Afictive.net

A Day That Shall Live in Infamy

2011-11-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

Two years ago today, November 4, I was laid off from Microsoft. I subsequently discovered that corporations have abused the foreign worker visa system in order to replace US workers with foreign workers.

The following letter is being sent to Senators Chuck Grassley (R-IA) and Dick Durbin (D-IL), and will subsequently be sent to several lawmakers across the country who are involved with commerce and immigration issues.

It is not my intention to make a political statement here. I removed political content from this blog over a year ago, as I wanted this to be a venue to focus inwardly, to contemplate culture and life. However, this issue has become very important to me and I've spent many evenings researching the issue. People who know me know that I'm not a xenophobe. I will therefore not justify myself with the usual bowing and scraping about not being a bigot and so forth. However, as I point out in the letter, I've been a free trade, free immigration advocate. And it's because I've been welcoming to other cultures that I feel all the more betrayed by these corrupt and cynical abuses.

Enough is enough.

11-04-2011

The Honorable Charles Grassley
The Honorable Richard Durbin
United State Senate
Washington, DC 20510

Donn Trenton
88 Wolf Creek Road
Winthrop WA 98862

Dear Senators Grassley and Durbin,

I'm writing today first to thank you for the work you'vealready done on the issue of visa abuse, particularly on the Durbin-Grassley H-1B and L-1 Visa Reform Actof 2009 (S.887), and to encourage you to continue giving it as muchattention as possible in this time of urgent budgetary issues. I would also liketo bring to your attention some aspects of the issue that I’ve observed.

It’sprobably no surprise to you that the foreign worker visa system comprising H-1B,L-1, B-1, and other visas, has a high level of abuse. For over two decades I’veworked with many professionals from other countries, whom I’ve found to be honestand intelligent people, and some of whom are personal friends. I supported theH-1B program because I believed it to be an implementation of controlled immigrationthat brought exceptional workers to the US.

I’vefound, however, that it has become a Trojan Horse for foreign corporations to takeover entire business functions (such as software testing) and replace themwholesale with their own employees. The practice of US companies to cut theirbottom line by outsourcing certain functions to other countries, or to bring inforeign workers at cheaper wages is debatable, if controversial. But that paintsonly half the picture.

Foreigncorporations, with the aid of their governments, are waging an aggressivecampaign on our economy to take over market share by corrupting the legalframework of US immigration and employment law. This campaign is waged underthe rubric of "insourcing."

Incountries such as India and China, the distinction between large conglomeratesand government functions is virtually indistinct. These large corporations havevery close relationships with their governments, which lend them specialsupport and favored treatment. The most obvious of such support is the the Indianand Chinese governments’ lobbying of our government to expand the professionalvisa program.

Indiancorporations must be identified as the primary agents in the insourcingcampaign. In recent years, 80% of H-1B visas granted have gone to India-basedoutsourcing firms. Employees of these firms enter the US workforce and studyhow their respective businesses operate. Many persuade their US businesscontacts to outsource the rest of their department's work to India, or evenmore attractively, have their consulting company pitch an offer to provide anentire team of foreign visa workers to replace the current team at a far loweroverall cost of operations--lower wages, and virtually no benefits overhead. Doingso using H1-B visas skirts legality and certainly violates the intent of theprogram. Doing so using B-1 visas is clearly illegal, and some foreignconsulting firms have been caught red-handed at it.

Onceone company significantly cuts their bottom line by insourcing, other companiescompete by following suit. In the present ongoing recession, we’ve seen a chainreaction of companies resorting to this practice.

Worse,this legal and ethical shortcut tempts US executives to eliminate entire teamsof US citizens, through elaborately planned management methods, euphemisticallycalled reductions in force, redundancies, forced rankings, etc. Further, it iswell known in the industry that some Indian executives simply make a deliberateeffort to hire their own countrymen into their organization.

I’vealways supported the right of companies to hire and fire according to theirbusiness needs; however, the wholesale replacement of US workers is unethical, andthe practice of "body shopping" pushes right through the ethical envelopeinto illegality. Consulting firms known as "body shops" apply for asmany visas as possible, often falsifying the credentials of the workers whom theysponsor. Once they obtain a visa, they shop out the worker to other recruitingfirms, to fill job descriptions that do not necessarily match that stated ontheir visa. Indeed, in some respects, the workers are chattel. If they complain,are resistant to an assignment, or step out of line in any respect, they canhave their visa yanked and be sent back to their home country with no recourse.

Mypersonal experience at Microsoft has confirmed everything that I've read aboutthe system. I was a 13-year veteran with a solid record who was laid off alongwith 5800 other employees in 2009. As I mentioned, I appreciated working withtalented people from around the world, and I supported the visa system. When Ireturned as a contractor in 2010, I saw that the demographic of the company hadchanged noticeably. Entire test teams were Indian nationals working forIndia-based consulting firms. It is not difficult to identify employees and thecompany through which they contract, as this information is readily availablein the Outlook global address book.

It’swell known at Microsoft that certain groups have inordinately high rates ofhire of Indian nationals. By my count, in one product group, over 35% of theteam members were East Indian--considerably more than just one year before. EastAsians comprised 12.5%, about the usual level at Microsoft. Like many otherprominent high-tech companies, Microsoft has a much-touted Diversity programthat’s supposed to encourage, well, diversity--and a strict anti-discriminationpolicy. Normally, were a manager to hire an entire team based on nationality orethnicity, HR would have investigated and reprimanded that manager. But neitherHR nor Diversity have raised any concerns about what appears to be a consistentpattern of preferential hiring.

Inthe past I’ve requested demographic data from Diversity to see how Microsoftcompares to the population at large. Diversity replied that the company does notdisclose its workforce demographics, nor its metrics or criteria for achieving diversitygoals. I cannot help but wonder if “Diversity” teams in other high-techcompanies are similarly used as window dressers to provide cover forquestionable hiring practices.

Justas disturbing, however, is how the Indian-owned/managed recruiters have been cuttingin front of local established recruiting firms--through their contacts withincompanies, the use of "Minority Owned Business" certifications, and"Preferred Vendor" status. These designations afford them protectivecover and special consideration, since companies are under pressure to farm outbusiness to minority-owned companies. It seems a cynical misuse of suchcertifications, meant to give a boost to traditionally underrepresented ordisadvantaged groups of US citizens. Indian recruiters are aggressive, and somewill exaggerate or misrepresent job descriptions to lure candidates away fromlocal consulting firms.

Knowingthis, it’s hard not to conclude that there is an ongoing coordinated campaign offoreign corporations and government to take advantage of our visa system to graba huge share of our job market. This was never the intention of theprofessional/academic visa system, which was to bring in people so exceptionalthat a replacement couldn’t be found in the domestic labor pool. This violates atleast the spirit of the law.

TheIndian Chambers of Commerce have anticipated the backlash against outsourcingand incourcing and have outlined a strategy to lobby the Indian Government topush for relaxation of US visa requirements. Please urge Congress to resist thesePR efforts.

I encourageyou to reintroduce your H-1B and L-1 visa reform bill (S.887), which would effectmuch needed visa reform. I would make the following suggestions:

· I strongly suggest that you strengthen the prohibitionagainst displacing US workers. Sec.113. Waiver Requirements would amend the Immigrationand Nationality Act to require an employer to establish that an H-1B worker "hasnot displaced, and does not intend to displace, a United States worker employedby the employer within the period beginning 180 days before and ending 180 daysafter the date of the placement of the nonimmigrant with the employer." I suggestadding a positive prohibition to the following effect:

Any corporation doingbusiness in the US that lays off more than 50 US-based employees in a fiscalyear may not sponsor, invite, or hire any foreign visa workers until one yearafter the date of the last layoff.

The number can be indexed to the size of the company;the point is to provide a strong disincentive to companies against hiring visaworkers rather than domestic workers shortly after layoffs.

· Propose a temporary moratorium or limitation of the H-1B andother visa programs, allowing current visa holders to stay the length of theirterm, until Congress has investigated and considered how to reform the visasystem.

· Revise the visa lottery system so that no one country canobtain more than 50% of the visas granted for the year.

· Remove the provision that DOL could initiate investigationswithout a complaint and without the Labor Secretary’s personal authorization. Thisis my only disagreement with your bill, as it might give the DOL too much latitudeand encourage overzealous investigations.

Onceagain, I would like to thank you for all your efforts to protect the integrityof our visa system and the rights of US citizens.

Sincerely,

Donn Trenton

Quit While You're Ahead

2011-10-07T02:00:00.000-07:00

There's a lesson to be be learned in the Methow Valley wolf scandal. A series of lessons, in truth.

If you're going to poach, don't poach an endangered species. If you're going to poach an endangered species, mount the head or pelt in your den and say you inherited it from your bibulous uncle--don't brag about it and certainly don't sell it. If you're going to sell it, don't ship it across state lines (involving the FBI) or to another country (involving the US Customs Service).

But if you really must sell the pelt of an endangered species that you poached and ship it via Fed Ex to another country, for God's sake put it in a Ziploc bag so blood doesn't leak all over, giving the good people at the Fed Ex drop-off cause to think you're shipping your husband's head to Canada.

Moral (choose one of the following):

a. Stupid is as stupid does.
b. When you're in a hole, stop digging.
c. Quit while you're ahead.
d. What was the question?

Death of the Quiet Society

2011-09-16T01:08:00.000-07:00

The Adventures of Simplicissimus

Lawn Nazis

I had forgotten that Friday is landscaping day at my apartment complex. I had been working late, slept in somewhat, and woke to the gentle strains of leaf blowers directly outside my window. It was kind of these gentlemen to give me a wake up call exactly at 8:00am.

The modern corporation has solved the office smoking problem and office sexual harrassment problem by simply not having offices anymore. We all work from home. People think this is a dream job, but it isn't; much of my workday is spent finding a suitable workspace, and our lawns are the workplace of so many others. It is amazing that in an ailing economy we spend so much money keeping up the pretense of fastidiously manicured lawns. As William F Buckley once famously paraphrased La Fontaine, "Quelle est cette merde?" What indeed is this fetish about wide expanses of perfectly clipped grass? More significantly, why do we accept the attendant racket that comes with it? What is most disturbing is that no one, a la Candide, attends to their own garden anymore. Not so long ago, people raked their own damn leaves, and it was a long, meditative session of white noise--the rake scratching along the ground, puffing on a cigarette, and perhaps an Autumn breeze gusting by. Then flinging the cigarette away to set the neighborhood ablaze. Now it is done by others, hired to come and invade one's property with the shrill turbine whine of leaf blowers. The opportunity of meditation is lost, not only for you, but for all your neighbors. But to hell with them, the grounds are perfect.

With no hope of being allowed to concentrate, I dressed and went to the library to work.

The Lyceum of Grabassia

The public libraries in my upscale suburban community are well-appointed and designed in a modern, updated style of the classic Northwest mountain lodge. They have audio visual sections and meeting rooms, banks of computers, spacious sections for Children's literature, Young Adult fiction, and the newest mode, teen-only study rooms. All this unfortunately leaves only marginal space for a few carrels of books, and those are increasingly filled with thrillers, tales of gory lurid gore, bodice rippers, and the latest transcriptions of cultural bloviation.

