“Can you get your leg out now?” she asked. “We need to get you out ASAP and take a look at your head and your leg.”

My left foot was pretty much free now that the firewall had bent back out of the cabin. My right leg was in agony and I couldn’t feel or see if it was loose or not. I told Ellen, and she peered down underneath the dashboard and panel to see what was going on.

“I see what it is. There are some pedals down there. It looks like your right foot is caught up under one of them and your ankle is probably broken, maybe the leg as well. That’ll be where the pain’s coming from. I know you can’t move it, but we can move the leg for you and pull you out. It’s probably going to hurt like hell.”

“Too late, it already does. Do it, I’ve got to get out of here and we’ve all got to get away from the plane. I don’t want you or your guys near here. I’ll do my best to pass out before the screaming gets too bad and you can tell me about it later. Do it.”

Ellen sent everyone away from the plane except for the three guys carrying the fire extinguishers and one tall, strong guy who just reeked of quarterback. She crouched down inside the door near the floorboards and gently grabbed my right leg. Mr. QB leaned in over her and grabbed under my arms, partially setting me upright.

“OK, just like we do in on the quarterback sneak play, guys. Got it? On three. One.”

There never was a two or a three. I was as faked out as the opposing defense was supposed to be. Before I knew it, my leg was being twisted and pulled free, the whole world went dark with pain, there was some more screaming, crying, and swearing, and Mr QB yanked me free and out into the open like a tackling dummy. Fortunately, I was unconscious before the leg hit the ground.

I woke up, looking at the sky that was starting to get dark with dusk. I was strapped down on something soft, with a blanket over me and an IV bag suspended above. Around my leg were a couple of paramedics, and when I turned my head I could see the football team watching the proceedings. They seemed bored, as if they saw a plane crash every day. A couple were holding their phones and taking pictures.

There was obviously something really good mixed in with the saline in the IV bag. Everything was all soft around the edges and I felt no pain at all. Great stuff, whatever it was. Even better than adrenaline. Ask for it by name, too.

As the paramedics finished putting a brace on my leg and got the stretcher ready to lift into the ambulance, Ellen came toward me from behind the crowd of her team. She stood over me, looking down for a second, then asked how I felt.

“Fuzzy. I think I’ll live. I just might not like it for a day or two. Are all of you guys OK?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. The guys all have an adventure to brag about. It will do them good.”

“Did the plane burn?”

“Nope, they’re foaming it down and calling in a hazmat team now to clean up the fuel. I think that plane’s a goner though.”

“Yeah, I knew that. The insurance company owned it as soon as the geese hit.”

“Is that what happened? It was hard to tell with all of the crash damage, but I did see the dead goose on the floor as we were pulling you out.”

“Yep, it was a great emergency right up until the end. I didn’t quite stick the landing.”

“I was going to ask about that. I saw you gliding in at the last minute and you could have just gone into the corn smooth as could be. Why did you swerve off?”

“I saw the maze and the buses at the last second, didn’t want to hurt the kids. The trees were the best I could do on short notice.”

“I appreciate that. One other thing. Isn’t that a Cirrus?”

“Yeah, it is. Why?”

“Don’t they have an emergency parachute system in them?”

It was a good thing that I was doped up. That way I could lay there slack jawed and drooling for a minute and blame it on the drugs, instead of how I was feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that the plane has a parachute. So why didn’t I use it? I just didn’t think of it. I was busy, and hurt. I haven’t flown this plane more than once or twice. I’m almost always in a Cessna and I did all of my training in Cessnas. When the emergency hit I just went by the training I had. I guess I was just stupid.”

“Given that you managed to miss me and my kids, I think you did OK.”

The paramedics picked me up and started to put the stretcher into the ambulance.

“Thank you for pulling me out of there and saving my life! And thank your guys too!”

“You can thank them all yourself, later. Me and my guys will be over to see you in a day or two.”

The ambulance doors shut and my big adventure was over for the day.

And that’s the story of how I met my wife, Ellen.

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Flash Fiction: Demonio Necrófago

When last we left our plucky heroes, Chuck Wendig had instructed us to write a cliffhanger, which I did here. This week’s Flash Fiction Challenge is to take someone else’s cliffhanger story from last week and finish it. The usual guidelines about writing “1,000 words or so” apply. In an unusual turn of events, my story is pretty spot on at 1,011 words.

I picked a story by David Coventry for my setup, which you can find here. Go ahead, read it first. It’s a nice mashup of spaghetti westerns and zombies. I do love me something warped and bizarre!

As always, comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated.

