There are times, now and again, during which I feel a strong desire to put some words on paper. It’s not that I’m quaint, or feel that electronic methods are unworthy of my would-be fantastic prose. I suspect that were I to try, the prose, in fact, would be found quite lacking. I think the desire goes back to the basic ideas of the tribal knowledge of our ancestors: if you have something to say, if your life has been worth something, you should communicate it. Tell a story, draw a picture in the sand, tell your children around the fire. Get the knowledge out there.
Get the knowledge out there. That’s what it is for me. Call me arrogant, but I occasionally feel very strongly that I have learned something in the course of my work, and, furthermore, my knowledge must be shared with others.
There are, perhaps, other motives involved. Some of your ideas stick around in a library somewhere, presumably until the heat death of the universe. Maybe I can have my atoms reconstituted into a book bearing my memoir. Hell of a collector’s item, if you can find an audience for it.
People always say you should write what you know. This sounds good until I think about fiction: from what well of personal knowledge does Ms. Holt draw her stories about witchcraft? And writers of historical fiction? Ha!
Yes, of course, the idea is to use your personal experiences as fuel for some masterpiece of character building, world building, or suspense building. Work your minute knowledge of some dead end job into a gripping tale set against an epic emotional backdrop. Make sure you explain to your readers exactly why your accountant main character must use ASPA Rule Three Oh Seven Dash Five when he is tallying up the value of the lives he may save by shooting the bad guy in the face.
This is, by the way, why we end up with pages upon pages filled with detailed descriptions of a person reloading a gun, and the various trials and tribulations he must face before he may attempt, once more, to put an end to his adversary. Don’t worry, he’ll be thwarted in the firefight by some convenient plot device but return at the last hour to achieve victory.
Titles are hard. I bet someone said this, and if they didn’t, I’m claiming this aphorism right now: the hardest words to write are the words that go on the cover.
But I’ve got this figured out.
The title of this book, this hypothetical book I write in my head, or at least think about from time to time, is How To Get The Shit Kicked Out Of You And Live To Tell The Tale.
I know you’ll come around to it, in the end.
I have to admit, the title is a sort of a hopeful one. It came to me while I was working in the North Port. Working, here, is a bit of a euphemism. I was sitting on a hard metal chair, arms and legs bound. The shadowed man in front of me was breathing heavily – clearly the act of breaking my nose and battering my midsection had caused some serious physical exertion. His breath was pungent, echoing the thousands of extra calories he had consumed over time. Still, overweight does not mean underpowered, and the throbbing mass that used to be my nose told me this man knew something about pain.
There weren’t questions, or at least not spoken ones. The man rested, for a moment, then attacked once again. I felt my face swelling under the blows, and thought about my book. It’d be a bestseller, if only I could prove its premise by making it out of here alive.
Because I knew something about taking a beating. It had happened to me before, and I had learned from the experience. Be ready to anticipate the blows. Tense your muscles in an appropriate matter. Prepare for disorientation. Keep your thoughts lucid by concentrating on hard reality. Don’t let yourself drift.
I was not doing a good job at that last point, but then again, I think the decision to allow myself to drift was rational. There were no questions, which indicated to me that either I should have known who these folks were and what they wanted, or that they were simply looking to kill me. Either way, allowing myself to fade may alleviate my sense of helplessness.
After some time, during which I came up with some chapter titles (Don’t Suck At Fighting, Have Backup, Maybe If You Ask Them Nicely They Will Stop Hitting You), I couldn’t support my head any longer. The blood, a trickle seemingly moments ago, was now pouring from my nose and pooling between my thighs.
My vision was fading, tunneling to gray. I thought of another chapter title. How To Get The Blood That Left Your Body Back Inside. Maybe that could be the sequel.
Maybe.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Quick thought
99% of the text of our laws in this country are designed to deal with 1% situations -- things that occur 1% of the time or with 1% of the people.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Seduction, Economic Collapse, and Vacations
Miller’s Genuine Drafts
From the desk of Small Business Data Analysis
Well, it’s been a while since the last edition of MGD. Yours Truly has been on a family “vacation” – which means, of course, that no relaxation occurred whatsoever. Indeed, after about the fifth round of playing a game that my nephew (age 4) calls “Stab Keaton With Household Objects Repeatedly Until Blood Comes Out” I wondered what, exactly, was the point. I mean, sure, I love to have big events with the in-laws and the in-in-laws and the ex-wives and the second-cousins and the people-we-collected-along-the-way-that-we-don’t-even-really-know as much as the next person, but I have my limits.