People do not seem to read in the modern library. Why should they? There is much else to do. Answer your phone, text, tweet, chatter, surf, and scurry about in a daylong session of grabassia.

When did our libraries stop being places of of almost reverent silence and become ersatz Romper Rooms? Since when did libraries have to provide day care services? Likewise, why have large sections of libraries been cordoned off for the exclusive use of pimply, wetwired adolescents? The rest of the library is pretty much taken over by old farts such as myself and a few homeless people, who actually fit in rather better than the rest. They might smell, but they read silently and attentively, or better, doze off.

The Great Sniffer of Koryo

Chief among the annoyances, however, among the screeching brattle of unattended waifs and high whine of high-powered Mexican leaf blowers, is the Dreaded Asian Sniffer. Over the years in the diverse Northwest, I've learned much about Asian cultures--the most useful aspect of which is what Asian people do with their mucus.

To the Japanese, blowing one's nose is a gesture of such mortifying rudeness that were one to use a tissue, he would have to exile himself from refined company pretty much forever. The Japanese solution, therefore, when assaulted by the common cold, is cunningly and unobtrusively to wear a surgical mask wherever you go. And what happens behind the mask, stays behind the mask.

The Chinese, I hesitate to report, simply lay a finger aside the nose and hurl it out onto the sidewalk without further consideration. In fact in Jiangxi province it is considered an egregious insult if you do not luge on your neighbor's doorstep before entering.

The Koreans, being historically caught in the middle of these two cultures, cannot decide what the hell to do and simply sniff. In such manner, kotagji can be stored in the ko for hours on end. Oh yes, and if you believe there exists a more annoying sound in the universe, try enduring the occasional yet inevitable long uptake of a runny nose for an hour or so. No earphone or earbud piping in Metallica, can blot out the deadly sniffer.

Pornography and Invisibility

But what endears me most to the library is that, on the best days, I can almost vanish, mentally at least, from the noisome, attention-deficit world at large. To be fair, allow me to point this out: I am more attention-deficit than most. And that is why the library had in the past been for me a sort of guilty pleasure, a wandering about in a sort of Borgesian pleasure dome. Now that inner world has been replaced by the Internet. Is it trite to say it's not the same? Yes, trite.

When you're in a library, you are physically within a library. When you're in cyberspace, you're probably in your pyjamas, and I shall not conjecture further on your threadedness.

We now pretend to search by means of Googling; back in The Day ("The Day" or "ye olde days" being in my 6 year old daughter's words when queried about an ancient book, "The 80s?"), "googling" was checking out a voluptuous coed from betwixt the books of a nearby carrel. Now it is a lame exercise in which a computer tries to finish your sentence as you type, viz. when I tried to research (for purely academic purposes) the keyword string: "Asian hot" and got rather unsatisfying longtails such as:

asian hotel owners association

Essaying forth once more, I did better with:

asian hot dog eating contest winner

Which, for all practical purposes, was close enough. Bravo for Google! Yet the experience is just not the same. It is simply too... virtual for my taste. If I want exposure to porn, I only need go back to one of the larger city libraries, sit behind some good gentleman, and observe casually his online research. Why, only the other day, I sat in the Bellevue Main Library behind an upstanding African American fellow, and was surprised to see a kind of pornography I had never yet observed (and was heretofore grateful for the fact).

This fellow was in the process of "researching" photographs of extremely corpulent females. Perhaps he had mistakenly landed on a site such as celluliteplanet.com; I am not certain. He expanded a photo of the largest female bollocks imaginable; it not only eclipsed the screen, I thought it might perhaps bring the library servers down.

No such luck. However, the man sniffed not at all, nor made any sound, and it went down as one of my more productive days at the library. So I say, pipe in terabytes of porn, give library passes to the trenchcoat brigade, bring Robert Mapplethorpe himself into the library, let him sign books with... well, let him perform a book signing in his own inimitable way!

Maybe then I can get some damn work done.

The Light of the Living

2011-09-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

You number my wanderings;
Put my tears into Your bottle;
Are they not in Your book?

In God have I put my trust;
I will not be afraid.
What can man do to me?

Have You not kept my feet from falling,
That I may walk before God
in the light of the living?

--Psalm 56

To the Dreary End

2011-07-07T20:30:00.000-07:00

こんな夢を見た。。。

From the annals of the Dream Library, ~8:00am, 2011-07-07

I dreamed that reports had come out that the world was about to end soon. Naturally it was widely covered on cable news; subsequent bulletins and rumors said the event would occur somewhere around 8:30pm. To my surprise, there was no looting or general mayhem; instead, people became unusually pleasant and arranged informal get-togethers to chat about things and maybe bid farewells, if they thought to do so, but not everyone did. No one seemed particularly upset or grief-stricken, though the mood was a little sad, like seeing friends off at the airport, knowing you won't see them for a long time.

I was at an office building that afternoon, presumably at work and said goodbye to some friends. My thought was to get back to my car by 8:30 but then I realized that I had no real home or family to get home to, so I simply stayed where I was. The lobby had a small bar with a TV mounted up above, and a few people sat there talking, an older couple and a young woman. The older gent mixed drinks, free, for presumably no one bothered to charge money any longer. I watched the coverage on Fox News, which was predictably designed to string the audience along when nothing is actually happening, like their signature coverage of missing little girls that they milk on and on for weeks. I had no idea the end of the world would be so boring.

The time came and went. Not daring to be so impolite as to suggest that the world perhps had not ended, I suggested instead that maybe the world had changed in some fundamental way, some physical law of nature had been altered, but we hadn't noticed yet--that the world as we knew it had in fact ended, or perhaps we had ceased to exist in the reality we knew, but we were continuing on in a new reality.

The older couple at the bar were very down to earth and such wooly ideas simply breezed past them. I might as well have been recounting the premise of some pseudoscientific fantasy novel to them. The gentleman at the bar showed me a stunningly beautiful revolver; presumably he had taken it along in case of trouble, which happily had never materialized. It was a stainless steel Ruger snubnose with a 2 inch barrel and engraved vine-and-leaf scrollwork on an unfluted cylinder; caliber .22 magnum, and it held nine rounds. It must have been a special run, as I'd never seen the like before.

He put the pistol in a drawer while he mixed more drinks, and I noticed the young woman at the bar stealthily reach over and put it in her purse. I followed her out, thinking to win her confidence and maybe get the revolver back. We crossed a bridge as we talked and she told me that she was a runaway from a bad situation; I figured she needed cash, so I offered to buy the revolver from her, and I was even tempted to keep it for myself. However, she refused, as she thought she'd need it for protection. Unlike my aesthetic lust for the gun, her interest in it was purely practical--any pistol would have served her purpose.

The dream transitioned abruptly, and I was back at my car. Fritz was there waiting for me to take him along for the ride. I was lucidly aware that he had passed a few months ago, but the reality of his presence was so vivid that I ignored this fact. I picked him up and held him; I could feel his wooly fur and the warmth of his body, and he moved exactly as he had done in life. I put him in the passenger seat as usual and we were off. Originally I had planned to drive home, but now I wasn't sure where home was, and we seemed to have another destination, undefined. The drive was erratic, traffic frequently slowing and speeding up, with sudden stops. We crossed a bridge going rather fast, and hit a dip and hump in the pavement; the car lurched upward and seemed to leave the road's surface for a moment, but we continued on together, safely.

When it all burns down

2011-06-28T01:00:00.000-07:00

蔵焼けて障るものなき月見哉

kurayakete sawaru mono naki tsuki mi kana

"My barn burned down; now nothing keeps me from seeing the moon."
--Zen koan by Mizuta Masahide (1657-1723)

On the Long Walk Home

2011-06-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

In 2004, I wrote a short piece as part of a novel. The larger story itself is not relevant except that the theme was a young man's regret that he did not reconcile and get to know his father before the father's death. This parable was intended to be delivered as part of the father's eulogy. Worthy though it sound, it is one of the most leaned upon of themes, but one that, if not given over to sentimentality, rarely fails to engage.

It is a very simple tale of how a man deals with his beloved dog's final days. What is remarkable is that I wrote it almost seven years ago, when my dog Fritz was half his age, in full health, before he had any serious health problems. His first serious symptoms came about a year later--it turned out to be arthritis, but at first we had no idea what it might be, or how serious it was. I'm not claiming to scry, skein, or augur into future events. However, I sincerely believe that writing that is genuinely felt or deeply understood through hard experience--that is, true writing, taps into something ineffable that has a quality of cutting through time. It transcends what our poor senses cannot.

It's apparent that I was coming to terms with Fritz's end a long time ago. Some might call this a very foolish exercise in sentimentality. At the time it might have been, and it didn't make my feelings any easier when the end finally came. But it's stunning to me how closely this parable describes my feelings--and my relationship with Fritz in his last days--seven years later.

I had intended to publish this upon his death, but it needed work, and to be blunt, I didn't have the courage to return to this text for over a month. I took my time; I wanted it to be right, a fitting tribute to my little friend.

Someday we might spread Fritz's ashes at Golden Gardens Beach on Puget Sound, his favorite walk of all time, or possibly in the Methow Valley, where he owned a grand domain full of wildlife that he loved to sniff and survey. We might set down a stone. If we do, the epitaph might read:

There will never be another
Fritz

On the Long Walk Home

Once, a man owned a dog that had been a wonderful companion for many years, and the dog likewise trusted the man without reservation. Like all dogs, he craved the reassurance of routine. In fact, the more repeated the activity, the more it seemed to intensify the dog's enjoyment: the familiar smells along a walk, the nightly bone, the happy replenishment of the food and water bowls. He especially looked forward to his afternoon walk when the man returned from work.

In the course of years, the dog grew old, and though he had enjoyed an active, healthy life, he suddenly began to grow weak and listless. Concerned, the man took his dog to the veterinarian. The doctor told him that the dog had a serious disease, and though an operation was possible, it was doubtful that the dog would survive. He prescribed a few palliatives and told the man that if the dog's condition deteriorated, he could bring him in so that his suffering not be prolonged.

Certain thoughts weighed on the man as he headed home. The news was bad, but not surprising. He thought that he should feel worse, but instead felt strangely distant, and could only focus on what to do next. He knew that in the past he had slacked in his duties with the dog. Sometimes he might feel lazy and shorten their walk, or simply let the dog out into the yard. He determined that the days remaining to his dog should be the fullest possible--with everything he had come to expect in his daily routine.

The dog seemed well enough for several weeks, but then became quite sick. Again they went to the vet, who advised him to expect periods of seemingly restored health, punctuated by severe relapses. He cautioned him not to be buoyed by false recoveries. The man said that he understood, and asked how long they had. The vet said that the decision was entirely up to the owner, and the dog would let him know when it's time. The man wondered how he would know.

He took the dog home and struggled with the problem of when. On one hand it seemed selfish to let his friend continue suffering; on the other, he felt the dog deserved to live out whatever time he had. All he knew for certain was that he himself needed a little more time. He still took the dog for walks, but was careful not to go too long, lest the dog become exhausted. After a few days, it became clear that the dog could no longer go the least of what could be called a walk. The next day he decided to take the dog for one last outing.

