An amusing email exchange between myself and a friend that I drop-off at the bus stop every day. Before anyone thinks too highly of me, allow me to say that the bus stop is on the way to my own arranged stop and constitutes no sacrifice to me whatsoever. My friend is inordinately grateful, and expresses his gratitude daily. At any rate, I did not pick him up today, because I seemed to remember him telling me yesterday morning (almost too far to remember, certainly too far to remember clearly) that he would not need a ride today.
Me: You didn't need a ride today, right?
Friend: That's right. I'm working from home today. Is tomorrow still okay?
Me: Of course. I apologize in advance for being late. (*note: I'm always 5-15 minutes late, another sure sign that I deserve no credit for offering him a ride. Typically the first thing I say to him when he gets in the car is an apology for being late.)
Friend: I think my line is "It's fine." It really is not a big deal at all. I really appreciate your help. (*note: Indeed, this certainly is his line. He never fails to thank me and is the very picture of polite gratitude.)
Me: To be perfectly honest with you [Friend], it's really not much of an effort for me; indeed, I worry that I would not do it if it were more of an effort for me. True, on occasion it represents some minute sacrifice by way of not gelling with my schedule perfectly, but such "sacrifices" are usually on the order of 20 minutes or so, and, were I not such a whining-lackwhit-dullard, would not merit any discussion whatsoever. So, while the self-aggrandizing aspects of my psyche grossly prize all of your sincere appreciation, at moments such as these when my otherwise-submissive humility snatches control of my means of communication from my grotesquely vain self, I must confess that your heaps and loads of appreciation is, perhaps, misplaced. A simple thanks will do nicely.
Friend: Thanks.
Me: You're welcome, of course.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
End Another Way
Instaneously, my brain propagates a high-priority concept to the forefront of my consciousness: I have 3 or 4 seconds to make a course correction, lest the ratio of future-time-in-which-I-will-be-alive to future-time ebbs closer to absolute zero, by a few decimal places. Another thought boils from the depths of my psyche, that 3 or 4 seconds is not enough time for me to react. This thought floats somewhere at the back of the queue, fortunately, and does not further cloud the connection between the aforementioned concept and the forthcoming translation of said concept into motive force in my extremities that will implement a change in my current vector.
In an instant, I settle upon a new course and enter the heading into the computer. Literally, in an instant; a new thought begins orbiting in the ether, "How the hell did I do that so fast?" If I bother to check the system clock, I would find that the difference between an arbitrary epoch when the thought occurred to me, and the distance from the same arbitrary epoch when I calculated and entered a new heading was measurable in femtoseconds. Though I do not bother to check the system clock, the addition of the disconcerting thought into a heap of thoughts that contain at least one other disconcerting thought of a similar nature certainly threatens to change to priority in which these, my thoughts, will be processed.
In an instant, I settle upon a new course and enter the heading into the computer. Literally, in an instant; a new thought begins orbiting in the ether, "How the hell did I do that so fast?" If I bother to check the system clock, I would find that the difference between an arbitrary epoch when the thought occurred to me, and the distance from the same arbitrary epoch when I calculated and entered a new heading was measurable in femtoseconds. Though I do not bother to check the system clock, the addition of the disconcerting thought into a heap of thoughts that contain at least one other disconcerting thought of a similar nature certainly threatens to change to priority in which these, my thoughts, will be processed.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Taking Back Sunday II
"What the hell does it look like?" Gordy barked.
Blank stares.
Without looking at the natives, Bill turned and casually swung the door shut . "You okay, man?" he asked, motioning to the gash on Gordy's arm.
"Shit. Yeah, I'm fine, though it'll probably get infected with all this muck all over." Gordy went to wipe the filth off but pulled back mid-motion, realizing that his hands were at least as filthy as his shirt. "Grab me that towel, will you?" he asked, motioning to a hand towel by the sink.
"Sure, here it is," Bill said, tossing it over. As Gordy started to wipe himself off, Bill chuckled, asking, "You sure you want to wipe yourself off with that? You know those people," he nodded his head at the door, "probably don't wash and just use it to wipe off the piss they get on their hands."
"Ugh," Gordy responded. "Well, I suppose dried, invisible piss is better than explicit filth." He kept wiping, looking around.
