SafeTinspector Essays

Made-Old, the Stone Washed Universe

2007-07-27T09:58:00.001-04:00

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    Lets talk about the made-old explanation of natural and geological history. In this, certain people of faith who think that it is spiritually important to come to a specific conclusion about the creation of the world have posited that one way to make a seven day creation (six plus a one-day vacation, really) seem plausible in the face of scientific evidence to the contrary is to state that God made the world looking old.

    I believe that this is remotely possible, provided you start with the assumption that there is a God and He is an omnipotent being capable of anything conceivable or inconceivable. In this, it could be said that God created the Earth in-situ, in process, like a rolling start.

    In following this theory, I might then conclude that all events that apparently happened prior to the act of creation are therefore synthetic, and manufactured. God is omnipotent, however, so His manufactured history is 100% convincing in all the ways we as lowly humans can ever perceive. So the only one who could possibly tell the difference between the manufactured history and the real history is God Himself.

    As a matter of fact, this could mean that God created the universe three minutes ago, including all of our memories up to this very moment. How could we ever know? My car, contrary to the evidence provided me by Ford Motor Credit, may be brand new and my bowels may be full of food I never really ate but only think I did.

    Ah, but that is getting ahead of ourselves. Lets go back to God having created the Earth about six thousand years ago sporting a stylishly lived-in look. If true, then scientists have no choice but to use the evidence and phenomena presented by God's manufactured reality in their quest to find answers and make predictions about the world around us. They must operate within the system set up for us by God. God seems to have made the artificial history completely seamless and predictive, and therefore removed the necessity of believing in his act of creation, an act for which he carefully provided us with no evidence.

    That is, if He did such a thing so very effectively, then He effectively did no such thing at all.

    With this, I think it is possible to believe in a seven day creation, and it is possible to believe that there was no seven day creation and both are not disprovable and can be valid paths to their adherents, though I am not among them, and fail to see the spiritual necessity of holding onto either concept. Why would the salvation through the love of Jesus require that we believe in a supposed seven day creation? (Well, six plus the aforementioned one-day vacation)

    But what if you believe that all of time, past and future, may have already been about to be existing all along? What if all of time was always created because it was all created at once?

Free Will, Fate, and Metaphysical Determinism

2007-07-19T13:28:00.000-04:00

    One of the key difficulties when approaching the existence/nonexistence of God is the paradox of free will in the face of an omnipotent, omniscient being.

    If God knows everything that will ever happen, including every decision we have yet to make, then there is no freedom. We are fated to do everything we will ever do and even the act of trying to avoid fate is itself a fated act.

    Free will must therefore be an illusion, as our course was set by God and anything bad that happens is actually His fault by reason of poor planning. Or is it?

    An atheist might state that this paradox which adds to the list of reasons that God can't exist. But eliminating God doesn't completely eliminate the problem of free will.

    That is, when you strip God from the question, the question still remains: do we have free will or is the future inevitable?

    We are products of our genetics, our upbringing, and our personally accumulated experiences and training. Our decisions, which are the product of the moment we make them in and the people we are when deciding, could probably be predicted should an observer just have enough information.

    Once I get to this point free will becomes a matter of definition. I define my 'will' as being the evident desires espoused by the creature that I am--the end product of my genetic inheritance, my accumulated experiences and the influence of the information I am acting upon (regardless of that information's veracity). I have free will because the creature that I am then exercises that will. Any decision at that point is an act of free will because I've properly defined 'will' to match the result. A tautology? Perhaps.

    But really, can you impose an idealized idea of what "will" or "soul" is without taking into account what is practically possible and self-evident about the creatures we are? That is, I can state that we can't be true free actors because the universe dictates and shackles my soul. But then I've defined soul and will as an unattainable ideal that simply doesn't match the available evidence. Might as well be talking about animism. 'Soul' is merely a religious construct if it seeks to define one by excluding the definable.

    So, within the confines of what it is possible to say about will and freedom, we have it. For what that's worth!

    But here's where metaphysics comes in:
    Everything will have already happened, and therefore would always have been happening.

    The 'movement' of time, hurtling from the past towards the future on the razor thin edge of present, is not an illusion per se, but is a forced perspective informed by entropy. All instants and happenstances that have happened still exist there in the past. It’s a direction we can't travel (as of yet), but it is a coordinate of orientation as sure as x, y, and z. The future is no different, and while it seems as if we haven't done that s*** yet, it will have always been done. In that, our actions aren't so much as determined as they are merely determinable.

    Metaphysical determinist, I.

    I find free will to be alive and well from a practical standpoint. There's no relief from that responsibility to be had by pointing at a metaphysical determinability of reality. Just because the decisions will always have been made doesn't mean that we weren't always in the process of having decided.

    Some would say this is like saying, "play along with the game." It is more subtle than that, I think.

    By the definition of will that I use, and with what I believe about the nature of existence, then we have freedom. It isn't that we are determined, it is that we are determinable. Our choices are revealed as they seem to pass from the future toward the past.

    It may seem paradoxical, that I am stating we have both free will and that the free will we have is an illusion. But it doesn't seem that way to me, as I can conceive of a scenario where both are true at the same time.

    And while this is no guarantor of God's veracity, it certainly eliminates the paradox of free-will from becoming a factor in my decision to believe/not-believe in Him.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Torture

2007-06-13T10:02:00.000-04:00

    Ten years ago, if someone asked me if I thought that my country, the United States of America, would torture a prisoner in the course of an interrogation, I would grant that, perhaps, a rogue CIA agent might. But he or she would be acting on their own, and would be punished if caught.