When the time came, he approached the dog with the leash and said, let's go for a walk. The dog looked up wanly, but his tail quivered with the old enthusiasm. The dog bowed his head slightly to accept the leash, as he always did, and the man took comfort in knowing that the dog knew the ritual and found not a little joy in it.

He drove to a neighborhood that the dog liked, that was also near the vet's office. He knew the dog would recognize where he was, but it couldn't be helped. He took the dog to certain favorite spots, a tree-lined street, a playground where they would sometimes sit and simply watch the people and their kids, a vacant lot where rats and squirrels left their fascinating scents.

The dog took his time, investigating, sniffing at his leisure. And the man watched attentively. He wished that, instead of often being impatient on the way, he had paid closer attention to his friend's spirit of exploration, how he trotted from place to place, how he carefully sniffed, as if ruminating over the clues left him. How his friend stopped and watched the world with a calm that he himself would never know.

He wondered why he had never before put aside his fretting, busy thoughts to pause and observe life so.

After investigating a certain doorstep, his friend suddenly lay down beside the stoop and looked at him, panting slowly and deliberately but not whimpering or showing any pain. The man was seized with panic. Was this the sign? He simply wasn't ready. Then he justified himself with the sudden conviction that in this condition the dog couldn't possibly walk to the vet's office.

The man sat on the stoop and petted the dog for a while--it didn't seem long--and suddenly the dog stood up and tugged at the leash. The man was encouraged, and decided that they should go home, since this was obviously not the day. Perhaps he had jumped the gun. Yes, he should wait and see, take care of this tomorrow, or another day, for after all, the dog could become better unexpectedly--the vet had said himself that there was no predicting how it might go.

He stood up and tried to lead the dog back to the car, but the dog strained against the leash, wanting to continue the walk to its end--but that direction also led toward the vet. He gently urged the dog in the opposite direction. The dog headed stubbornly the other way. He didn't want to force his friend, not in his condition, and he felt that he should not interfere with the dog's wishes, not on this walk of all walks, so he allowed the dog to move on.

The man became anxious as they drifted further away from the car, and closer to the vet. To his relief, the dog took a detour, a right turn, and they headed off in yet another direction. Now as they were getting farther from both the car and the office, the man worried that a longer walk back might be too much for his friend--and further, that they'd also be too far from the office should his friend worsen. Or too close--he wasn't sure.

They came to a corner park, no more than a small, shady garden with a bench. He sat on the bench and his companion lay near his feet. The dog looked up at him again, panting soundlessly, happy to rest there for the moment.

The man too felt content. For a moment he forgot why he they were there, and it was once more just another of their walks, the usual routine that they both loved. He gazed round absently and enjoyed this one moment together. He felt he almost understood the way his dog gazed at the world: contentedly, serenely, but also intently observing.

He had accepted where the dog wanted to go, and was now ready to continue. He stood up and asked, are you ready? The dog remained where he lay, quiet and motionless. At first the man almost laughed, for he thought that the dog had fallen asleep, then a cold numbness ran through his veins. He crouched down, put his hand on the dog's head. He'd miss their walks, he thought, but he also felt grateful for the burden that had been lifted from him.

He gently took up his friend in his arms, and carried him on the long walk home.

The End of an Era

2011-05-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

Our loyal friend and companion, Fritz, died peacefully today. A few weeks ago, we discovered that he had pervasive liver cancer; he declined rapidly, but went easily.

He brought joy to our lives every day for almost 15 years. We'll forever be grateful for him.

Resquiat In Pacem † Fritz Trenton 1996-2011

( )

2011-04-19T23:50:00.000-07:00

A long time ago, when I was in college, I liked to take long walks in the woods. I was very fortunate that the college I attended was situated in the midst of miles of thick forest; one of the trails followed a creek running through a long ravine terraced by many waterfalls. In the Autumn of my freshman year, I had seen shoeprints in the muddy trail, and the imprints were very distinctive--Bass brand shoes, the slender print of a girl's shoe. I followed the steps as far as I could, past the waterfalls, until they disappeared somewhere up the ravine. I had a strange notion that I'd find that girl eventually.

Not too much later, I did meet a girl whom I dated for years and eventually married. I discovered that she had a pair Bass shoes with soles in the exact pattern I'd seen. Over the years I forgot about this juvenile fancy I'd had... a whimsical aside hardly worth mentioning parenthetically. Maybe I'm hopelessly sentimental, but I've always been convinced that I found the girl who made those footprints.

We met in April, the time of year when the polliwogs hatch out and leave the water as young frogs. The peepers make their first feeble croaking sounds in the early Spring, and they multiply until it seems their cries are numbered as the leaves.

It's early April now. I live up the side of Cougar Mountain, and there are streams all around. The reedy croaking has been growing stronger every night. That sound brought with it all these memories--because, inside us, sound isn't just sound. An entire world is waiting to spring to life, and certain sounds are a song, bringing past moments back to life.

Now the parentheses have closed. I lost her recently, and it took me quite some time to realize all the stupid and vain things I'd done to poison the relationship and alienate her. I shouldn't be surprised that it suddenly closed shut on me. Parts of our lives pass into subsequent phases, and we usually don't pay attention, so it doesn't seem like anything has ended. We have an illusion of continuity when really, our world is ending every day, a gentle apocalypse unfolding like cherry blossoms. We don't think of it as death, but we live with a kind of ongoing death, which is part of life itself. Not until life ultimately reaches an irrevocable end do we even start to consider that our part might be over, and we ourselves must make an exit somehow.

At the end, we're tempted to say "I wish" or "if only," but I won't say that. I got my wish. It took decades, but my "if only" happened, over a very long time. I'm grateful for that. I write this today because we met on this day, April 19, 1980.

A long, frustrating, sweet, difficult, passionate, and devoted history lay between those parentheses--quarrels picked, hot, messy afternoons painting rooms, roads explored, conversations far into the night, apartments chosen, clothes tried on then worn till threadbare, groceries shopped and brought home in brown bags, writing projects ending not in publication but only in ellipsis... but it would take 30 years to tell the whole story.

How Deep Is Grief, How Far Is God?

2011-04-02T11:38:00.000-07:00

As I previously commisserated on Lent in last April's Can't Wait to Sin, I must be the world's worst Lent participant.

Especially this year, when the commitments are things like thinking positively and staying focused and clear of distractions. (On reaching out to help others, perhaps I haven't done as badly.) But in falling down, I learn about my deeply held beliefs and where I stand with respect to them. For example, I believe that God wants the best for each of us. He wants us to be happy and fulfilled according to our potentials.

When I stop thinking positively and indulge in nostalgia, I learn something about the purpose of memory, and I've made the following observations:

I wonder whether God, being perfect and not being able to act incorrectly, created us so that he could understand free will and failure. And He incarnated in order to understand our struggle and suffering.

God also needed a way to record events. Living things record events, whether consciously or not. Trees record fires and volcanic eruptions in the rings of their trunks. And we have a superb ability to store far more complex memories. We record through our senses, and God helps us bumble our way through, with all the attendant messy emotions.

I have been working through a family crisis, where many memories come crashing over me, and do not allow much respite. It is hard not to be overwhelmed by grief. Certainly, God is silent. The work of His hand may be apparent in all things, but God often seems very distant.

We have to accept that bad things are going to happen, terrible things. It has been asked over and over again why this continues, and the answer is that God doesn't break his own rules. The universe was created as an ordered system; like Dharma, if a physical law were violated, there would be no law, and chaos would reign.

This is not to say that we simply accept tragedy and misfortune--this is why we struggle--we're expected to work through our travails. I'm working through my own. Elie Wiesel said that human problems are like an ideal gas that expands to fill each person's psychic space. This is why each person's problems seem to be the greatest problem in the world--for that person. Keeping this absurdity in mind, I look around and wonder at the grand scale of disaster, economic and geologic, of the recent past. Why it is all happening now, we don't know. We do know that catastrophes tend to cluster. Whatever the reason, I cannot fathom the depth of suffering--I only perceive that I don't have real problems. Everything I have and love was not wiped out by a tsunami, for example. I simply have challenges.

Even though I keep saying it, I keep forgetting that God ultimately wants us to turn to joy, and probably wonders why we don't seize on His compassion when it's offered freely. Though I believe in it, I have to say, the compassion is a silent one. It often seems indifferent and severe. The silence is a great mystery; it can break one's heart.

Nuclear Poop

2011-03-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

Say what you will, the Japanese explain nuclear accidents better than any other culture on the planet:

Nuclear Boy うんち・おならで
例える原発解説

Nuclear Boy unchi - onara de tatoeru genpatsu kaisetsu
Nuclear Boy's poop - a commentary of farts likened to nuclear power

The really disturbing part is when they talk about Chernobyl and banjos start to play. Then the understatement: "Yes, it was quite an incident." Don't we always have a banjo soundtrack in our minds when we recall nuclear accidents?

Tsunami Inu

2011-03-16T23:35:00.000-07:00

津波犬 Tsunami inu, tsunami dog (lit. "harbor wave dog")

"There is another dog right next to the one sitting down. He is not moving. I wonder.... I wonder if he is alright. The dog is protecting him. Yes. He is protecting the dog. That is why he did not want us to approach them. He was trying to keep us at bay. I can't watch this. This is very difficult to watch. Oh. Look. He is moving. He is alive."

After the video was shot, the dogs were both taken into care of the local animal shelter.

Vietnamese Dog Tree

2011-03-07T13:00:00.000-08:00

I dreamed that Vietnamese people tied tiny toy dogs, or puppies, to the branches of small ash trees. They considered them to be holiday decorations, much like Christmas tree trimmings. But the little dogs kept slipping off the branches and had to scramble back up on their unnatural perches, lest they hang. The Vietnamese thought this was cute, but I felt very badly for the dogs. It felt similar to the tenuous struggle of my present financial and career situation.

Don't Grow Old Quietly

2011-02-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

The Dead Weather...

2011-02-02T22:10:00.000-08:00

...and the most politically incorrect video of all time, which serves as an adequate metaphor for romance.

Of course, I wouldn't want my little girl to watch this, because, you know, cigarettes are bad for you (viz. 3:17).

Guns are yummy

Cigarettes are bad

Catastrophe Theory

2011-01-29T16:25:00.000-08:00

Every so often, a metaphor supremely descriptive of the current Zeitgeist unexpectedly bubbles up from divers sources all at once. The current one is the concept of the tipping point, popularized by a book of that title published in 2000 by Malcolm Gladwell. Gladwell defined a tipping point as "the moment of critical mass, the threshold, the boiling point."

Conservative commentators such as Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly have applied the metaphor to the recent 2010 elections. A cogent article by James Gannon summarized this idea nicely in The American Spectator. It is probably only a matter of time before it is applied as well to the unexpectedly nascent Tunisian and Egyptian popular uprisings.

There might be a larger scope to the concept, though. I've been giving a lot of thought to the broad sweep of change that has occurred in our society in the past few years. While not as sever as the Great Depression, we call it the Great Recession--but it is no more limited to economic machinations, as it is limited to the vagaries of political football.

I confess I haven't gotten my head around it yet. I can only speak to my poor singleton's perception of it. A few surrealistic motifs of my youth come to mind. The rapid, precipitous changes in social economic and political structures I call the Wave of Mutilation.