Bill squirmed by and started cleaning up the pieces of the bowl. "You need to go shower, man. You go home, bathe in clorox or something, and, if you don't die from a staph infection by tomorrow morning, let's meet here before work and install a new toilet. I'll clean this up, explain to them that they can't piss in the hole, buy a new toilet first thing tomorrow morning, and the come over. I think Home Depot opens at 7:00, so let's meet here at 7:15. I have a bunch of stuff to do at work tomorrow, so let's try to make it fast."
Gordy looked at his watch, flicking off a speck of much. "7:15? Gosh, man, I don't know if I can stand to be away from here for a whole seven hours."
Bill laughed. "Well, I guess you could sleep over. I doubt you'd get much dirtier, crawling up in one of their beds."
Gordy shivered involuntarily at the thought. "Okay, thanks for finishing this up. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to go. As he opened the doorway, he paused. "How'd the hell we get here, man?" he asked.
Bill looked up at him. "What do you mean?"
Gordy motioned around the room, then down at his feet. "Here, fixing some disgusting toilet in the middle of the night in some shit-hole apartment, worried about making it to our real jobs tomorrow morning."
Bill didn't respond. He looked away, then continued to pick up the pieces of toilet.
Gordy continued, "What I mean is . . . "
Bill cut him off. "I know what you mean. We got here by buying a bunch of apartment units and hoping they'd somehow make us rich enough to quit our day jobs. Five years later, they still make almost no money, barely covering the mortgage so long as we do all the repair and maintenance ourselves. That's how we got here."
"Yeah, I guess," Gordy said, turning once again to go. "Well, it sure does suck." Then he was gone.
Bill stopped for a moment, silently. Then he got up to go get a mop and garbage bag from his truck.
Blank stares.
Without looking at the natives, Bill turned and casually swung the door shut . "You okay, man?" he asked, motioning to the gash on Gordy's arm.
"Shit. Yeah, I'm fine, though it'll probably get infected with all this muck all over." Gordy went to wipe the filth off but pulled back mid-motion, realizing that his hands were at least as filthy as his shirt. "Grab me that towel, will you?" he asked, motioning to a hand towel by the sink.
"Sure, here it is," Bill said, tossing it over. As Gordy started to wipe himself off, Bill chuckled, asking, "You sure you want to wipe yourself off with that? You know those people," he nodded his head at the door, "probably don't wash and just use it to wipe off the piss they get on their hands."
"Ugh," Gordy responded. "Well, I suppose dried, invisible piss is better than explicit filth." He kept wiping, looking around.
Bill squirmed by and started cleaning up the pieces of the bowl. "You need to go shower, man. You go home, bathe in clorox or something, and, if you don't die from a staph infection by tomorrow morning, let's meet here before work and install a new toilet. I'll clean this up, explain to them that they can't piss in the hole, buy a new toilet first thing tomorrow morning, and the come over. I think Home Depot opens at 7:00, so let's meet here at 7:15. I have a bunch of stuff to do at work tomorrow, so let's try to make it fast."
Gordy looked at his watch, flicking off a speck of much. "7:15? Gosh, man, I don't know if I can stand to be away from here for a whole seven hours."
Bill laughed. "Well, I guess you could sleep over. I doubt you'd get much dirtier, crawling up in one of their beds."
Gordy shivered involuntarily at the thought. "Okay, thanks for finishing this up. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned to go. As he opened the doorway, he paused. "How'd the hell we get here, man?" he asked.
Bill looked up at him. "What do you mean?"
Gordy motioned around the room, then down at his feet. "Here, fixing some disgusting toilet in the middle of the night in some shit-hole apartment, worried about making it to our real jobs tomorrow morning."
Bill didn't respond. He looked away, then continued to pick up the pieces of toilet.
Gordy continued, "What I mean is . . . "
Bill cut him off. "I know what you mean. We got here by buying a bunch of apartment units and hoping they'd somehow make us rich enough to quit our day jobs. Five years later, they still make almost no money, barely covering the mortgage so long as we do all the repair and maintenance ourselves. That's how we got here."
"Yeah, I guess," Gordy said, turning once again to go. "Well, it sure does suck." Then he was gone.