    That torture would not only become a tacitly admitted policy of our government, nearing official endorsement and debated openly by Presidential     hopefuls on broadcast television seems like a side note from a dystopic William Gibson novel.

    In a future world where people have computer interfaces in     their molars and buy cheap knock-off organ replacements in back alleys, torture would seem a plausible part of the American way. But, I thought, not in my real-world land of self-evident rights and constitutionally mandated freedoms.

    I evidently thought wrong. First, Alberto Gonzales wrote a memo several years ago claiming that the Geneva conventions on torture are obsolete. A year or so later anti-torture legislation introduced in congress almost gets vetoed and is dismissed as "unnecessary" by the President and many like-minded Americans.

    Most recently, on May 16, during a televised GOP debate, an elaborately constructed story was presented to the amazing assemblage of old, white men in order to get a bead on their torture stances*. While the scenario seemed like the synopsis of a rejected TV pilot, it did effectively present the closest thing to a no-brainer for torture I've seen bandied about on prime time television.

    Convoluted plots aside, the question presented to the candidates ultimately was: do you think torture should be used if you thought that doing so was the only way to prevent the death of innocent civilians? Should there be a law allowing the torture?

    During the debate John McCain stuck to his guns, doing a little robot dance while declaring the utter unacceptability of torture under any circumstances. Mitt Romney, on the other hand, not only seemed enthusiastic about the prospect of torture, but tossed in his support for the recent suspension of habeas corpus for good measure by saying, "I want them in Guantanamo where they don't get the access to lawyers they get when they're on our soil." He followed that up by proposing they double the size of the Guantanamo prison. That would help them shorten the waiting list, I suppose.

    In any case it was Giuliani that finally made me come to this essay's titular position. Basically, he waffled. He walked right up to the line of endorsing torture and....drooled stupidly on it. Interrogators should "use every method they could think of," he stammered, "Shouldn't be torture, but every method they can think of."

    Obviously he was working with a different interpretation of the word "every" than I'm most comfortable with, but he's from New York, has guest starred on Saturday Night Live several times, and therefore is the recipient of my rare and coveted benefit-of-the-doubt. This sort of don't-ask-don't-tell torture policy seems duplicitous, but it illuminates the fact that these men, each of whom would happily vow to gladly give their life for this country, have no intention of laying their freedom on the line in the service of the public good.

    Of course you would torture the prisoner if it would save innocent lives. Should you ship him to Guantanimo first? No, that seems like a waste of time. Torture him in the nearest Holiday Inn for all I care. But I would NOT legalize torture. It should be highly illegal. It should carry mandatory, heavy jail sentences. If the torture should result in death, then it should be considered a capital offense.

    This would make the use of torture a sort of personal policy of mutual destruction whereby every person who engages in the torture of a suspect not only knows that they will likely go to prison for the rest of their productive lives but should go gladly, without fuss, pleading guilty as charged to every judge that he or she meets along the way. You don't get a free pass, and there should be no law that will protect you.

    If I would ask a police officer, a fireman, or a soldier to put themselves in harms way--even to die--for citizens like me, then shouldn't I ask our interrogators to put themselves in legal jeopardy for us as well?

    If you legalize torture under any circumstances, then you tempt authority to abuse the power you've given it. You would need to put in place regulatory mechanisms to ensure that torture isn't being used under false or inadequate pretenses. Such regulatory mechanisms would either be expensive or ineffective and neither of those are the kinds of regulatory mechanisms we can afford.

    Besides which, even if you satisfy the American public that torture isn't being abused, you establish a precedent by which we, as a country, lose our ability to act as credible protesters of the human rights violations of others on the world stage. Pots can't get away with calling kettles black, says the cliché machine. And I tend to agree with it when I'm the one driving. It would be better, I think, to be able to state unequivocally that torture is illegal. Problem solved; no regulatory requirements, no kettles crying foul.

    By making torture the legal equivalent of jumping on a grenade thrown into a crowd, you instill the appropriate amount of reticence and respect that the use of torture deserves. If you fear that this would make an interrogator lax in his or her duty and that he or she would allow "the bomb" to go off just because they don't want to go to prison then I say to you that such a selfish agent is the EXACT kind of person I would not want to give a free pass to. By refusing to take the legal bullet they've proven themselves to not be sufficiently committed to the good of the country to be trusted with that kind of power.

    So what if torture was the only way to save the lives of innocent people? I would take a real bullet to save the lives of my family. So why wouldn't I take a judicial bullet, too? I would torture the terrorist. I would get the information necessary to save the lives of my fellow humans.

    And I would go to jail for the rest of my life, every year of which would be bittersweet, but justified. If you would die for this country, you should be willing to go to prison for it, too.

* My torture stance is a kind-of a kung fu pose, normally assumed with a feather duster in one hand and a knotted length of barbed wire running through a bent-pipe in the other. Think Bruce Lee meets Marquis de Sade.