As to causes and mechanics of the tectonic changes we've seen, I can't help going back to a memory from graduate school, when in the engineering library I found a curiously titled book: Catastrophe Theory. In short, this is the study of how built structures fail. The most interesting thing I discovered about such failures is that almost always, the integrity of the structure holds within normal variances until stress brings it to a catastrophic and irreversible failure point.

In other words, things look peachy until they suddenly go pear-shaped.

To Hell with New Year's Resolutions

2011-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Several years ago I replaced the idea of "resolutions" with "principles." So rather than saying I have this or that goal, which is often thwarted, and at the end of the year I feel even more worthless than the previous year, I generally commit to changing my daily or weekly habits and attitudes according to key guiding priciples, and then evaluate my progress at the end of the year. To Hell with New Year's resolutions, I say!

Now, this is not to say that goals aren't useful--but only if you break them down into discrete tasks and focus on executing the plan. This is because plans "gang aft aglay." In other words, I tend to measure success by performance on the whole process--how adaptive and resourceful was I?

Here were the guiding principles I set for 2010:

Stop following paths to nowhere and behaviors that don't meet your needs. For example, work toward getting a job in a new career path, whatever it may be, though it may be tempting to take a nice gig that you're comfortable with.
Identify essential or blocking tasks and follow through on each until done.
Focus on real experiences toward real goals in the real world.
I've cut way down on TV viewing. I've set limits on time online, and replaced it with more book reading and writing ON PAPER. Usually the low-tech approach is more rooted in the real world. Recently I've decided not walk around plugged into my MP3 player--it renders you essentially deaf, and puts you in what self-defense experts term "condition white," a lack of awareness that renders you vulnerable to accidents or assault.

So, what are my new priciples for 2011? In addition to the above, which are ongoing, I'm working toward these:

Plan weekly, prepare daily.
Learn how to think and act entrepreneurially; don't think like a consumer. That is, the mindset with which we're unremittingly programmed, that buying stuff will solve all our problems and make us feel better about ourselves.
With respect to writing projects, act rather than plan.

That last item merits some discussion. Blogging over the past two years has been much more rewarding than I expected. It has given me a chance to experiment with my ideas, and how to form content as well as the medium (design and images). Why does it work? For one thing, it's a low pressure situation--you write only little at a time--and over time you learn what works and what doesn't. It teaches another valuable lesson that you can take to other ventures--what I call the Amazon approach vs the Microsoft approach.

In the old days, software companies developed a product and tested it iteratively until they were reasonably certain that it worked. After remaining bugs were documented as "features," it was copied onto media such as floppy disk, or later, CD-ROM. This gave rise to phrases such as "burning the golden bits onto disk" as if the disk were some sacred calendar chiseled in stone.

But Microsoft still uses this model for products distrbuted via the Web. If the product or service isn't perfect, the entire process has to be re-evaluated until they can work out the problems, and usually several features are cut in order to make the deadline. Any improvements that developers come up with during this cycle must be pushed off until the next release. In other words, the product can only be as good as the original plan, which often goes back a few years. An apropos marketing slogan might be "Here's last year's technology today."

By comparison, if Amazon puts a widget on their website, and the widget isn't popular, or doesn't work as expected, or they think of something better the next day, they simply pull it or replace it. They absolutely do not worry about "publicly testing" a feature, because people expect the Web (like Life) to be constantly changing.

This was an immense revelation to me, and I've learned that I can effectively apply it to ongoing efforts in Life.

What's Your Microsoft prediction for 2011?

2010-12-29T22:01:00.000-08:00

The Seattle Times Microsoft Pri0 blog asks: What's Your Microsoft prediction for 2011? Well, here are mine:

Steve Ballmer will... co-star with "Little Frank" Colacurcio on a new reality show, "Real CEOs of the West Coast"

Microsoft's stock will... replace Lunesta as the most popular sleep aid

Windows Phone 7 will... prevent most users from walking into telephone poles

The iPad will... continue to be the "really don't need/must have" item of the year

Bing will... continue to exacerbate my attention deficit disorder

Here are other reader responses.

The Day That Changed Us

2010-09-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

For some time now, I've been considering what to write, and indeed whether to write anything about 9-11. It is a day upon which every blogger in the galaxy shall no doubt post some deeply felt thought, or deeply emoted political rant.

And probably virtually all posts will begin with a discourse of "what I was doing that sunny Autumn morning in 2001." Like the "where were you when Kennedy was killed?" of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, this will be the "where were you when..." of our latter days.

As traumatic as that day was, and the blanching horror of its unfolding, it is what happened directly after that I'm concerned with here. Our culture immediately precipitated into two distinct phases: those committed to restoring peace by any means, and those committed to the integrity of the nation by any means. There is nobility in both impulses, no doubt, though many of us have learned that they are mutually exclusive. But it's only an observation--please don't mistake this for a political rant. I'm digging for deeper ore.

When a piece of iron is struck hard, the atoms within are suddenly shocked out of their crystalline lattice, and in a split second align with the Earth's magnetic field. Some to the North, some to the South, now irreversibly aligned. Our nation was similarly struck on that day, September 11, 2001. If I were to say that we were all changed forever, would it be a cliche? Yes--but it's one of those cliches repeated because they are so true.

This much may have been obvious, at least to you who lived it. But it is strange for me to look at birthdates of children--some as old as 9 now--for whom all this happened in the dim ancient history before they existed. And it is hard for me to imagine too in some ways, for I was different then. In fact I was a different person. The cells in a human being's body live for seven years, to be replaced by other cells. So in a sense, the organic structure that comprises the person that is you is regenerated every seven years. Beyond that biological trivium, I firmly believe that people change--psychically and spiritually--sometimes so drastically that the old person is cast aside. There is redemption and damnation and purgatorial transfiguration, all at our own hand and under our own will. The catalyst is history.

In those days I had no desire or use for children. I despised the squalid little things. I had better things to do with my life and time. Only a fundamentally different person could want to adopt a very strong willed, stubborn, difficult, devious, obsessive, sometimes impossible, and physically very strong child. Now I've discovered that the same little monster can be brilliant, deeply loving, and fascinatingly creative.

The day that changed us is never from an external event; it's always something we determine for ourselves. It may seem a happy cycling of events, from bad to good. But something now haunts me. Someday, I will have to explain 9-11 to my daughter. I will have to explain Evil.

I hope I'm not underestimating my child (again). But it's not enough to explain that "bad men did this." Every child understands that. Not even I comprehend what went into this atrocity. It is so repulsive, so... filthy, that I feel almost that I were abusing this child even to talk about it.

Unfortunately, there is no ignoring it. The children will find the most shocking of these videos and watch them. They always do. They are morbidly curious and always outwit our attempts at censorship.

If I've learned anything from being a parent, it's that children ask when they're ready to listen. When the question comes, I don't know what I will say. It will have to come from my deeply held beliefs, my experiences, and whatever poor understanding I've managed to glean from the wisdom of the generations. And it will have to be said clearly and simply.

Obviously, I am not up to the task. But on the day that changed me, I volunteered for things like this.

Wee Barbarians

2010-09-01T22:15:00.000-07:00

I shall confess here and now that I have never been completely comfortable with children. It's something we are made to be ashamed of, as a favorite Hollywood conceit tells us that people who prefer not to be around children are very bad people, not to be trusted, possibly conservative toetappers. It is in fact the opposite--people who like children a bit too much are to be suspected.

But I have digressed already.

My daughter is now in preschool, a kind of advanced placement program to help one's children get into the very best Kindergartens. In dropping her off and bringing her home, I have been in contact with some of her classmates, and countless billions of germs as well. But I have found to my delight that I really enjoy interacting with children and their incandescent little skulls.

I learn so much from these wee barbarians, for that is what they are. What we call Innocence is actually a primitive and brutally honest packaging of our own impulses, except in bodies too small and cute to do much damage. When they are displeased with some breaking of the order, there is no passive-aggressive blocking of lanes or presentation of the birdfinger; they simply push the transgressor's oversized head down a sliding board. I can almost see the wisdom of making preschools gun-free zones, for in them a real potential for mayhem exists.

What we as adults forget is that children's senses are hypercharged; they perceive things openly and directly; colors are so vivid as to be almost tasted. And surroundings are viewed as much more imposing. I stood aside at her school's tiny playground--an average sized yard, really--and tried to see the playset and the trees and the sky as they did. I mostly felt sad because it was so very hard for my dulled senses, jaded over nearly half a century. I felt touches of it only when I walked down a basement stairwell to look up at the fence, playset, and teachers, and imagined them to be 20 feet tall.

At bedtime I always read H a story. If I'm feeling playful of an evening, I might improvise. What's interesting is that when I make up a story, H is entertained, and that is the aim, but I take some learning from it. A couple of her favorite themes are vicious beasts, such as grizzly bears, arctic wolves, and bumbles (Sasquatches), and punishments for wicked children. Children are not particularly interested in warm morality tales, save that bad children are punished in extravagantly cruel ways, and besides, what morals the kids take away may be imposed ruthlessly on others.

Out of these tales has arisen a hero of sorts, from the German folk tale of Knecht Ruprecht ("Servant Rupert"), a dark figure whom Santa Claus employs to punish bad children. Children are fascinated by the Santa trope insofar as it cajoles them into a sense of morality (admittedly artificial, at first) that nevertheless allows them to reckon their potential year-end haul for being good. It is rewarding but tedious. What is really satisfying about the Ruprecht legend is what happens to other rotten little bastards who trangress The Rules.

It is a splendid tale to frighten the bejeezus out of the little skulls, and it goes something like this:

Ruprecht arrives every year to leave coal or other droppings in the stockings of badly behaved children. True delinquents receive a good switching, or possibly a sjambok to the soles of the feet if Herr Ruprecht is in a foul mood that evening. But the worst of the worst, the truly rotten and irredeemable, are put into a giant sack and Shanghaied to his castle for a year of purgatorial labor.

Now, if Santa lives at the North Pole, where must Ruprecht live? This provides the opportunity to grope the globe and learn a bit of geography. At the opposite end, of course--the South Pole! Here the very worst children are brought for horrible punishments. The young mind is eager to know all details. What happens to these wickeds?

Rupprecht wears a costume similar to Santa's, except it's green with black fur trim, the opposite of Santa's colors. No quaint sleigh and charming reindeer either for this adversary of the bads. On Christmas Eve, Ruprecht travels the world over in a green and black Zeppelin powered by flying penguins. He metes out punishment in his penal colony at the South Pole. In the prison, like Dante's Inferno, each punishment is diabolically engineered to fit the child's sin.

Kids who are mean to animals are given honeysuckle soap to bathe in, and are beset upon incessantly by insects and woodpeckers that painfully peck the vermin off them. Braggarts are fed a special kind of supergenerative bean casserole, so they can puff up all they like. Liars find that Whopperslugs have crawled into their ears overnight, special slugs that expand, contract, and squirm tortuously whenever a lie is told. This, because liars spend their time filling others' ears with abominations.