One of which, apparently, is the volume of circulatory fluid contained within my veins.
Somehow, though, I soldiered through and even got to enjoy brief visit to Charleston, South Carolina where we ate a delightful meal surrounded by people with handle-bar mustaches who were talking about “The War of Northern Aggression” and then got the hell out of there.
Seriously. Those guys are scary.
AND NOW: Has your analytical nature caused problems with your particular desired variety (varieties include straight, gay, and banana-strawberry) of sexual encounters? Do you find yourself trying to use words to remove a woman’s clothing (cash works much better) only to get slapped and walked out on? Do you spend your evenings cuddling up to an anatomically correct mannequin (preferably named Passionate Pam) in the hopes of providing your sad, sad soul with some sort of plastic companionship?
THERE IS AN ANSWER TO YOUR TROUBLES, AND ABC REPORTS!
http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/WhosCounting/story?id=7250901&page=1
Apparently, all you have to do is turn your seduction into a series of logical statements.
FOR INSTANCE (from the article):
Suppose a man flirts with a woman and then asks her, "Will you solemnly promise to give me right now your telephone number if I make a true statement and, conversely, not give me your number if I make a false statement?"
Feeling that this is a flattering and benign request, the woman promises to give him her number if and only if he makes a true statement.
The man then makes his statement: "You will neither give me your telephone number now nor will you sleep with me tonight."
The result is obvious: the woman will look at you, and either have an aneurysm due to the requirement of thought or will simply walk away and eat some strawberry-banana yogurt.
Sorry, I guess analysts are just out of luck.
At least we didn’t screw up this bad
It’s always important to put things in perspective. For example, when I walk out of a bar, alone, thinking of Passionate Pam waiting for me back home, I feel down. However, when I turn to my side and see Sykes another fellow drinker puking his guts out all over an officers shoes while trying to explain that he merely ate a bad piece of sushi, I feel much better about myself.
Thus, it’s important for us to compare our country’s current economic situation to that of Iceland. Sure, we may have run up debts totaling about 350% of our GDP, we may have higher unemployment than any time since the Great Depression, and the Chris Naruto Government Intervention Head Explosion Index may be off-scale high, but it could have been worse.
I present to you the story of Iceland, a country full of fisherman who got their first taste of high finance when, after being isolated from the world for 1100 years, figured out how to securitize their fishing business and decided they could enter the global money market with impunity.
Vanity Fair (shush) has an incredible piece detailing the rise and fall of their financial sector as well as the hardheadedness of the Icelandic male. I highly suggest you go and read http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/04/iceland200904
The most telling interview was with a fisherman-turned-financial-wizard-turned-fisherman-again, who spoke of the years it took him to learn how to fish effectively:
This marvelous [fishing] training was as fresh in his mind as if he’d received it yesterday, and the thought of it makes his eyes mist.
“You spent seven years learning every little nuance of the fishing trade before you were granted the gift of learning from this great captain?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And even then you had to sit at the feet of this great master for many months before you felt as if you knew what you were doing?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you think you could become a banker and speculate in financial markets, without a day of training?”
“That’s a very good question,” he says. He thinks for a minute. “For the first time this evening I lack a word.”
The lesson here is obvious: Iceland has a distinct lack of PR specialists.
From the desk of Small Business Data Analysis
Well, it’s been a while since the last edition of MGD. Yours Truly has been on a family “vacation” – which means, of course, that no relaxation occurred whatsoever. Indeed, after about the fifth round of playing a game that my nephew (age 4) calls “Stab Keaton With Household Objects Repeatedly Until Blood Comes Out” I wondered what, exactly, was the point. I mean, sure, I love to have big events with the in-laws and the in-in-laws and the ex-wives and the second-cousins and the people-we-collected-along-the-way-that-we-don’t-even-really-know as much as the next person, but I have my limits.
One of which, apparently, is the volume of circulatory fluid contained within my veins.
Somehow, though, I soldiered through and even got to enjoy brief visit to Charleston, South Carolina where we ate a delightful meal surrounded by people with handle-bar mustaches who were talking about “The War of Northern Aggression” and then got the hell out of there.
Seriously. Those guys are scary.