Bill stopped for a moment, silently. Then he got up to go get a mop and garbage bag from his truck.
End Another Way
"Wake up dammit!"
Sight. The first thing one notices when one snaps their eyes open, assuming one is not blind. Sometime after its creation, usually in very short order (excepting, of course, light created very far away), light encounters the lense of the eye and is focused onto some very specific biology that takes light as input and outputs electrical impulses that are hard-wired to the brain.
How delightful; I had forgotten what it was like to see.
"Get us the hell out of here!"
Processing. The combination of the images provided by each eye allow the brain to process depth, thankfully without conscious effort. About twenty-five images per eye are composited in the brain every second, allowing the brain to process depth with respect to time. The combination of stereo vision and sampling the light-translating biology in the eye at a certain rate allows one's higher processes to interpret the "world" at large, and make certain important decisions. One such decision is to forestall one's own demise by altering one's own course to avoid being in the same place, and at the same time, as a violently-unstable projectile who's current course was, apparently, chosen for the very purpose of collision.
I try to utter a mono-syllabic profanity, but it comes out as croak.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Truth be told, avoiding the projectile itself would not be the crux of our plan to forestall our demise. As it turns out, I am not looking at the real projectile, which is far too distant for my eyes to see, and in much too little light. Instead, I am looking at a simulated model that was designed for use by aviators and, upon interaction with this simulated model, I discover it would, quite helpfully, plot both the projectile's vector and our own. The model even adds user-friendly color-coding, indicating the past, therefore unalterable, course in dark gray, and a projection of both parties' current course. The coloring of the projected lines goes from a friendly green at our current coordinates to a dark red where the collision is scheduled to occur. Even as I take this in, the gray was slowly eating up the brightly colored lines. In a similarly helpful manner, the simulation provided me with relevant known data pertaining to the hurling projectile; in short, the projectile contained a certain mass of hydrogen, where each atom contains exactly one positively-charged proton, one negatively-charged electron, and a single neutral neutron, and a certain mass of anti-hydrogen, wherein each atom contains one negatively-charged proton, on positively-charged electron, and a neutron. The simulation also communicated that, though it was unable physically measure these things, certain other characteristics of the projectile's evident manufacture, as well as contextual information such as the class of the vehicle responsible for setting the course of the projectile and our relative location to the galactic core, made it quite likely that data reported was accurate. Indeed, avoiding the violent reaction that the projectile was designed to safely transport would be the far more difficult part of our self-preservation.
What a strange sensation, I knew how to do these things when I was alive, and they were flooding back to me now, even as I do them. Unfortunately, I am rather pressed for time at the moment, and the tickle at the back of my mind retains a minor role in the background buzz of my collective thoughts.
Sight. The first thing one notices when one snaps their eyes open, assuming one is not blind. Sometime after its creation, usually in very short order (excepting, of course, light created very far away), light encounters the lense of the eye and is focused onto some very specific biology that takes light as input and outputs electrical impulses that are hard-wired to the brain.
How delightful; I had forgotten what it was like to see.
"Get us the hell out of here!"
Processing. The combination of the images provided by each eye allow the brain to process depth, thankfully without conscious effort. About twenty-five images per eye are composited in the brain every second, allowing the brain to process depth with respect to time. The combination of stereo vision and sampling the light-translating biology in the eye at a certain rate allows one's higher processes to interpret the "world" at large, and make certain important decisions. One such decision is to forestall one's own demise by altering one's own course to avoid being in the same place, and at the same time, as a violently-unstable projectile who's current course was, apparently, chosen for the very purpose of collision.