My Neighbor, Not Me

2007-04-25T22:15:00.001-04:00

    This house is not directly behind mine, but is instead next-door to the house behind mine. Kitty-corner, you might say. We share a fencepost, for whatever that is worth.
    Two or three years ago the home was purchased by a young family. A man not much older than me, with his wife and three children: two boys and a girl.
    I exchanged hello's and proceeded to ignore them for the most part, in fine suburban American fashion. The boys were energetic, the girl cute. They soon put a massive new deck on the place, with a low brick wall surrounding it.
    On several occasions over the next couple of years we saw them making merry on their fine, new deck. They had a nice 4th of July display each year, using the aforementioned deck as a launching pad for all sorts of brightly colored, stinky, imported Chinese incendiary devices. Sometimes Samantha and I would say "hi" and pet their dog while walking around the block. Although that happened several times, I have never learned their names.
    A month ago, while driving to breakfast on a almost-but-not-really-warm Sunday morning with a car-load of nuclear family, we noticed yellow caution tape around the front porch. Remembering the massive deck in the back yard, I idly speculated that perhaps he's getting a new porch, or had poured some new concrete.
    Heather mentioned that she hadn't seen the children or the wife in awhile. I hadn't noticed; I'm not much of a noticer. Sam, paging through a book, said nothing.
    Two weeks ago, on a sunny afternoon, Samantha struck up a literate conversation regarding the relative merits of doggies and puppies with the neighbors who live directly behind us--the ones next door to the house with the deck. While Sam spoke with the husband, himself a troubled man who plays a clarinet to ward off his inner demons*, the wife talked to Heather and I conspiratorially. The house next door, she said, is now empty.

    The man had gotten laid off his job some time ago. He'd taken to drinking, and had possibly begun hitting his wife--our neighbor was not absolutely certain about the hitting. What she was certain about was that his wife had left him, taking the children with her. Soon afterwards the bank announced to him that they were going to be putting the house, complete with its fine deck, through foreclosure. The man had no job, no family, and soon would have no fine deck and no house.
    So on an almost-but-not-really-warm Saturday morning the man went into his basement and blew his brains out in the laundry sink.

    When I heard this images of that happy family setting off fireworks in July came unbidden; gold, green, blue and red flashes casting sharp shadows across the tidy brick walls girding the back deck of their ranch home. Their faces were nameless, frozen at a moment in time when they were still a whole family. The house is now empty, the deck has leaves piled up in the one corner where the wind can't scoop them up. Why didn't I notice the leaves piling up? Why didn't I notice that there were no laughing boys running around the deck? Do you think I heard the gunshot and dismissed it, thinking it was a firecracker or some random car noise? I don't remember.

    I tell you that I don't know as I actually see myself in him. My self esteem can't easily conceive of a world without me in it. But still.. could the line of demarcation between SafeTinspector and this nameless man be so clearly drawn as all that? If I lost my job, my liquid assets would be exhausted within four months regardless of how carefully I budgeted. My retirement assets might last another six months after that. In this economy, I might not necessarily find new work quickly enough to hold off the demons that await the popping of my little bubble.
    I would like to think that I would never take out the despair of my lost dreams on my family or wife. But a depressed husband is sometimes a husband left behind.

    If I lost my family and found myself alone in and with nothing but this house, with even that about to be taken from me, soon to be left with.. nothing.. would I, too, find the laundry sink a tempting resting place for my troubled brain-meats?

    Nah, that's what the garage is for.

* Their house has had tragedy as well. Perhaps someday I'll tell you about their middle daughter.
** This post will also appear on my essay blog.

Big Fat Gay Wedding

2006-01-24T11:20:00.000-05:00

    My wife Heather, my daughter Samantha and I attended the wedding of Leslie and Colleen at the Cleary International Center in Windsor, Ontario this past Saturday: January 21, 2006.

    Leslie, Heather's aunt and a prominent Lesbian in the Detroit gay community, met Colleen about a year ago and, from what I've been told, they soon fell in love and very quickly decided that they wished to be married.

    In Michigan, we not only don't have legalized gay marriage, but our sizeable and vocal religious conservative movement put forth and passed a ballot initiative creating a state constitutional amendment specifically prohibiting same-sex marriages. The ACLU has, however, won a lawsuit preserving domestic partner benefits such as medical insurance and inheritance rights. Even this bit of progress is in danger, however, as there are those attempting to defeat this newly won protection in the courts and legislature.

    This state of affairs is not so dire across the border in Canada however. There gay marriage is the law of the land as of late June, 2005. Not through any manipulatively worded ballot initiative, either. In the House of Commons gay marriage was legalized in a 158 to 133 vote.

    So when Colleen and Leslie decided that they wished to be wed, there was only one option available to them: a brief migration to the land of the Maple leaf. Windsor, Ontario is Detroit's sister city; a relatively small and painfully trendy town on the other side of the Detroit river. It is but a quick trip across the Ambassador Bridge (or through the Detroit-Windsor tunnel, if you are a mole). Not from our area? Windsor was famously featured in Micheal Moore's documentary "Bowling for Columbine", where it was revealed that the only murders there seem to be purpetrated by visiting Detroiters. Spread the love, Metro Detroit!

    So there was a wedding. The reverend...or pastor...or whatever the fellow was, conducted the ceremony in what I feel was an overly political tone. Seemed as if his sermon was more about gay marriage than their marriage, which I don't think helps the cause.
    When the struggle is the message, then the struggle goes on. But if the marriage is the message, then the struggle is won.
    In any case, it was lovely in its own right, especially after the sermon was behind them and the vows were exchanged.
    Below is a picture of the newly married couple immediately after being pronounced wife... and wife.

the honorable...