AND NOW: Has your analytical nature caused problems with your particular desired variety (varieties include straight, gay, and banana-strawberry) of sexual encounters? Do you find yourself trying to use words to remove a woman’s clothing (cash works much better) only to get slapped and walked out on? Do you spend your evenings cuddling up to an anatomically correct mannequin (preferably named Passionate Pam) in the hopes of providing your sad, sad soul with some sort of plastic companionship?
THERE IS AN ANSWER TO YOUR TROUBLES, AND ABC REPORTS!
http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/WhosCounting/story?id=7250901&page=1
Apparently, all you have to do is turn your seduction into a series of logical statements.
FOR INSTANCE (from the article):
Suppose a man flirts with a woman and then asks her, "Will you solemnly promise to give me right now your telephone number if I make a true statement and, conversely, not give me your number if I make a false statement?"
Feeling that this is a flattering and benign request, the woman promises to give him her number if and only if he makes a true statement.
The man then makes his statement: "You will neither give me your telephone number now nor will you sleep with me tonight."
The result is obvious: the woman will look at you, and either have an aneurysm due to the requirement of thought or will simply walk away and eat some strawberry-banana yogurt.
Sorry, I guess analysts are just out of luck.
At least we didn’t screw up this bad
It’s always important to put things in perspective. For example, when I walk out of a bar, alone, thinking of Passionate Pam waiting for me back home, I feel down. However, when I turn to my side and see Sykes another fellow drinker puking his guts out all over an officers shoes while trying to explain that he merely ate a bad piece of sushi, I feel much better about myself.
Thus, it’s important for us to compare our country’s current economic situation to that of Iceland. Sure, we may have run up debts totaling about 350% of our GDP, we may have higher unemployment than any time since the Great Depression, and the Chris Naruto Government Intervention Head Explosion Index may be off-scale high, but it could have been worse.
I present to you the story of Iceland, a country full of fisherman who got their first taste of high finance when, after being isolated from the world for 1100 years, figured out how to securitize their fishing business and decided they could enter the global money market with impunity.
Vanity Fair (shush) has an incredible piece detailing the rise and fall of their financial sector as well as the hardheadedness of the Icelandic male. I highly suggest you go and read http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/04/iceland200904
The most telling interview was with a fisherman-turned-financial-wizard-turned-fisherman-again, who spoke of the years it took him to learn how to fish effectively:
This marvelous [fishing] training was as fresh in his mind as if he’d received it yesterday, and the thought of it makes his eyes mist.
“You spent seven years learning every little nuance of the fishing trade before you were granted the gift of learning from this great captain?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And even then you had to sit at the feet of this great master for many months before you felt as if you knew what you were doing?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you think you could become a banker and speculate in financial markets, without a day of training?”
“That’s a very good question,” he says. He thinks for a minute. “For the first time this evening I lack a word.”
The lesson here is obvious: Iceland has a distinct lack of PR specialists.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Skiing
As I approached the tree at approximately Warp Factor Nine, I waited expectantly for my life to flash before my eyes. After all, I was on a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, with my rather squishy body about to collide with a rather solid trunk.
I hear such situations aren't good for your health.
The End of Life Review wasn't happening. I must have been Too New to Rate. I decided to do the overview myself, hoping that in the last moments before impact I'd achieve some sort of brilliant insight that would convince the universe to allow me to live.
First, I was born. This was a messy and painful procedure that involved a lot of blood, guts and tweezers and it left me with a profound feeling of... let's just skip ahead a bit to the good part.
My skiing adventure started in Staunton, a small town near Charlottesville and about halfway between here and Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia. We arrived without pre-arranged lodging, food, or any idea what to do. I had been told stories of the past trips -- epic tales of my friends' abilities to score sleeping quarters from nubile youngsters within moments of arrival. I looked forward to watching masters of the game using their abilities and learning from their display.
The town, however, was deserted. Mary Baldwin (all-female) College, the source of the group's previous successes, was all but abandoned. The bars around town were almost empty, filled with the dregs of the town, and several butch lesbians. [NAME REDACTED 1] and [NAME REDACTED 2] tried their hardest to convince some of the disciples of Sappho to allow us to breach their walls, but to no avail.
I mean, they were lesbians.
At the end of the night, the group split up. While half of us (the half that I like to call "sane") got a cheap room at a HoJo, the other half decided to wander around town to find some suitable place to crash. They tried the house where they had stayed the previous weekend, but the only occupant wanted nothing to do with a bunch of dudes banging on the door at 3 AM.
I can't imagine why.
Finally, while the sane group had happily settled in for the night, the other group decided to go to the campus. They found an unlocked science building and slept inside until one of them had an astonishing insight.