I try to utter a mono-syllabic profanity, but it comes out as croak.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Truth be told, avoiding the projectile itself would not be the crux of our plan to forestall our demise. As it turns out, I am not looking at the real projectile, which is far too distant for my eyes to see, and in much too little light. Instead, I am looking at a simulated model that was designed for use by aviators and, upon interaction with this simulated model, I discover it would, quite helpfully, plot both the projectile's vector and our own. The model even adds user-friendly color-coding, indicating the past, therefore unalterable, course in dark gray, and a projection of both parties' current course. The coloring of the projected lines goes from a friendly green at our current coordinates to a dark red where the collision is scheduled to occur. Even as I take this in, the gray was slowly eating up the brightly colored lines. In a similarly helpful manner, the simulation provided me with relevant known data pertaining to the hurling projectile; in short, the projectile contained a certain mass of hydrogen, where each atom contains exactly one positively-charged proton, one negatively-charged electron, and a single neutral neutron, and a certain mass of anti-hydrogen, wherein each atom contains one negatively-charged proton, on positively-charged electron, and a neutron. The simulation also communicated that, though it was unable physically measure these things, certain other characteristics of the projectile's evident manufacture, as well as contextual information such as the class of the vehicle responsible for setting the course of the projectile and our relative location to the galactic core, made it quite likely that data reported was accurate. Indeed, avoiding the violent reaction that the projectile was designed to safely transport would be the far more difficult part of our self-preservation.
What a strange sensation, I knew how to do these things when I was alive, and they were flooding back to me now, even as I do them. Unfortunately, I am rather pressed for time at the moment, and the tickle at the back of my mind retains a minor role in the background buzz of my collective thoughts.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Taking Back Sunday, Part the First
Bill pushed against the wrench hard, with no luck.
"Damn this stupid thing," he said. "I can't get it to move at all. It's like its glued on."
"You're just a sissy, that's all," replied Gordy. He stood there, looking down on Bill, as Bill hunched over the toilet, trying to get the casing free so that they could pull it out and replace the obviously, and now disgustingly, faulty wax ring. He had to contort himself out over the cheap laminate vanity in the tiny bathroom.
Bill looked up. "Yeah, and you're just stupid. You think you can get it? You try, asshole."
"Maybe I should call my sister to help you out - she'd get it," Gordy replied. "She'd do it in no time, like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "In fact, maybe I ought to ask her to walk you home tonight, too - it's getting kind of late." He turned and looked out the door, past the old shag carpet, through the nearly perceptible haze of ignorance and nearly achieved poverty emanating from the apartment's occupants, over an ugly room covered with ugly things, to a tiny window, shiny dark. "Man, I hate being here this late. What a waste."
"No, it's awesome," Bill replied. "I love to fix leaky, filthy toilets in the middle of the night. Now you get can get down here in this muck and try to get this bold off."
Bill picked himself up awkwardly, trying not to place his hands on the linoleum slick with he didn't want to think what and awkwardly traded places with Gordy, the men sliding by each other, trying to touch as little as possible in the dingy space.
Gordy got down, hefting his not inconsiderable mass even more snugly into the tripartite spot between the toilet, tub, and wall. He pushed and pulled and jimmied the wrench back and forth. Still nothing.
"What's the matter? Do I still need to call your sister?" Bill snickered.
"Shut . . . up . . . you . . . muh . . . ther" Gordy grunted, locking his knees against the wall and using them to push all his body and arm into the wrench.
Wham! The nut came loose suddenly, Gordy's pressure and momentum swinging wildly into the vanity, then caroming into the porcelain throne, breaking the opposite, unloosened nut free and propelling it into the tub. The toilet burst into a thousand pieces, as Gordy knocked after it, cutting his forearm and greasing himself nastily across the filth-contaminated wax ring underneath.
"Shit!" he yelled.
The tenants from the next room came running to the door to gape slack jawed at the commotion. "What's goin' on in here?" asked one, expectantly, with some resentment, as though a common repairman, paid well in advance for his services, were trying to slink away without doing the job.
"What the hell does it look like?" Gordy barked.
"Damn this stupid thing," he said. "I can't get it to move at all. It's like its glued on."
"You're just a sissy, that's all," replied Gordy. He stood there, looking down on Bill, as Bill hunched over the toilet, trying to get the casing free so that they could pull it out and replace the obviously, and now disgustingly, faulty wax ring. He had to contort himself out over the cheap laminate vanity in the tiny bathroom.
Bill looked up. "Yeah, and you're just stupid. You think you can get it? You try, asshole."