Mrs. and Mrs.

the couple at the reception

    After the ceremony came the reception. The most remarkable thing about this gay wedding reception was how much it seemed just like any other wedding reception in America (or Ontario, as the case may be). There was a wedding couple dance followed by a wedding party dance.
    There was good food, of which I particularly enjoyed the pork roast with peach sauce and the garlic potatos.
    People tapped their glasses with spoons to goad the couple into kissing.
    We all ate cake.
    The DJ made us all dance the Hustle, the Macarena, YMCA, and then all those willing proceeded to boogie down to Cool and the Gang's Celebration.
    People got drunk.
    People made fools of themselves.
    Eventually everyone went on their merry way and the evening drew to a close. We retired to our large-party-discounted hotel room at the adjoining Hilton, where Heather and I faught the attempts of the overly soft mattress to devour us whole while our daughter slept peacefully on the neighboring bed.

    In the morning I awoke to the ironic realization that our hotel, where the majority of the wedding guests stayed, was serving as a local launching point for last minute Conservative party campaigning in Windsor. Some party bigwig appeared in the lobby while I was passing through; he proceeded to photo op and rally his troops.
    Such is the difference between American and Canadian politics that we saw no body guards, and barely a fuss was made. Anyone know who this fellow was? Everyone standing in line to see him had "Harper" shirts on. (Stephen Harper is now the Prime Minister elect for the Conservative party.)
    I leave you with these images from the reception. Notice the lovely Detroit skyline, complete with Canadian Coast Guard cutter. Ironic...the only way to get a good view of Detroit is from another country.

Wanna see any of these pictures closer up? Click HERE.

Merry Christmas pt 1

2005-12-23T11:12:00.000-05:00

    I expose myself to the porcelain. To my satisfaction, it doesn't spare me a second glance; and so it is with but a single awkward nod to the stranger I pass that I walk out, damp yet clean hands held away from my pants as is my wont. It would not do to show moisture in my fabrics, the child inside me advises, for otherwise you'll have tacitly admitted to wetting yourself.

    A lobby stretches before me, colorful patterns of carpet tracing faux strategems for me to do battle with the crowds already in play; only a few notice I've added my efforts to the struggle. Their gaze slips away quickly; they've dismissed me as the obvious amateur I am.
    A firm shrug settles my jacket around my shoulders more completely and I stride forth, head down, with apparent purpose.

    Later: Aimless I, casting about for ideas. Aimless eyes find none for the moment. The thin plastic straps suspend my few purchases above the floor in a hammok of polyvinyl and cut into my hand uncomfortably. Fingers, you still there? Good. Let's make the most of this.

    I move to pass by a door, which opens to admit the arguing couple with their dirty faced child, who stomps the snow off her pretty little boots. The eyes of the child meet mine and I find kindred sentiment in our shared annoyance and low-level suffering. I nod, and her little eyes grow wide. She darts a glance up at mom, who notices neither me nor her child in favor of debating the father's evident lack of parking prowess.

    At that moment I miss my wife and daughter; all together we make the mirror opposite of this bickering duo and this quiet, resigned waif.
At that moment I decide I am done Christmas shopping, done with the aggravation and stress and the world's insistance on playing Nat King Cole decades after he lost all relevance. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow? Shush, dead man.

    I brush rudely past the little family, ignoring the father's startled protest, and I charge into the relative freedom of the cold, gray parkinglot. Relatively free except for the mandatory tip for the mandatory valet man. Get my car, I'm going home.