"Hey guys," said The Smart One. "We're breaking and entering on an all-girls campus. Are we sure that this is the best idea?"
"Sure it is," mumbled [1]. "Why would anyone have a problem with us chilling in here?"
Fortunately for the non-sane group, The Smart One prevailed and convinced the others to go sleep in the car.
Saturday morning, thoroughly disappointed in the Staunton Experience, we set off for Snowshoe. The road from Staunton led us through beautiful forests, re-purposed mining towns, and, at the state line, a sign cheerfully informing us that incest was now legal.
We arrived, geared up, and hit the slopes. Brimming with confidence, and a five minute lesson from Felix, I attached my skis to my boots, turned to face the hill, and started off.
Five seconds later, my scream rang through the air like a carillon and my head hit the snow with a resounding crunch. After a brief struggle, I got back up, reattached my skis, and tried again.
After the fourth or fifth fall (the repeated impacts caused some minor memory failure), I realized that Felix hadn't taught me some of the minor details needed to ski successfully, such as a) turning and b) stopping. I trundled up the mountain and went to the "magic carpet" area, where you could learn how to accomplish these important maneuvers on a slope that was about as steep as a desk.
The lack of speed didn't stop me, however. I fell down at least six or seven more times before finally figuring out the basics. I returned to the run and started down. This time, I lasted at least fifteen seconds before falling. I slowly made my way down the slope, pausing often to collect various things I had left behind -- skis, poles, goggles, my internal organs, etc.
I reached the bottom, finally, and got on the ski lift. This part, at least, seemed easy. You simply sat down, lowered the bar, and enjoyed the view going up. I reached the top of the lift, stood up, allowed the lift to push me forward, and promptly fell over, causing the operator to stop the lift.
I was a bit embarrassed, but I had done it. One complete run. In only three hours. But I had done it, successfully. Over the course of the day, I did the same run several times, slowly learning how to navigate the various terrain features without losing structural (or intestinal) integrity.
The sun was setting when I made my final run of the day. After a pep talk with Felix and Dave, I decided to take a slightly different fork. They told me it would be slightly harder, but if I successfully navigated it, I'd be able to do many other trails across the resort. I set off, passing by several Keaton-shaped impressions along the way. I slowed down at the decision point and turned down the fork.
Felix and Dave said it would be slightly harder. What they didn't say was that by "slightly harder" they meant "a sudden descent followed by a leap over a gaping chasm filled with yetis and other possibly imaginary monsters."
Fortunately, I was prepared for such a scenario. I knew exactly what to do. I panicked. I tried to cut back and forth, but I picked up speed anyway. I hit the bottom of the run hard, and overbalanced. I held an impromptu yard sale, my equipment flying in different directions as I slid right off the course and towards the forest.
As I lay on my stomach sliding across the snow going way too fast, it came to me. A brilliant insight. A profound thought that would hopefully be sufficient to placate the Gods of the Slopes and permit my survival. It popped into my head with frightful and immediate clarity.
I'm not a very good skier.
With that thought, I slid into the tree with a dull thud -- and remained among the living. I moved my limbs, tested my strength, got back up, and lived to ski another day.
The next day, I did the bunny hill.
Twenty times.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Conflicts of Interest
I have a lot of thoughts about the bailout/stimulus/whatever, and a lot of thoughts about the most common REACTIONS to the BSW, but I'm afraid to post too much of them?
Why? Conflict of interest. Though I haven't posted any details about my job here and I doubt my employer is crawling the internet looking for little ole' me, I don't want to get in to any trouble by writing about things that have anything to do with the company.
Normally I wouldn't care -- I'd trust myself to talk in general and personal terms without talking about my employer specifically, but in this economy, I'm more concerned about losing my job than "normally."
I put "normally" in quotes because the economy has been like this ever since I got hired -- so I guess I don't really know what sort of cojones I'd have in a normal economy.
Why? Conflict of interest. Though I haven't posted any details about my job here and I doubt my employer is crawling the internet looking for little ole' me, I don't want to get in to any trouble by writing about things that have anything to do with the company.
Normally I wouldn't care -- I'd trust myself to talk in general and personal terms without talking about my employer specifically, but in this economy, I'm more concerned about losing my job than "normally."
I put "normally" in quotes because the economy has been like this ever since I got hired -- so I guess I don't really know what sort of cojones I'd have in a normal economy.
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