"Maybe I should call my sister to help you out - she'd get it," Gordy replied. "She'd do it in no time, like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "In fact, maybe I ought to ask her to walk you home tonight, too - it's getting kind of late." He turned and looked out the door, past the old shag carpet, through the nearly perceptible haze of ignorance and nearly achieved poverty emanating from the apartment's occupants, over an ugly room covered with ugly things, to a tiny window, shiny dark. "Man, I hate being here this late. What a waste."
"No, it's awesome," Bill replied. "I love to fix leaky, filthy toilets in the middle of the night. Now you get can get down here in this muck and try to get this bold off."
Bill picked himself up awkwardly, trying not to place his hands on the linoleum slick with he didn't want to think what and awkwardly traded places with Gordy, the men sliding by each other, trying to touch as little as possible in the dingy space.
Gordy got down, hefting his not inconsiderable mass even more snugly into the tripartite spot between the toilet, tub, and wall. He pushed and pulled and jimmied the wrench back and forth. Still nothing.
"What's the matter? Do I still need to call your sister?" Bill snickered.
"Shut . . . up . . . you . . . muh . . . ther" Gordy grunted, locking his knees against the wall and using them to push all his body and arm into the wrench.
Wham! The nut came loose suddenly, Gordy's pressure and momentum swinging wildly into the vanity, then caroming into the porcelain throne, breaking the opposite, unloosened nut free and propelling it into the tub. The toilet burst into a thousand pieces, as Gordy knocked after it, cutting his forearm and greasing himself nastily across the filth-contaminated wax ring underneath.
"Shit!" he yelled.
The tenants from the next room came running to the door to gape slack jawed at the commotion. "What's goin' on in here?" asked one, expectantly, with some resentment, as though a common repairman, paid well in advance for his services, were trying to slink away without doing the job.
"What the hell does it look like?" Gordy barked.
The Terrible Being of Lightness
Once upon a time, there was a man trapped in a tunnel in the sky. The tunnel was not very high, but it held him above most others. It was smooth and calm and protective and nearly all-encompassing.
He had found his way there whilst walking across the countryside, trying to discover what life held and that which he wanted to take from it. After cresting a hill, he saw a path that seemed, if not golden, at least bronzed. He began to walk along it, discovering, as he went that it was indeed bronze and that this bronze flecked off on a regular basis, providing a healthy and increasingly comfortable living.
After he had walked a while, he discovered that he had now forsaken his initial goal of discovering life and trying it on for size and now seemed to exist merely to follow the bronze path, which was increasingly inclined and had begun to crater down, an rising impression blocking out the rest of the land. That initially bothered him, but he was soon distracted by the bronze and the nice things he got with it.
Before long, the walls of the depression had started to occlude the view of the sky above. Very soon, he was in an outright tunnel. This first startled and scared him. He consoled himself, though, with the thought of all the wonderful bronze he was accumulating, and he continued on, now simultaneously conscious of, and essentially oblivious to, the fact that he was continuing on to nowhere.
After many years of walking in the dark enjoying his pointless bronze but suffering from a niggling pain in the back of his mind, he stopped to think. This was fatal, of course, as it always is. As soon as he did, the tunnel became sheer, light flooded in, and the man could see himself, grown old, tired, and now pointless. All around, he saw other tunnels, filled with other people, some sheer, some dark. Down on the ground, he saw a few people, talking, walking, and enjoying each other and the land. He wanted to go down to them, but, when he turned back to view the path back, from where he had started, so long ago, he discovered that the tunnel was merely a small, pathetic circle.
He had found his way there whilst walking across the countryside, trying to discover what life held and that which he wanted to take from it. After cresting a hill, he saw a path that seemed, if not golden, at least bronzed. He began to walk along it, discovering, as he went that it was indeed bronze and that this bronze flecked off on a regular basis, providing a healthy and increasingly comfortable living.
After he had walked a while, he discovered that he had now forsaken his initial goal of discovering life and trying it on for size and now seemed to exist merely to follow the bronze path, which was increasingly inclined and had begun to crater down, an rising impression blocking out the rest of the land. That initially bothered him, but he was soon distracted by the bronze and the nice things he got with it.
Before long, the walls of the depression had started to occlude the view of the sky above. Very soon, he was in an outright tunnel. This first startled and scared him. He consoled himself, though, with the thought of all the wonderful bronze he was accumulating, and he continued on, now simultaneously conscious of, and essentially oblivious to, the fact that he was continuing on to nowhere.