For dinner, junk food and candy gluttons are given mud soup with turnip, plus sandwiches made with real sand and a little peanut butter. Tattlers have lead weights suspended by a string tied to their tongues. Cheaters and kids who take credit for others' work are tarred upon arrival, so that all manner of things--paper, pillows, utensils--stick to them. Bullies wear a kind of mail made of pennies; they move so slowly that would-be victims can simply pace off to a safe distance and mock them. And the lowest of the low, graffitists (especially those who consider themselves artists) are tickled unto incontinence but also rather nicely decorated by having paint-covered worms crawl over their armpits, backs of the knees, and between the toes.

Ruprecht has installed tubes leading to his dining room so that the ghastly screams can be piped in while he sups. An elaborate panel of tuning knobs allows him to bring up the low moans and attenuate the shrillest shrieks, for a more enjoyable listening experience. So beware, all ye who have been extra naughty.

Rulebreakers and intransigents are made to sit in their nudity on a giant ice cube. And made to sleep on a tray of hard, uncooked peas. Or cooked, depending on the foulness of Ruprecht's mood. The really hard cases spend six minutes a day in a tiled room where an ill-tempered Chinese nanny waits with black rubber gloves, a jar of chili paste, and a much-applied wire brush.

The punishments are not at all meant to be remedial. Ruprecht has tired of redemption ("I so hate it vhen dey repent.") and believes that he is an unappreciated artist, for truly deserved punishment is a lost art.

Perhaps you, gentle reader, have been likewise naughty and your curiosity has been piqued. You have been mostly good, but not entirely. You would like to know what reward lies in store for you. You will have to wait for the rest of the story. The fear lingers at the end of the allotted time. We never outgrow it.

25 Years After

2010-08-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how the mind, especially the part called the "male mind," works. One day I stumbled upon the music video of Yes' "Owner Of A Lonely Heart" on YouTube, and began wallowing in nostalgia about the 80s, completely unaware of the significance that that day was our 25th wedding anniversary. On some level, though, I must have known it.

Men have a strange way of approaching sentimentality. They will feel a sorrowful yearning or bittersweet ache for a particular event or a phase of their lives, set about by some old movie or song, and usually intensified during a brew or five. But it shall never occur to them that a particular day might be an important anniversary or even their own birthday. And they are often found shopping on Christmas Eve.

Neither will they communicate to their beloved anything about this orgy of wallowing historicity, and most certainly not any of their feelings about it. I'm not even sure I understand mine.

For us, the 80s were a tough time, and the music itself not very good. In contrast, the music of the 70s and 90s is generally much more well conceived and executed. Yet the music of the 80s, mostly very trite, stirs a great sadness. I think it is because it makes me think of all the promise of a young couple, and the long road since then. It hasn't been a sad story, but such a long journey is poignant.

Perhaps we feel regret for the mistakes we made, or our failure to make situations better, or harsh things we have said. But we shouldn't think that--life was just as we made it and we make it better as learn more about it. And the only way to learn about it is to make bad decisions.

I thought I had something profound to say about time and memory, but it has slipped by somehow. At any rate, here is the music:

Trip through the 80s - A Video Compilation

Gary Numan - Are Friends Electric?

Gary Numan - Cars

Gary Numan - I Die You Die

What Gary is up to these days

A-ha - Take On Me

Big In Japan - Alphaville

Men Without Hats - Safety Dance (the most inexplicable band name, song title, and video theme of the 80s)

And the video that launched me on an orgy of sentimentality:

Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart (full-length official video)

I thought that this last classic, voted best video of the 80s if I remember correctly, could not be improved upon--yet perhaps it can:

Max Graham vs Yes - Owner Of A Lonely Heart (2004)

The Karrs

2010-06-08T08:55:00.000-07:00

The many faces of John Mark Karr

Alexis Valoran Reich; Delia Alexis Reich; Daxis das Verdammte; Caelitus, Dark Prince of the Immaculates; John Mark Karr, Freak of Nature, et cetera, et cetera

There is something poetic in the the life and times of John Mark Karr. Gentle readers will perhaps remember Karr as the bizarre personality who stepped forward in 2006 to take credit for the kidnapping and murder of JonBenet Ramsey. After a short investigation, police determined that he had in fact done nothing wrong, was kurbashed for annoying everyone for a few hours, and sent on his irrelevant way. Then, we knew him as a bent individual obsessed with the 6-year-old beauty queen--twisted and disturbing as that is in itself. Now he has emerged as a certified freak of nature. The man, and I use the term loosely, has built a resume most of us only dream about, usually after a blurry night in the vomit runnels of Old Cancun. He helps us to define life's elusive quality of "afictivity," that is, being too strange to operate as fiction. Here, then, are a few articles detailing his rich exploits:

John Mark Karr Re-Emerges to Form a JonBenet Cult

Search Warrants Issued for JonBenet Lookalike Cult Leader John Mark Karr

I mentioned a poetic quality in all of this--assembled fragments of the very strange reportage read almost like found poetry:

John Mark Karr, 46 * reputed pedophile * falsely confessed to murdering JonBenet Ramsey 2006 stirs international sensation * has had a sex change operation in the past two years * now goes by various names * "Alexis Valoran Reich," occasionally "Delia Alexis Reich" * married a 13-year-old and later a 16-year-old in the 1980s * has been trying to create a cult of JonBenet Ramsey lookalikes he calls "the Immaculates" * may be armed, seeking shelter from followers * blond girls 4 - 6 years old with small feet * internet aliases Daxis das Verdammte, Drk Prnz, Caelitus, F.O.N. (Freak Of Nature) * rules the only place on the Web that tells the truth about him * written in third person and called Lei Sussurra (Latin for "I murmur") * Occupation: Nanny, teacher, tutor, child care giver, computer repair and instruction * threatened 19-year-old Samantha Spiegel * met Karr when she was 9 and he was a teacher's aide at elite Convent of the Sacred Heart Catholic School in San Francisco * he taught her fourth-grade class * voluntarily surgically castrated in 2006 * Karr demanded that she recruit young girls into The Immaculates * Alexis was last seen in a metropolitan Seattle, WA shelter * "If you deceive me," he replied, "I will kill you. I know where you live" * "Reich" has as many as 30 "minions" * Principius Caelitus Immaculatae * often lives in homeless shelters and uses Craigslist to find rooms for a few days at a time * "If you cost me my little girls I will hunt you down and kill you" * lei sussura * "He checks my website 80 times a day" * Reich failed to respond to e-mail messages from Fox News * refused to comment * he was trying to look younger * last seen living in a shelter for battered women in Seattle * In one of his last messages, Karr wrote: "I want to hurt you..." * I murmur * "The life he leads is purely speculative."

Losing Face

2010-06-05T19:35:00.000-07:00

In Japanese, "I dreamed that..." is expressed literally as "saw this kind of dream" (こんな夢を見た). This phrasing implies that one has experienced not a specific series of images, but a pattern or template that plays out from time to time and from place to place. It makes me wonder whether dreams are unique to the dreamer. Jung did not think so. According to him, all dreams, especially those involving nudity, or game shows, or both, are almost certainly not original.

I have a bad habit, borne of a hubris in which I imagine myself some prophetic Belteshazzar, of trying to find the deeper meaning in dreams, as if something were being desperately encoded to me during sleep. Or worse, in assuming that it presaged actual events, and only my mental thickness prevented me from seeing revealed truth. I mention hubris for, let us face it: not all those you meet at parties who claim to be psychic are frauds, but all are annoying.

And so... where was I? I had this kind of dream.

A surgical team had fitted me with a prosthetic face. Whether my natural face had been lost in an auto accident, or by consequence of some awful disease, was not known. I was simply in need of a face. Inexplicably, they fitted me with the face of an anatomical mannequin of the kind used to demonstrate musculature. The exposed muscle, tendons, and exposed eyeballs, albeit false, were disturbing. The point of using such a device was lost on me, but they made up for this deficiency by adding yet another mask to fit rather clumsily over the first--the exterior mask being the kind used at masquerade parties, made of white plastic.

I resolved to venture into public only when necessary, and to avoid people at all costs. I had little reason to be out in crowded places, and only one activity lured me outside--walking my dog Fritz. This worked well enough, and I was happy to be out and about with him again, almost forgetting my predicament.

But then he wandered off as he is wont to do, sniffing and marking various patches of ground, posts, and logs. He began to wander too near to a group of people, and I was worried that my appearance would alarm them. Somehow I could not stop him from forging toward this group of people. I became very annoyed at him and finally had to pick him up bodily and whisk him away. I remember trying to avoid a young girl lest my false face frighten her. I felt isolated and could not even bring myself to look in a mirror and see the mask over the mask.

Later, a day or two later after this dream, I took my four-year-old daughter H to the office. I had a few tasks to follow up on, and N wanted to go swimming that evening. H behaved well at first but increasingly grabbed things and wandered around. I suppose I wasn't paying attention to my own annoyance level, but it was the sort of situation in which you think you can finish up in a few more minutes--though you never can with computers.

Before we left, I had to print some documents and pick them up. After the usual delay with the printer, I told H to come with me down the hall to the printer, and she did, but then wandered off when my back was turned. She hadn't gone very far, but it set me off that she'd slipped off in just a few seconds and after I'd been clear in telling her to stay in the copy room. I pulled her back to the office and this made her stubbornly want to go wherever the hell she had been off to. We're very alike in this way--stubborn about what to do next and hair-trigger tempers. It escalated very quickly from there. I tugged, she cried, then I dragged, and she screamed. So I had to exit the building hastily while carrying a shrieking child upside down. Embarrassing at best, and at worst incriminating--it occurred to me that I could be seen as a kidnapper.

Only later did it occur to me that what I had feared in my dream had actually happened--that I lost face. In particular, my carefully groomed outer persona (a word which, after all, originally meant mask) was peeled off quite easily--by an escalation of minor events and ultimately my own loss of control.

Dennis Hopper +RIP+

2010-05-29T23:31:00.000-07:00

The classic scene: "It's dark now"

...not to mention his significant contribution as the music critic Milton Pawley.

Do we really need this crap?

2010-05-26T17:34:00.000-07:00

The Onion taps a poignant yet risible vein of truth that helps me further understand my chronic self-loathing:

New Social Networking Crap that Nobody Needs!

"Launched last year, Foursquare is unique in that it not only allows users to broadcast their whereabouts, but also offers a number of built-in incentives, including some innovative new crap The New York Times surely has a throbbing hard-on for."

To think I work on Scheiße like this...

Making some changes

2010-05-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

Our lives have been turned upside down in the past month or so, it seems. We decided to move back to the Puget Sound area so that the family can be together all week. Also, we needed to get away from the construction debris, which encroached upon everything we own. We've taken an apartment in Issaquah WA, where we'll stay while the house in Winthrop sells.

The remote work situation was the biggest frustration. The long drive back and forth (which everyone thinks is the major obstacle) was fine; in fact, I quite liked it. But the lodging arrangements away from home were only just tolerable. Originally I had intended to spend much more time working from home. I have to laugh at the breathless wonderment given in the technology and business media to the coming boom in remote work. Perhaps my experience has made me cynical--but it's a steaming pile of hype. Calling into meetings is not the same as being present (though it does spare you some of the feelings of resentment and despair). And most companies' attitude toward the remote worker is one of constant suspicion. As if employees have never played Serious Sam on the office computer.