The Thrill of Alive

2005-12-10T11:45:00.000-05:00

    There was a time when I anticipated a thrill from being the one who continued after the others fell by the wayside. Survival, right? Survival is the same experience your average testosterone addled adolescent seeks moth to a flame, from reckless driving, through aggressive sport, even silly roller coasters. From survival, I thought, I would forever extract one of only a handful of thrills I craved. Fantasized about.
    But to truly be thrilled by my own survival, I needed an event to throw it in relief. Roller coasters could trick my raw and stupid system into sensing peril that isn't, but I knew the difference. I felt cheapened and dirty from the hardly visceral feel of such faux risk. I needed to see evidence that my survival was genuine, that there was a chance that this really wasn't my story at all. That someone else might be the one walking away from....this.
    The pain I felt was...yes, my leg. Fog and sharp sparks, real or imagined, informed my world. My left arm, free of whatever soft, heavy, wet thing pinned my right, moved to explore what soon resolved itself as metal and wood, scraps of my pants and a wetness I almost hoped was my urine. I made time to think on my urine.
    Such a mundane concern, but it seems obvious to me now. Wouldn't it have made more sense to have satisfied such a basic need before what I knew was coming? Frustrated, I frittered away another moment pining for a rewind button to give me the opportunity to rectify my stupid oversight. The possibility that I would walk away soaked in piss was unacceptable. My own waters would be a humiliating distraction from my survival.
    But...walk...
    At first gently, but then more urgently, I shoved at the rigid tangle separating the world of my torso from the world of my feet. My toes were astronauts exploring a great unknown, while I was bound to the Earthly world of hot weight holding me down, and relegated my right hand to a similar void. It didn't give! I... it won't move. I stop, and shake my head gently. I hear some voices, murmuring and shouting, like the pussies in the choir can't make up their mind what gay ballad they want to sing. There are other noises as well, some kind of creaking and a rushing sound like I'm falling. A drip on my ear, and another, and...I try to move my head to avoid the next drip as I feel the liquid running into my ear canal.
    A sensation approached, and I briefly anticipated that this would be the thrill I sought. It tasted wrong, but I reached for it and stoked its flames anyway. Decaying, the smoke of feel dispersed throughout my soul and revealed it for what it really was. Fear.
    It wasn't working, it wasn't. A twisted answer to my secret prayers, here was the evidence that this really wasn't my story at all. That someone else might be the one to walk away and leave me as proof that they had dodged the gun. If you don't have a body, how do you know there really was a bullet? You need flesh to catch it and show it to you; you dodge NONE of the bullets you can't find. That didn't make sense.....
    The sounds of voices grew a little louder, and I felt the wrecked wood, metal and hopefully-bepissed desk shift ever so slightly. I allowed myself to consider it a promising development, but sharp, searing pain jumped up and down my thigh and I was forced to concede that the desk had moved the wrong way, and my leg was unable to make room.
    The heavy, wet thing on my right arm rolled towards me, and resolved itself tactilely to my right cheek as being covered in a soft, damp fabric. It smelled of Old Spice, and was quite still despite its movement. Tears were welling in my eyes, and my heart raced. Wanted to push the thing off, but discovered my free hand had independently began scrabbling at the desk pushing pushing pushing into the meat of my thigh. I marshaled it, fingers shaking violently, balling them into a make-shift fist, and pushed at the fabric.
    Light! My hand felt the mass fall away and bright lights stabbed my corneas and the voices at once became an unbearable cacophony. My exhausted, searching hand collapsed atop my freed right, which began its inevitable cascade of pinpricks and heat as circulation reclaimed the momentarily abandoned flesh. Other hands clutched at mine, and pulled.
    I called out a wordless interjection as my legs resisted the movement my assailants were attempting to impart upon me. They noticed, thank God, and let me free while more hands worked at the desk pieces.
    Words..."Christ, look at his leg..."
    More words... "Better than Steve...shit..."
    Steve. A name. The Old Spice, the flannel, the still weight, resolved itself in my mind to the face of the smiling, big fellow who sat in front of me. We'd played....Euchre...or was it Wist?...yesterday. He'd given me a ride once, I thought he was nice. Hollow, echoes Steve.
    "Dan!"
      My name.
    "Dan, we're getting you out, OK? You hear me?"
      I did.
    "Dan, you hear me?"
      I did! Oh....I nodded.
    "OK. Hold tight."
    I lolled my head, oggling my surroundings as my eyes grew accustomed to the light. I could see out the windows, through their vacant frames and jagged teeth of glass, and the ceiling, rumpled slightly, bowed above me. I looked to my right and....Steve. No, I won't look at him yet.
    I screamed, spitting and knocking my head onto the linoleum as the desk shifted a final time and a man's voice called out
    "Free! Get him out! Tie it off!"
More hands, snaking under my shoulders and into my damp arm-pits, pulled me past Steve and I looked down at my dangling foot.
    Foot. Not feet.
    My eye fell from the information I couldn't accept to the information I thought I wanted.
    Steve was not smiling. I was not walking. This was my story, though.
    "Steve...sorry."

The Ethics and Technology of Cloning

2005-06-26T15:36:00.000-04:00

Cloning, a subject once the exclusive purlieu of Science Fiction authors, came onto the real-world scene in 1995-96 (Team24355) in the form of a sheep named Dolly. Hereto for the majority of Science Fiction’s treatment of the subject had produced an unrealistic idea which more closely matched the concept of a doppelganger (dictionary.com), a physically identical double which possessed all the knowledge and experiences of the original. The reality of cloning is much more mundane, and one which humanity has had experience with since time immemorial. Dolly was really just a manufactured identical twin.

That is, an identical twin is, in actuality, a clone: a creature which is genetically identical to another creature. Paranormal mythologies aside, such a creature does not share memories or experiences with the original any more than two genetically differentiated creatures do. The difference between Dolly the sheep and a traditional identical twin is her method of manufacture. Natural identical twins occur through a process known as “polyembryony” (Britannica), in which a single fertilized egg results in multiple embryos, and ultimately multiple infants with identical genes. Dolly, however, was created through a highly technical process by which the nucleus of an unfertilized egg is replaced with the nucleus of a cell from an existing animal.(team 24355) This results in the development of an embryo genetically identical to the existing animal. While there have been some discoveries that indicate that genetic material itself ages, and that successive generations of clones may be prone to increased mortality and shorter life-spans (MSNBC), this information is still under debate and undergoing scientific examination.

Scientists tend to think in terms of “how can it be done” and “can it be done successfully.” And, so far, they have been allowed to pursue cloning in this spirit of scientific inquiry. But a debate was sparked by the announcement of Dolly’s creation, an ethical debate. At the root of this debate is a basic question: is cloning morally acceptable or unacceptable? I shall endeavor to examine some of the basic positions that the various proponents and opponents have taken in this matter.

First, we will speak of a few reasons that cloning has been championed by some. Order of presentation may prove to be important, because many of the objections to cloning some as direct responses to these points.

Spare Parts: It has been concieved that a cloned zygote could be used to produce stem cells, which may be used to grow organs, nervous system components, muscle, skin, and other kinds of tissue in the event of need. In more extreme and outrageous scenarios, limbs may even be produced. Another method of producing this result might be the introduction of “cloned” cells into a non-human animal in order to grow similar replacement parts.

Genetic Screening:Another idea that has been bandied about is that of screening offspring for possible defects. An ovum (fertilized egg) could be cloned, and one of the resulting clones could be tested for defects. Should there be none, the original could be implanted. If defects are detected, the parents could destroy the ova and start over again.