After many years of walking in the dark enjoying his pointless bronze but suffering from a niggling pain in the back of his mind, he stopped to think. This was fatal, of course, as it always is. As soon as he did, the tunnel became sheer, light flooded in, and the man could see himself, grown old, tired, and now pointless. All around, he saw other tunnels, filled with other people, some sheer, some dark. Down on the ground, he saw a few people, talking, walking, and enjoying each other and the land. He wanted to go down to them, but, when he turned back to view the path back, from where he had started, so long ago, he discovered that the tunnel was merely a small, pathetic circle.
Birthday
A friend of mine asked all of his friends to write emails to his mother for her birthday. Not my cup of tea, but I took it as an opportunity to write something hilarious.
To
Jesse's Mom
Subject
Happy Birthday
From a Complete Stranger.
I know your son, Jesse. We met shortly after The War while we were both stationed in Cuba. I'll never forget the first time I ran across him. It was in a dusty little pueblo outside Havana, during the afternoon siesta. Jesse was in the middle of the unpaved dirt street teaching a little senorita how to dance The Charleston (as you no doubt know, Jesse's love of dance is widely misunderstood). An old gaucho sat nearby, picking out Guantanamera lazily on his guitar; the ballad, arguably the first habanera famous in the US, provided the perfect rhythm and beat to learn Jazz dance. The little senorita, it turns out was very progressive, for Salsa-loving Cubans generally looked down on Jazz as an American perversion in those days. Indeed, when the proprietor of the local saloon made his way to the doors, you can imagine his outrage to find the dust-storm plaguing his establishment was caused by an American GI teaching modern Jazz techniques to his wife. His pride as a husband, and as a Salsa-dance champion were both injured grievously. I'll never forget the pain in his eyes as his wife yelled to him, in Spanish, "Ramon, te amo mi amor, pero La Salsa esta muerta! Viva Jazz! Viva Jazz!" When he challenged Jesse to a dance-off to the death, I knew what had to be done. Jesse was no novice, true, but he could not compete with the mighty Ramon, pride of all Cuba and Grand Master of Salsa Dance. To make a long story short, Ramon Castro ended up dead in the street and a certain firearm was checked-in at base minus two rounds. Ramon's wife was left behind to raise their son, Fidel - who, incidentally, swore revenge upon America. We have often wondered how young Fidel would have turned out if he had a strong father figure in his younger years. Perhaps we'll never know.
To
Jesse's Mom
Subject
Happy Birthday
From a Complete Stranger.
I know your son, Jesse. We met shortly after The War while we were both stationed in Cuba. I'll never forget the first time I ran across him. It was in a dusty little pueblo outside Havana, during the afternoon siesta. Jesse was in the middle of the unpaved dirt street teaching a little senorita how to dance The Charleston (as you no doubt know, Jesse's love of dance is widely misunderstood). An old gaucho sat nearby, picking out Guantanamera lazily on his guitar; the ballad, arguably the first habanera famous in the US, provided the perfect rhythm and beat to learn Jazz dance. The little senorita, it turns out was very progressive, for Salsa-loving Cubans generally looked down on Jazz as an American perversion in those days. Indeed, when the proprietor of the local saloon made his way to the doors, you can imagine his outrage to find the dust-storm plaguing his establishment was caused by an American GI teaching modern Jazz techniques to his wife. His pride as a husband, and as a Salsa-dance champion were both injured grievously. I'll never forget the pain in his eyes as his wife yelled to him, in Spanish, "Ramon, te amo mi amor, pero La Salsa esta muerta! Viva Jazz! Viva Jazz!" When he challenged Jesse to a dance-off to the death, I knew what had to be done. Jesse was no novice, true, but he could not compete with the mighty Ramon, pride of all Cuba and Grand Master of Salsa Dance. To make a long story short, Ramon Castro ended up dead in the street and a certain firearm was checked-in at base minus two rounds. Ramon's wife was left behind to raise their son, Fidel - who, incidentally, swore revenge upon America. We have often wondered how young Fidel would have turned out if he had a strong father figure in his younger years. Perhaps we'll never know.
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