With the experience now behind me, I consider the best work arrangements I've had to have been where I lived close to work (less than 30 min drive) and had a reasonably flexible schedule. I've found I prefer to be in the office where I can interact with people face-to-face. Most days, that is, except Friday, which is largely not a viable work day. Too many people are absent or have taking off early.

Life is already becoming saner. In this 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment, we have to prioritize what possessions we really want and need and can reasonably store. It's an effective antidote to hoarding.

Can't Wait to Sin

2010-04-04T23:11:00.000-07:00

It rings provocatively and strikes a deep chord, like one of the greatest punk rock titles of all time, or perhaps a dirty old blues standard cranked out in the 20s and revitalized by Eric Clapton, but it is an abashed and reluctantly admitted truth among us Catholics. The best thing about Lent is its blessed End.

Easter is our most important holiday for many reasons. We say that we await it for the spiritual reawakening, and we do, but let us be honest about religious feeling. It takes the emotional form of Togetherness and Gluttony; the Mass is but a kernel of the great family get together consisting of heaping portions of chiefly pork and potato based cuisine. We drink, we schmooze, we argue with family members blessedly not seen for several months. It is much like a Polish wedding, without the fights.

It is a fundamental truth of the human psyche that religious feeling is caught up with excess. And it is a testament to the genius of the church fathers that excess preceeded by abstinence is more keenly felt. We appreciate all the more the first beer of Easter after a hellish 40 days in a parched desert. Thank you God, we say as the cool hoppy goodness pours down the gullet.

Each of us entertains our own personal Hells. My most challenging Lenten fast involved abstinence from caffeine. It was a vast wasteland where life lost most of its Joy. My most recent Lent was no desert picnic either. Giving up both sarcasm and muttering blasphemies to myself, two of my most cherished habits, was more than difficult. I admit that I mostly failed. But I learned a lot about myself. One, I enjoy talking to myself far more than most people, except for my dog, my four-year-old daughter--both of whom see the world very much as I do--and my wife, who reminds me that the way to salvation is not how much you buy but where. Two, I learned that I am full of vitriol for my fellow man and enjoy it immensely.

Still there is this matter of Lent and its true meaning, which we conveniently ignore. Perhaps it is good to put aside some of our comforts and crutches for a while. Fail as I would with my abstinence, I did take time every day to contemplate God's Hand in our temporal existence. I am not ashamed to say I made a leap of faith, and let my mind focus on Trust in God. This is a hard thing. I prayed very hard about things that are going badly in the world and in my life and that, frankly, scared me cold. And I came out with this: God wants the best for you, but God will let you fail. God will let you make your most stupid decisions and suffer the consequences, and that is where real pain comes from. I firmly believe, as Swedenborg maintains, that because God is the source of love and creation, suffering does not come from God, but we cause evil and suffering ourselves, and create our own customized, form-fitted Hell of our very own. And in a perverse way, we cherish that sweet Hell, for it is as unique to each of us as our own fingerprints, and as much an emanation of our character as our children.

Hell is a rich and fascinating subject worthy of its own article, or novel, or epic poem. For here and now, let us celebrate, for we have contemplated God's intimate care and sacrifice for us, and now we can dig in.

The Mystery of St Patrick's Day...

2010-03-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

Why is Riverdance hypnotic?

The things you learn at the range...

2010-03-03T00:07:00.000-08:00

I saw that my local range/gunshop had BOTH a CZ 75 Kadet .22 AND a SIG P226 Classic .22 available to rent. So, I made some range time right after work and worked out these guns--I've been wanting a .22 pistol for some time, but obstacles keep manifesting. It might not be considered manly to say, but the lowly .22 is my favorite round, because it's so cheap, useful, and dammit fun for practice.

First I tried the SIG. The Classic 22 is actually a major caliber P226 (better known as the sidearm of the SEALs and Texas Rangers) with a .22 slide/barrel kit factory installed; it comes with a coupon that allows you to buy a 9mm, .40 SW, or .357 SIG slide/barrel kit for $400. I liked that idea, so I favored this model. However, I had a huge problem shooting straight with this SIG. I've shot a P226 in 9mm and really liked it; today I was all over the paper--to be fair, I was probably milking the gun (overly squeezing the grip, thus subtly turning the barrel) and flinching a bit. But the gun itself also misfed and stovepiped several rounds, practically on every magazine.

This is the SIG 226 .22 Classic--essentially a SIG 226 with a .22 conversion kit installed at the factory:

Then I tried the CZ. What can I say, it was... amazing. The holes appeared wherever I pointed the gun. As if I couldn't miss. Actually, I could miss when I got a little cocky, but if I focused, it was dead on. The CZ 75 (I've shot the 9mm version as well) is probably the most accurate, natural handling, ergonomic gun I've ever shot. No FTFs whatever. Needless to say, a CZ Kadet immediately went on my buy list. Highly recommended.

Here's the CZ Kadet--based off the CZ 75B, this is a very easy albeit full-size pistol to shoot:

Mei Guo Yang Guizi Need Not Apply

2010-03-02T12:22:00.000-08:00

Viva USA, an information technology staffing firm in Rolling Meadows IL, posted an advertisement for a technical writer stipulating that an "arrogant American" would not be suitable for the position.

Job Description:

Writes a variety of technical articles, reports, brochures, and/or manuals for documentation for a wide rangle of uses. May be responsible for coordinating the display of graphics and the production of the document. Requires a bachelor's degree in a related area and 4-6 years of experience in the field or in a related area. Familiar with a variety of the field's concepts, practices, and procedures.

Relies on limited experience and judgment to plan and accomplish goals. Performs a variety of tasks. May lead and direct the work of others. Typically reports to a manager or head of a unit/department. A wide degree of creativity and latitude is expected.

Looking for someone with nuclear experience or experience with terms/expressions commonly used in the nuclear industry....a tech saavy [sic] person is preferred. This individual will be responsible for writing proposals with the assistance of engineers, etc. Exelon Nuclear Partners sells services to foreign countries who are looking to build nuclear facilities. Exelon Nuclear Partners is looking to provide these proposals to Chinese businesses, so someone who is respectful and understands Chinese culture is preferred. An arrogant American will not work well in this role. Proposals do not need to be written in Chinese, they can be written in English. Location for this position can be in Canterra or Kennett Square.

Well, that's me out...

Creeping across the country like a great creeping thing

2010-03-01T23:33:00.000-08:00

The Decline: The Geography of a Recession

Celebrate Take Your Gun to the Park Day!

2010-02-22T17:10:00.000-08:00

...by, you know, taking your gun to the park. And legally carrying it, of course. (Hint: you need a license in most states.)

According to this post on opensecrets.org:

A federal law takes effect today that allows gun owners to tote their weapons within national parks, so long as they obey local laws. It's a major victory for gun rights advocates, who argue gun owners should have had such rights decades ago. And it comes as pro-gun forces spent more on federal lobbying efforts in 2009 than in any year since 2002--all told, nearly $5 million. They targeted at least some of that money at both the House and Senate versions of the "Preservation of the Second Amendment in National Parks and National Wildlife Refuges Act," a Center for Responsive Politics analysis indicates. Gun control advocates, meanwhile, spent a relative pittance in 2009 on federal lobbying efforts--$180,000. Most of that came from a single organization: Mayors Against Illegal Guns. The decline in gun control advocates' lobbying power is striking: In 2001, the special interest area spent more than $2.1 million* on federal lobbying efforts.

*95% of which came from the change weighing down Mayor Bloomberg's pants.

Iceland Bridge Underway

2010-02-20T20:01:00.000-08:00

It appears that one of the elder statesmen who follows this web site (most likely Sen Robert Byrd of WV) must have taken our advice, and in anticipation of the upcoming purchase of Iceland, Congress has voted funding for a massive sea bridge to connect us to the island nation.

Here is a satellite photo of the bridge construction, underway as this goes to press:

As long as our sage advice is being heeded, we would like to suggest a name for the bridge. Since Ted Kennedy's name has been reserved for the "Edward Moore Kennedy Memorial Health Bureaucracy," and President Obama's name is likewise taken for the "Barack Hussein Obama Socialism Comes out from under the Bed Program," we will have to find another august figure. Perhaps "Nancy Pelosi Incredible Suspension Bridge."

"The meme has been remixed to exhaustion"

2010-02-15T22:42:00.000-08:00

These are the "All Your Base" of this decade, so let's enjoy them while they still seem funny.

Hitler gets the Massachsetts Senate election results

Take 1

Take 2

Finally, Hitler Himself Makes a YouTube Video

Some mistakes are bigger than others

2010-02-11T23:52:00.000-08:00

Wife Calls Cops On Man Preparing For Martial Law In Massachusetts

Mistake: Having lots of guns and living in Massachusetts

Bigger mistake: Having lots of guns, living in Massachusetts, and doing target practice on the third floor of your house

Egregious mistake: Having lots of guns, living in Massachusetts, doing target practice on the third floor of your house, and being married to a Cambridge psychiatrist

The Horror, The Horror

2010-02-10T00:20:00.000-08:00

This used to be our living room...

Gotta love that rock wool insulation.

A few more views of the carnage...

Just one small problem with that Masada...

2010-01-26T19:22:00.000-08:00

...actually 3000 small problems with the Magpul Masada, otherwise known as the Bushmaster ACR, now known as the Remington ACR--it's all so incestuous. When Adolf found out he was quite pissed.

This rifle has an interesting history, and I do hope it replaces the M4 carbine. For the background, read this very good Wikipedia article about the Bushmaster ACR. Wish they'd kept the Masada name, though--very cool.

Helping out in Haiti

2010-01-17T01:38:00.000-08:00

I don't need to tell you Haiti is a hurting place. There is really not much to add; I would simply like to share a few relief agencies I like.

World Vision (http://www.worldvision.org/), which, I'm proud to say, is headquartered here in Washington State.

Catholic Relief Services (http://www.crs.org/), even if you aren't Catholic ;)

Salvation Army (http://www.salvationarmyusa.org/). It's fun to drop change in the pot at Christmas so why not drop some more. They have boots on the ground in many countries, and a strong presence in Haiti.

Search Dog Foundation (http://www.searchdogfoundation.org/) is one that I haven't donated to in the past but sounds very cool. They rescue dogs and train them to work with firefighters and other first responders to find people buried alive in the wreckage of disasters.

An Interesting Year for Guns Ahead

2010-01-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

With the biggest event in the shooting world, the SHOT Show, less than a week away, we have already seen quite a few leaks and early product announcements. I believe it's going to be an interesting year for guns, both technologically and legislatively.

Ruger gets (even further) behind the .327 Federal Magnum

Ruger releases two new revolvers in the somewhat controversial .327 Federal Magnum... Controversial meaning, do we really need a .32 magnum magnum? Or, do we really need a smaller, faster .357 magnum? I answer, why not, if it means more rounds in the cylinder. For more commentary, see Michael Bane's post New Rugers, and Ruger Blackhawk and GP100 Chambered in .327 Federal Magnum on the ever-burgeoning blog ONEINCHGROUP.