Genetic duplication of experimental subjects:In genetic research, it may be ideal to use multiple identical subjects for experimentation. Having a “control” that is genetically identical to an “experiment” can produce more meaningful results with smaller sample populations. Using extensive in-breeding, there is already a breed of mouse that produces genetic clones naturally, but only cloning could produce this effect for multiple species.

Genetic preservation of species: One possible benefit of cloning would be the ability to “resurrect” populations of species or breeds of creatures who are endangered or extinct. A popular example would be the attempt to clone a wooly mammoth using an elephant egg. A more practical example would be the preservation of creatures that are still on Earth, but whose days may be numbered. If a wide enough genetic sampling were taken and preserved, viable populations of adequately varied members could be reproduced when habitat is recovered sufficiently to support them.

Genetic preservation of ideal or vital specimens: If a particular creature should prove to be ideal or vital in some way, then a genetic duplicate could be made to replace it when it has died. While there is no guarantee that a genetic duplicate would embody all the elements that made the original so vital (nature vs. nurture!), the risk of losing an irreplaceable creature may justify such an endeavor. To take an obvious example, a genetic duplicate of Albert Einstein may possibly possess the same “genius” as his original. With the proper upbringing and environment, perhaps such a clone could contribute greatly to mankind. Or a winning racehorse could be duplicated and studied to learn what made him so fast.

There are, however, many objections that have been made to cloning as a whole. And, as stated before, many of these objections deal directly with some of the supposed benefits of cloning.

Sanctity of Human Life: This is an objection that covers most of the previous arguments for the use of cloning. The premise is that human life is special, and that killing humans is morally reprehensible, even if just in zygote form. So the creation of a human being with the primary idea of using it to produce spare parts is unnacceptable from a moral standpoint. That is, the creation and destruction of a zygote is not justified, and it would be better that the original die or live in a diminished form (disabled in some way). Likewise, the destructive testing of a zygote to screen for possible genetic defects is also unacceptable. Even in a case where no defects are found, one zygote must perish. And in the case of a defect being detected, at least two zygotes die. For someone who feels that every zygote is sacrosanct, no matter how imperfect, this is homicide even in the best possible scenario.

Threatened Biodiversity: If cloning were used to preserve ideal specimens, or to perpetuate an endangered species, it is possible that the genetic diversity of the species being cloned may be compromised. That is, if a significant portion of that population is produced from a single example, then all that specimen’s weaknesses may become prevalent. Doomsday possibilities of a single virus destroying an entire population of clones, or a world filled with a specific defect or cancer susceptibility, or a species which cannot reproduce without inbreeding are all possible. Also, unknown beneficial properties of the discarded or displaced natural specimens may be lost forever. This objection is not as inescapable to its adherents as the sanctity of human life crowd, as all these scenarios are technically avoidable. But the pessimists among us may say that Murphy’s Law would make these problems inevitable.

The Superman and the Slave: This is an objection which, like cloning in general, has been explored in science fiction for decades. Cloning, combined with genetic engineering, might allow for the creation of either a race of super-humans which embody someone’s ideal of mankind, or a race of complacent and/or ignorant slaves. Two extremes of the same scenario, one might end up enslaved by or enslaving a race of modified “humans.” And, while this argument seems outlandish, adherents would request that you ask yourself what the Nazis might have done if they had access to modern genetic engineering and cloning technologies. Never underestimate mankind’s ability to creatively abuse its power, they might say.

The Tower of Babel -or- Playing God: The religious among us have said that genetic engineering in general and cloning in specific, is a lot like the biblical humans who were said to have tried to build a tower to heaven. That is, it is an attempt to act the part of God and “rise above our station.” One should not tinker with His creation, they might say. An answer to this argument might be that the alleviation of suffering or the preservation of His creatures by whatever means necessary is not bad, but may be an answer to His calling. Either way, this argument relies more upon religion than reason.

We are still at the beginning of the argument, however. All these arguments for and against cloning have yet to be resolved, and like many moral questions, may be unresolvable in anything other than a subjective manner. The one thing that I believe, above all else, is that no amount of wrangling, objecting, or banning will ultimately prevent the advance of cloning technology.

Objections to the nuclear bomb didn’t stop it from being developed. Objections to commercial genetic engineering didn’t stop it from being done. When it gets down to it, there are too many humans, with too many motivations, and too many opportunities, for any scientific possibility to go unfulfilled forever.

This author would assert that cloning is neither bad, nor good. And that it is better to proceed in a controlled manner, setting precedents along the way, than it is to attempt to halt this technology, and force it into the shadows. Put the fire in the fireplace, and tend to it well. Only then can you be safe and warm at the same time.

Works Cited

Team 24355, Kayotic Development. Conceiving a Clone [Online] 1998. URL <http://library.thinkquest.org/24355/>

Britannica.com. “Polyembryony” Encyclopedia Britannica [Online] 1999-2000. URL <http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/5/0,5716,62235+1,00.html>

Dictionary.com. “Doppelganger” Lexico LLC [Online] 2001. URL <http://www.dictionary.com/cgi-bin/dict.pl?term=doppelganger>

MSNBC. “Report:Dolly May Age Prematurely” MSNBC Health [Online] May 26, 1999. URL <http://www.msnbc.com/news/273594.asp?cp1=1#BODY>

A Dying Man Hides In The WNIC Studio With A Set Of Sharpened Antlers For To Kill The Program Director To Make A Point.