Demonio Necrófago

“Jefe!” Rosie yelled. “Rápidamente!”

There must have been something in her voice that let the banditos’ leader know that she was not fooling around. While he didn’t get up and run over, his normal nonchalant shuffle was gone. His men followed him, with Rosie’s girls working their way into the crowd, craning their necks to see what was happening.

Rosie handed the looking-glass to el Jefe. She pointed at the crowd of figures, some starting to climb up the base of the bluff, some still moving out from the camp in their direction. He quickly scanned across the mob before settling on one figure in particular.

“Pablo,” he said, not taking the glass down from his eye, “can you see the man in the hat that Senorita Rosie has told you about? El banquero? About halfway between the camp and the hill.”

“Si, senor,” the kid said.

“Shoot him, por favor.”

The shot rang out and knocked down the man in question. His arms and head snapped forward as the bullet caught him square in the stomach. His hat was knocked off as he went sprawling. In less than a minute, as everyone watched, the man rose and resumed his relentless progress toward the base of the bluff.

“What in hell is going on, Jefe?” Rosie asked, never taking her eyes off of the approaching menace.

“It indeed is something from Hell, senorita. That is a great evil down there. I have never seen them, but my grandmother told me stories of the demonio necrófago. They can not be killed and they will not rest until they have fed on our souls.”

“That’s ridiculous. Whatever they are, we must outnumber them. Stop being a coward. We have to kill them.”

“We have to run, senorita, as far and as fast as we can. Crossing many rivers might help. It will not matter. They will follow.”

“You’re kidding! You said that you would not attack immediately because you did not want your men to be shot at. None of those things are shooting, they’re just walking. Slowly! We have to attack them now and take back my father’s mine. How many of them can there be?”

She noticed that the banditos were already heading for their horses. Some of them were sprinting to grab blankets and saddlebags, but many were leaving their gear.

“There are too many of them,” el Jefe said, “even if there were only two.” He turned to go with his men. “You must run or you will die.”

Rosie’s Riders looked to their leader for orders. Pablo also looked at her, torn between his desire to not look like a coward in front of all of the women, and his terror over the approaching demons.

Rosie wanted more than anything to stay and fight for what had been stolen from her. As the banditos started to ride down the back side of the mesa, she saw her girls ready to bolt. The first few of the demons below were nearly half way up the bluff. There was a horrible groaning and gasping chorus coming from them, with whistling sounds from some who had gaping wounds in their chests and necks.

“Let’s get out of here,” she told her girls. They wasted no time, abandoning their tents and supplies.

Before the women could mount up, the banditos came roaring back up onto the mesa. Their horses were lathered with sweat and wild-eyed with fear. Rosie ran over to el Jefe.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“We are trapped, Senorita Rosie. They are behind us as well. We have nowhere to run.”

“Trapped? Now we have no choice but to figure out how to kill them. What do you remember from your grandmother’s stories?”

El Jefe closed his eyes and thought for a moment. When he opened them, he sadly dropped his chin and shook his head.

“We cannot kill them by shooting them, beating them, or drowning them. It might be possible to slow them down in some other way, but I do not know how.”

“Maybe we could stop them with fire. If we can get the brush below the bluffs and on the hills to burn, maybe that will be enough to get the demons to burn.”

“Si. That might work, senorita. But we will also burn.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Start cutting all of the brush and pile it on the cliff edges. We can surround ourselves in a ring of fire. We must make the fire spread all the way to the bottom of the bluffs and beyond.”

“As you say, senorita. I think we will die anyway, but at least this way we will die with our souls intact.”

Quickly all of the banditos and Rosie’s Riders were cutting tumbleweeds and brush. It rapidly built up all around their camp, near the edges of the cliffs surrounding them. As the shuffling horror from below got closer and closer, the urgency of their task spurred them on beyond exhaustion.

When the first demonio necrófago were just a few yards below the ledge, Rosie yelled at everyone to start setting fires. Everyone was armed with every weapon they had, ready to fight if the flames didn’t work. Several of the banditos were arguing in rapid Spanish, apparently believing it would be better to die at their own hands instead of being taken by the demons.

Everyone moved to their place around the circle, lighting the tumbleweeds on fire and kicking them over the edge. Once the tumbleweeds were gone, they took burning branches from the fire and began hurling them out as far as they could toward the bottom of the cliffs.

In no time, the air was thick with smoke. Flames shot high into the air all around them. Horrible, guttural, non-human screams came up from the sides of the cliff. A hell on earth had literally been created.

Rosie and her girls, along with el Jefe and his banditos, huddled in the middle of the climbing flames, awaiting their fates.

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