The Epitomization of Italian Engineering: Rhino .357 Magnum

Possibly filed under W for WTF, Chiappa's new Rhino reflects perfectly the ideals of Italian engineering, which they apply to cars, firearms and battleships equally: one: must have the style of a beautiful woman; two: must handle like a beautiful woman; three: function follows form. As a case in point, a friend of mine had a Fiat in which the tachometer needle moved counterclockwise. The reason for doing this was that the steering column would otherwise have obscured the 0 - 6000 RPM range. Well, you ask, why not simply move the tachometer dial? Oh no, that would have broken up the symmetry of the dashboard. In the case of the Rhino, what makes this revolver unique is that the barrel is lined up with the bottom of the cylinder--this low centerline causes the recoil to travel directly into the shooter's palm and wrist, rather than above them, thus reducing barrel rise. With a .357 snubby, this is certainly a serious consideration.

Fig. 1: Cutaway view of the Chiappa Rhino

Carry options just get better and better

Ruger 9SRc: ...Watch the demo video on the Ruger website or the DRTV Podcast. Michael Bane compares an SR9c with a Glock 26 one-on-one. NICE compact carry. I like the design even better than the Taurus 709. While we don't know whether the Ruger will prove to be as reliable as the Glock, it's certainly prettier!
Boberg XR9-S Shorty 9mm: ...still developing...

Candy for the black rifle crowd

This video of the Remington ACR was recently leaked on YouTube. Remington got just about everything right on this one: the FN SCAR desert tan styling; the collapsible stocks; the gas-piston action, interchangeable 5.56mm and 6.8mm SPC barrels; non-reciprocating charging handle, on the left hand side; and the cherry on top, an optional muzzle entry tool (hint: it's not just for breaking windows).

Developing...

A public service announcement regarding Afictive.net...

2010-01-11T16:36:00.000-08:00

A convenient new feature has been added to allow you to reach this obscure parcel of the Internets. You can now use www.afictive.net as well as afictive.blogspot.com to access this website.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled web surfing experience.

Moving Forward into 2010

2010-01-08T21:30:00.000-08:00

As we journey forth into a new year, I've decided to do things a bit differently on ye olde blog. Even the paltry few posts I racked up last year have given me insight into what kind of content I want to post, and in a deeper sense, what I should spend my time thinking about.

I intend to be positive in my rhetoric. By this I do not mean happy affirmations such as "Every day in every way I am getting better and better. Then I grab the shotgun." No, I simply mean that it is better to provide workable alternatives than criticize. It is better to persuade rather than attack--though I shall hurl mockery at the truly deserving. And in imaginative matters, it is better to put into practice than theorize.

Writing this blog has surprised me because I orginally intended it to be a creative outlet, a venue to think out loud more socially acceptable than muttering to myself in the library men's room. Possibly even a way to trick myself into writing fiction. Rather I have turned out far more political content than I'd intended. I might be forgiven because I, like so many others today, have been booted into uncomfortable intimacy with the unwinding of our economy; our flagrant, dissolute budgetary and tax policy, reaching back several administrations; and our inexplicable indulgence as a society for malignant ideas.

Moreover, I regret my previous apathy and inaction. This while the country overall is going through a defining crisis, a political and cultural transformation, where our civil society finally comes to terms with its long flirtation with fashionable statism and cultural relativism.

In the final analysis, blogs are simply streams of opinions, and the latter, like anuses, are ubiquitous. The world doesn't need another streaming anus. It is more than a little presumptuous to set out writing in hopes of changing people's minds im Großen und Ganzen, so perhaps I'm simply inviting others to my own thoughts.

There are good arguments for having no political commentary at all on one's blog, and I've considered these carefully. For now it shall remain, for it is not so much a matter of shouting slogans as a concern about basic freedoms. And it is an integral part of who I am. Nevertheless, life comprises so many other matters, and I must try not to neglect these.

It's the blimp, it's the blimp! (No, just another year)

2010-01-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve was accompanied by a robust snowfall and a full moon, illuminating the woods in supernal twilight, all of which I welcome and regard as a propitious omen.

This is our place, which we affectionately refer to as "Wolfenbach" because of its situation on Wolf Creek Road in Winthrop WA. And this appelation may once again be appropriate, as the first Grey Wolves sighted in Washington State for almost a century live right here in the Methow Valley.

Poor 2009. Everyone I talk to pretty much universally regards it as a bad year, spitting "good riddance" after it. Perhaps Microsoft shall build their own version of the Goodyear blimp to celebrate the accomplishments of the past year, such as they are. I propose that they call it the "Badyear Blimp." Or to retread a term I have oft heard used in conjunction with 2009, "The Crap Zeppelin."

In any event, we have affixed a Pennsylvania Dutch Hex sign on the front of our house. This should ward off further evil times and perhaps even the local Jehovah's Witnesses.

Nogs and Toddys

2009-12-25T12:12:00.000-08:00

Holiday Nog

I like my holiday nog "to taste." That means you are going "to taste" the dooky. The ratio I prefer is about 1 oz brandy to 4 oz of nog.

A major debate every time I mix a nog is, "rum or brandy?" And the debate has been settled via thorough experimentation with the answer "both." You'd think that a hearty dark rum like Gosling's (the ultimate sipping rum) would be ideal for mixing in a rich drink like nog, but it doesn't work out as well as others. For some reason a lighter rum seems better. For brandy, I prefer Spanish brandy, but the nazis at the liquor control board have seen fit to import Mexican instead. So, El Presidente brandy works just fine. However, I recently discovered a great product called Laird's Apple Jack, which is apple brandy. It imparts just a hint of fruitiness to the drink.

I read somewhere that the British used to add wine to their nog, which at first sounded rather disgusting, but if brandy works, and brandy is simply fortified wine, then why not? I found that floating a bit of wine on the top of the nog imparts a slight bouquet that offsets the nog's heaviness.

8 oz Egg Nog
1 oz Mount Gay Silver Eclipse (white rum)
1 oz Laird's Apple Jack (apple brandy)
1/4 oz (teaspoon) red wine or port

Pour the Egg Nog into a large glass (pint glass works well) and stir in measures of rum and brandy with a fork. Stirring in prevents curdling the nog. Pour mixture into two goblets or cups. Use a teaspoon to float the wine on top of each glass, then stir just the surface with the tines of a fork, to make a swirl pattern with the wine. Makes two small cups of 5 oz each.

Irish Toddy

This is the traditional toddy I mix for Nadine when she's sick. Here's the Rx:

1 oz Jameson's Irish Whiskey
1 heaping tablespoon of sugar
1/2 oz fresh squeezed lemon juice
8 oz boiling water

Pour the sugar and lemon juice into a mug, and stir into a slurry. Add boiling hot water to this and stir, then add the Jameson's last.

The Mother Lode of Sublime Noise

2009-12-21T23:06:00.000-08:00

If you don't already know about The Internet Archive, you should give it a visit. Disarmingly generically named, it has a little bit of everything: electronic texts (eBooks), audio, and videos. They even have a collection of classic intermission shorts. As one reviewer commented, "For those who get this kind of stuff, this is pretty much the ultimate."

I discovered it because it was the only site where I could download a certain song I'd heard on Internet radio--namely "Mum's Snow Day" by Jenglander, and though it's difficult to categorize, it's probably best described as Electronica. Not only did I find Jenglander, but also Mikronesia and Mimi Majick. Mikronesia produces remarkable sound textures that has no discernible melody or beat, but taken as a whole nevertheless scans as a vague music. (The songs I liked most are "Air Curves Vicious," "Gate," "Moke Cene," and "Savage Bees.") The Mimi Majick Utilities are noteworthy short pieces representing that rarest of things, experimental art that actually works.

So I've been exploring The Internet Archive to find more music in the Chill or Electronica genres. I will keep my Gentle Readers apprised of any new discoveries in this veritable Mother Lode of sublime noise.

Greetings, I have painted myself to match your shower curtain

2009-12-17T22:53:00.000-08:00

In case you ever thought of painting yourself to match your surroundings in order to become invisible, then taking a picture of yourself to prove just how invisible you are, meet Liu Bolin, Invisible Man.

The brilliance of Liu's technique is that it is the only known invisibility technique that does not require you to be naked. And for that very same reason it is my least favorite.

Let's Buy Iceland

2009-12-12T21:09:00.000-08:00

It seems that the European Union has declined to guarantee accounts in Iceland's ailing banks. While Iceland is not a member of the European Union, it does belong to the European Free Trade Agreement (EFTA), which provides for a private guarantee fund in each member state assuring a minimum compensation of €20.000 (approximately $29,000) for each depositor account.

Since Europe has experienced a credit crisis similar to our own, the member states, in particular Britain and The Netherlands, have problems of their own and have left Iceland out in the cold, so to speak. The full story is reported in this article:

Iceland Is Sacrificed to Save EU: Shame on Britain and Holland

As our government contemplates raising the debt ceiling to One Gajillion Dollars, I would like to put forward a stimulating proposal: that the US simply buy Iceland. With such a credit limit on the national credit card, we could, in addition to buying up controlling shares in several auto manufacturers, mortgage banks, and insurance companies, certainly afford a small republic here and there. We could offer something like $160 billion (10 times Iceland's GDP). Or more. After all, the more we spend, the more stimulating the effect. Much like a strip club, but let us not vulgarly digress.

Iceland could opt to become an autonomous unincorporated territory like Puerto Rico, or vote for statehood. As a Scandinavian socialist state, it would be slightly more conservative than Massachusetts. Its citizens could enjoy a favorable immigration policy, such as the "wet-foot/dry-foot" rule we apply to Cubans--though in this case we might simply call it the "hypothermia rule."

The tourism trade on both sides would thrive. Perhaps we could finish that bridge to nowhere and make it go to Rejkjavik. Both are somewhere up north, we are told. For our part, Americans will get Volcano and Ale tours. The Icelanders would have an opportunity to experience sunlight and intimate congress with people with whom they are not distantly related. Best of all, they could thumb their noses at the British, Dutch, and French. True, the French did not deny the Icelandic banks support, but they could thumb their noses at them nonetheless.

It's really hard to see a downside.

Japanese War Tuba

2009-12-08T20:05:00.000-08:00

This proves that everything can be found on Wikipedia, whether it is important or not. Mostly not.

This Had Not Occurred to Me

2009-12-03T23:33:00.000-08:00

As I contemplate lack of work and general direction in life, here are sage words of guidance I had not previously considered:

"I may live badly, but at least I don't have to work to do it."

Blowed up Real Good

2009-11-25T22:18:00.000-08:00

I haven't been posting for a while due to the necessity of attending to this annoying matter of unemployment. It's a kind of limbo, wondering where you'll end up working. On the positive side, job openings abound. On the negative side, applying for jobs and endlessly revising one's resume is about as exciting as negotiating on a used Aries K. And then there is the angst:

It's also an era of firsts for me. In 25 years of working, I've been fortunate enough never to have had to make an unemployment insurance claim. Now, however, I find that the instructions are quite easy to follow, viz:

If you applied for benefits this week by phone or over the Internet, you must begin filing your weekly claims starting next week.

Exception: If you filed your Internet claim on a Friday or Saturday (week 1), and you receive this notice on the following Monday or Tuesday (week 2), file your weekly claim for week 1 the day after you receive this notice. You only have until 5:00 p.m. on Friday of week 2 to get your weekly claim filed for the previous week--week 1.