2005-06-18T06:08:00.000-04:00

For those outside of the Detroit area:WNIC is an easy-listening station 11 months out of the year. For the entire month before Jesus' birthday it changes its format to nothing but Christmas standards.

James Christmas is a man with only two days to live.

He has hated his name, and hated Christmas since he was a teenager. All the bad things in his life have happened to him on Christmas; things like his wife leaving him.
Like losing his dream job at the linen pencil sharpening center.
Like his best friend becoming a Mooney.
Like the time he asked for Optimus Prime and was given StarScream.
Further, all these bad events have become associated with particular holiday tunes in his head, so that every Christmas song makes him relive another terrible moment in his life. Since his doctors tell him he is going to die within two days, and it is Dec 23^rd, Jimmy Christmas has only one more bad thing to have happen to him on Christmas: his own death.
WNIC's wall-to-wall Christmas music is such torture to him, he wants to live his last few days in a world without it. So he has snuck into WNIC's offices with some antlers he stole from his father's wall. They have been sharpened to needle points, and he has strapped them to his head. He resolves to gore the program director to death with his horns of good cheer.

He wears a black turtle neck sweater, black dress slacks, black dress socks, black wingtip shoes, and a black knit cap. He is bald underneath. He has painted his face with black shoe-polish. His jolly set of sharpened antlers are strapped to his head with linen strips tied firmly under his chin. There is a stopwatch ticking down the seconds to Christmas clutched in his sweaty hands.

Rick Peterson is a program directory at WNIC during the holidays:

Rick has always been a Christmas kind of guy. The veritable opposite of Ebeneezer Scrooge. He keeps Christmas in his heart all year long, making weekly visits to Frankenmuth to buy various Christmas-y knick-knacks. His office is coated in Christmas stuff, and he spends days poring over gift catalogues deciding what perfect gift to give each of his friends. He takes great pride in always picking out the perfect gift, just so that the person receiving the gift will feel ashamed at their own inadequate reciprical gifting.
So he finds much joy in programming the Christmas season at WNIC. Getting rid of the watered down, insipid, terrible, light-weight pop music for a few weeks and replacing it with inspirational and musically invaluable selections such as “Do they know its Christmas,” “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree,” not to mention selections from “A Very Hanson Christmas” and his all time favorite: “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.
He is looking forward to a late night of work, and is humming “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” under his breath.

He wears a holiday print, baggy Heathcliff Huxtable style sweater, a pair of dockers, christmas print socks and two penny-loafers: one blue, one red.

Rick's Office:

Rick's office is technically an outside, window office, but his window overlooks an alley and some darkened windows in the building across the way. Small, with a desk covered in Christmas print contact paper, with silver foil snowflakes hanging over it tied to the drop ceiling braces with fishline, there is a sign on the door admonishing visitors to “be good, for goodness sake!” and a fake highway sign is hung on the wall next to his clock that says “Reindeer Crossing” accompanied with the requisite silhouette of a reindeer flying.

There is a closet here, and in it is our friend, Jimmy. Rick sits at his chair, jolly snow-man coffee mug in his hand. He has a radio on his desk tuned in to the studio, listening to the music. As the music tracks change, he knods in satisfaction and recognition: he is making sure his program selection is running its course properly. The radio has Christmas decals liberally pasted all over it.

The tableau:

Jimmy will attempt to kill, but each piece of Christmas music will cause a flash back to a bad time in his past. When he finally charges Rick, he misses the dodging Rick and stabs the radio, getting electrocuted while Bruce Springstein sings, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” Last words? “Ho, ho, ho. * die *”

Care and Feeding of Digital Pianos

2005-06-15T09:41:00.000-04:00

     On Barbies: when I was a boy, my only experience with Barbie dolls was through my friends' sisters. (One of which was Heather, as a matter of fact) From those early observations I had no choice but to assume that the natural state of a Barbie is naked, headless, and in a pile next to the toilet.
     Only now do I realize that there are less violent lifestyles available for everyone's favorite polymer beauty. My daughter Samantha, for instance, keeps her population of Barbie and Barbie-like fashion dolls more or less fully clothed, and stores them all in a blue plastic tackle box.
      Samantha was playing quietly with those Barbies last night as I sat down at the piano to warm up. I soon noticed that the keys felt funky and were sticking together. Closer examination showed that there were broken pieces of raw spaghetti stuck between many of the keys. First of all, my piano is allergic to semolina, and should only eat wheat noodles. Second of all, this is my only piano and I can't afford to replace it! I proceed to the living room where fifty percent of my genetic material was swapping shoes between various dollies.