Well, that sure cleared it up for me. Not to mention this addendum, which I think might be important:

IMPORTANT: File your weekly claims even if we are still deciding whether you are eligible for benefits. If you are allowed benefits, you will be paid for all weeks you have claimed. You will NOT be paid for any weeks you have not claimed.

Just think, our health care system could be this clear and efficient. Keep filling out those papers, we'll tell you if you qualify for that chemo. In the meantime, write your congressman. What's government for, after all?

Ah, be still my beating heart... let me not wax too negative. There is fresh hope since our President recently appointed a Jobs Czar:

Wow!

Correction: A gun is not only a tool...

2009-11-16T23:30:00.000-08:00

...it is also art. Chris Hausbeck turns guns that have been destroyed by the US Attorney's Office into furniture and steampunk artifacts:

The War On Terror (T.W.A.T.) Secret Weapon

Triplex Cobalt Mass Desocializer

Royal Duck's Foot Pentablaster

A Gun is a Tool, and Only a Tool

2009-11-16T13:49:00.000-08:00

I tried to comment on Harold Pollack's recent piece about the Ft Hood shootings in The New Republic because it stands out as so profoundly clueless in a sea of cluelessness about firearms and the principles of self-defense. Unfortunately, one must hold a subscription to The New Republic in order to comment on its articles--an effective means of keeping the riffraff out, I suppose--so I shall comment here for my gentle readers.

Mr Pollack's article is not very cogent on the fundamental and derivative rights of self-defense, and is in danger of being just another cathartic huff of hoplophobia. Nevertheless, the piece is rhetorically well-written. It successfully blurs the distinction between a motivated religious fanatic and the garden variety active shooter. It also skillfully leads our focus away from the perpetrator and onto his chosen tool of destruction.

Guns Don't Kill People...Er, Actually...
http://www.tnr.com/blog/the-treatment/guns-dont-kill-peopleer-actually

Mr Pollack asks whether Hasan was:

1) An Islamist lunatic murdered a bunch of people he saw as the enemy /oppressor

2) A angry and deeply disturbed employee who gathered up a bunch of guns and ammo, went to his workplace, and embarked on an indiscriminate killing spree.

Was Hasan the first who happened to be the second or the second who happened to be the first?

Maj Hasan happened to be both. According to the reporting, he is an Islamist who was angry and deeply disturbed enough to take action on his extremist beliefs. I believe we'll find he was insane to the extent that other terrorists are insane. To put it in secular-progressive terms, there we find a moral grey area. Whether Hasan is a crazy Islamist fanatic or simply an Islamist fanatic, we still have a terrorist act from an Islamist fanatic.

And regardless of his weapon of choice, revolver, semiautomatic rifle, or katana, an armed maniac can wreak devastating damange in an enclosed area full of unarmed opponents. To someone with sufficient practice, two 10-round magazines (which comply with the legal limit in California) are, tactically speaking, virtually equivalent to a 20-round magazine; you merely drop the spent magazine and insert the full magazine.

Cho Seong Hui, the killer at Virginia Tech didn't have higher-capacity magazines--nor did he have a higher degree of skill. He was, like most active shooters, inexperienced with firearms, yet he was able to reload repeatly and at leisure while his victims cowered or hid. He could also assume, as do most active shooters, that his victims would be unarmed.

As to the FN Five-seveN pistol, which was somewhat controversial even before Maj Hasan's misuse of the weapon, it is no more or less deadly than any other commonly used caliber. It was designed for European police and paramilitary to allow high capacity magazines and a light 5.7mm round that can penetrate body armor (similar ballistically to a .22 magnum cartridge). However, the body-armor-piercing variety of the 5.7x28mm ammunition is strictly controlled, available only to police and military, and expressly not to the US public.

20-round magazines are available for other commonly owned pistols, e.g. the SIG P226 9mm:

Also, body armor is not a magic protective vestment--even 9mm rounds can penetrate kevlar vests at close range. The 5.7x28mm cartridge may have an edge insofar as it is a specialized round, but this does not make it extraordinarily devastating.

All variety of tools are available for malicious people to create mayhem and are impossible, and I would argue immoral, to restrict from the public. Sane and law abiding people should have access to the same tools for the purpose of self-defense and the protection of others.

The True Fiction of Water on the Moon

2009-11-14T00:17:00.000-08:00

I read with interest the recent news that not a little but a "significant amount" of water has been discovered on the moon.

Yahoo News: NASA finds water on the moon
Space.com: It's Official: Water Found on the Moon

This strikes a chord with me because I once wrote a story about people marooned on the Moon. In this fiction the Moon held an abundance of water and oxygen in underground caverns, and a small amount of atmosphere in low valleys and craters, due to the many ice comets that had bombarded the moon over the eons. But I also echoed the classical and renaissance theme of the moon being the repository of all things lost from Earth. Although at the time I wrote it I had in mind Cyrano de Bergerac's Orlando Furioso (which I remind gentle readers is not about a trip to Disney World), the tradition started with Lucian of Samosata's True History, the title of which is self-satirical.

In it, Lucian and a group of adventurers are transported to the Moon by means of a waterspout, the classical equivalent of the wormhole I employed. Particularly amusing is the treatment of Herodotus and Homer being punished rather than venerated for their literary "lies." The idea of all fiction being essentially a lie and a hoax is remarkably modern.

Here then, are excerpts from my own false history of the Moon:

Luna (1997)

“But we really aren’t on the Moon, are we?” Eva asked nervously.

“It's obvious,” said Trautigan. “We stumbled onto the fake Moon set that NASA used to stage the lunar landing. And they won't just let us walk away.”

Orlando smiled and shook his head. “Poor Inchwell. He’s been trying to explain it to them for a week now.”

Inchwell sighed. “For Ms. Stranek’s benefit, I’ll go over it again. Please believe me--it’ll be easier if you just accept it.” He explained that the Moon was the place where the lost things of the Earth are found. Lost explorers and wanderers from all periods of history have appeared within a 30-mile crater in the Sea of Vapors--the ‘eye’ that appears to your right when you look at the Moon’s ‘face’. The crater had been formed by the impact of a massive ice comet, the remnants of which were still buried under the surface. The sun heated the area, releasing a thin but breathable atmosphere that lingered in the deepest parts of the crater. The atmosphere, and one’s chances of survival, thinned out the further away from the center one went.

“Bah! I don’t believe it!” insisted Gyorgy. He turned to Diana. “This makes sense to you, or is all bullshit?”

Diana thought a moment. “I suppose so, in theory. There’s a thin oxygen atmosphere on Europa, one of Jupiter’s moons. But I mean, just disappearing in one place and appearing in another. That’s impossible.”

Trautigan said, “You ever hear of the Philadelphia experiment? A whole aircraft carrier--poof! Just like that.”

Orlando tilted his head toward the window. “Diana, come over here.” She went over to the window with him; he handed her a spyglass. She surveyed the surrounding crater. Nothing but harsh light spread over vast, vacant steppes. But at various points she made out impossible artifacts: an aqualung, helmets of sundry wars, wooden sailing vessels fully rigged, dreadnoughts of dull grey iron, siege engines dead in their tracks--the plain was littered with them. She followed the trail of wreckage out to the horizon, where luminous mountains rose like jagged teeth against the dead maw of space.

And later, as they travel out of the crater in an attempt to find the departure point at which to escape the moon:

There they passed a panorama of lost expeditions; zeppelins crumpled like rotten melons; phalanxes of armor incorruptible; treasuries of silver shekels; cuneiform ledgers counting two thousand oxen and thirty thousand measures of corn assayed this day golden in the sun under the all seeing eye of Sammash; the lockets of forsaken loves; works lost to the eye of man: the final chapters of the Satyricon, the arm of Praxiteles’ Apollo, de Tour’s St. Sebastian Attended by Irene; ranges of mediocre poems littering the windless plain; forgotten hieroglyphs, faded syllabaries, oral traditions wayward and mute. Prehistories of technology: flints, batteries, flywheels, implements unpatented, new and useful methods abandoned, a miraculous herb for curing baldness. And wooden ships beached on the desolate silver sands, sails hanging slack in breathless heaven.

Gentle readers need not remind me that my style is hopelessly baroque and unacceptable to the disciples of the Iowa school of fictive lying.

.:.

Getting the Finger

2009-11-06T23:34:00.000-08:00

Chinese Fortune Cookie advice is what it is, but some divinations are better than others. One gem I have kept--currently saving my place in a long-neglected copy of CS Lewis' That Hideous Strength--reads as follows:

Could more sage advice be dispensed? I think not.

Cathartic, Liberating, Humbling

2009-11-04T19:03:00.000-08:00

After a long string of crappy events, something good finally happened. I got laid off.

I've never been laid off before, so it felt strange. After the initial numbness wears off, you feel the reality. Doubtless it's different for each person, but as for myself, I can sum it up in three words: cathartic, liberating, humbling.

In other words, what a relief. Finally an end to the interminable effort of trying to fulfill inscrutable goals based on ever shifting schedules. Trying to write impossible documents based on hilariously confected specifications. Even when things were going well, I felt alienated. It wasn't always like that. For the first nine years, things went well--my efforts were appreciated and rewarded. After that, I felt I was expected to do something that I wasn't doing, but I could never determine what. Even worse, I felt I was expected to be someone else, to care about things I didn't care about.

What do I mean? On one level it simply means being really enthusastic about meetings. Wow! Another scrum! When's the next one? Tomorrow? Great! On another level, it's a matter of passion for the product. Which I thought I had for computers generally, but I have ever more reservations. I worked on smart phone technology, but I seriously doubt their value. I mean the value of people constantly being connected wirelessly to vast amouts of data--I suspect that it makes life more complicated, not rich--more virtual, not real. And that we end up serving these devices rather than the other way around.

But, it's over. I had been looking already, but not very hard. I needed the push. Whee!

If you don't know where to start, start with Now

2009-11-01T23:18:00.000-08:00

A chance encounter with a friend who writes--a hairdresser with the soul of a writer, or more likely a writer trapped in the body of a hairdresser--motivated me to start this. Not that I'm new to blogs, oh no. Some of you might recall the infamous "Bolus" ("All the News that's Indigestible"), which started as a series of emails to friends in September 1996, and was shut down in 2000, I am convinced, by Castro's agents in the media. It was probably best described as a cranky version of The Onion.

I haven't blogged at all since then because of ennui, which I dress up as a condescending disdain for those who record their every thought on public fora. Now that my doctor has prescribed ennui pills, I shall join their insufferable ranks. Granted, not all my thoughts are worth logging, and neither are they really anyone else's business. So what are you doing here? Don't you have anything better to do?

You now see what I mean by "cranky."

Nevertheless, I've recently been making observations that aren't stories or poems or any genre, except possibly what the French call actuelles, which are these little hors d'ouvres made out of capers and goat cheese. Maybe it's because I drive so much--the road is an entrancing, treacherous muse. After careful analysis I felt that this was the optimum venue for such observation: it allows one to record thoughts quickly, it provides a chronology and an archive, and most importantly, it is free.