     "Samantha," I ask, "did you put spaghetti in Daddy's piano?" In answer, Sam shakes her head "no," and doubles her concentration on the Barbies' shoe choices.
     "Sam. Look at me."
     She looks.
     "Did you put... spaghetti... in Daddy's piano?" She can't meet my eyes, and casts about the room for something to look at. Finally, she knods "yes."
     "Sam, do you think its good to put spaghetti in the piano?" Her eyes register a bit of hope, and she optimistically knods her head "yes".
     "Sam... do you really think its good to put spaghetti in the piano?" The hope dies along with her tentative smile, and she looks down, shaking her head.
     "Then why did you put spaghetti in the piano?"
     Her eyes begin to tear up and she begins nervously wringing the long hair of Rapunzel Barbie, whose head quietly creaks in protest.
     "I was eating the spahzghetty, and I dropped some inna piano, and then my Care Bear was going to fix it!" Care bear? Was it going to remove the spaghetti from the piano by loving it really hard?
     "Sam, you were not eating raw spaghetti. So why did you put the spaghetti in the piano?" She looks up at me with her pretty little face and I get the dubious pleasure of watching her carefully held composure crumble, and tears start running down her now-red cheeks toward her rumpled little chin.
     "I don't know," she cries, dumps Barbie unceremoniously onto the floor and rushes me. With an involuntary grunt, I absorb the full brunt of her desperate hug as she begins dehydrating herself through occular emissions all over my leg. I gently turn her head up to look me in the face.
     "Sammy, promise me you won't put food in the piano again."
     Sobbing loudly, she increases the force of her hug to the point where she could safely stand in for a tourniquet should I ever sever a limb. "I promise!"
     "What do you promise, Sam?"
     "Not to put spahzgetty in the piano."
     "Say, 'I promise not to have food around the piano,' ok?" She knods. "Say it, Sam."
     "I promise not to eat food in the piano, Daddy."

Close enough.

I spent an hour carefully taking the piano, a Roland HP-327 with complicated weighted key assemblies, apart. Spaghetti removed, I reassembled the thing and found I was in no mood to try to play Curl, a sad-sack tune, so I did the far less emotional Three In Eight instead. SafeT's Guide to Care and Feeding of Digital Pianos

Danny and Maggie

2005-06-14T14:13:00.000-04:00

     Late Monday night there came a tapping upon the sliding door which opens onto my back porch. An eerie glow and a low cough preceded it, so it was with great trepidition that I crept from my couch and pushed back the curtains to see what it could be.

    There I beheld the most enormous beetle. He was at least an inch and a half long--possibly 3 centimeters for you metrics out there. Now I'm no entymologist, but I usually don't see beetles like this around my house. (An entymologist is someone who wears insects ornamentally, especially as hats or cod-pieces) I ran for my camera and began taking pictures.
     It was about that time that I began to hear the gruff voice.

     "Joe," said the voice, "listen to me! This is your dad's third cousin Danny speaking." Hmm... I don't remember any Dannys.

     "My step-father's cousin or my real father's cousin?" I ask, seeking clumsy exposition.

     "What? Oh, uh..," he wagged his antennae nervously, "Real father. Yeah, thats it. Your real father's cousin Danny." He seemed to gain his confidence back. "I know we never really met," sez the beetle, "but I have a message for you--one so important that I came back as an enormous beetle to talk to you." I grabbed a notepad and a pencil, ready to take down some posthumous advice from the insect manifestation of my heretofor unknown distant cousin Dan. "OK, so here it is," he continued, "Tomorrow morning you're planning on taking a shower, am I right?" I knodded, amazed at his prescience, "It is really important that you NOT use the dandruff shampoo."

     I began furiously scribbling down his celestial tip, when another ghastly green glow pulsed and faded. There, less than two feet from Danny, appeared an enormous and annoyed grasshopper. From the gloom came a woman's voice, irritated and sharp in tone.

     "Danny," snapped the grasshopper, "I'm getting sick of this crap." The beetle, obviously agitated, walked in a tight circle, wagging his mandibles.
     "Don't pay attention to that grasshopper, Joe," he desperately requested, "Its a, ah, a bad spirit."

     "A bad spirit?" came the grasshopper's incredulous reply, "Danny, I'm your WIFE. And if you were half a man you would quit bothering people and come back to bed."

     Angry now, the beetle advanced threateningly towards the grasshopper, yelling, "Maggie, just why the fuck did you have to come out here? Huh?" his carapace was shivering with rage, "A guy just wants to help his relatives out, maybe have a little bit of a good time, and what does his lovely wife do? You got nerve, Mags, you've got nerve."

     "Help?" her voice rose to a shriek, "Help? Danny, I wouldn't trust you to lead a man to the toilette!" She then turned to me, "So, what was it this time? 'Don't use the mouthwash?' Or was it, 'BEWARE THE FLOSS?!?' Oh, I know, my favorite, 'sacrifice your beer to me!' Well?"

     She seemed to be waiting. I lifted my jaw from the floor, cleared my throat, and told her about the shampoo taboo. She hopped in anger and landed full square in front of Danny, who began to cower, trying to hide his legs under his abdomen.

     "Danny, you've gone too far." she her wings shook gently with disappointment, "You gotta stop this. You're pathetic. Every night you manifest and give advice no one needs. Just what would happen if Joe here used the shampoo, anyway?"
     "Well..," the beetle tilted, looking up at the grasshopper hopefully, "he might get some in his eyes?"

     "So to spare him from having to rinse his eyes out, you would have the poor man go all flakey-scalped?" she gently placed one of her left legs on my cousin's shell, "No one likes to see dandruff, Danny. C'mon home," her tone warmed considerably, "we can still catch the Johnny Carson show."

     "But, surely you mean Jay Leno," I piped up, "Isn't Johnny Carson dead?" Maggie leveled an appraising gaze at me, paused thoughtfully and then said,

     "So what's your point?" with that, the grasshopper bounded off into the night, leaving Danny behind momentarily.

     "Well, uh," Dan stroked his front legs through his jaws thoughtfully, "I guess this is it." From the distance we heard Maggie,
    "COME ON, DANNY!"
    Dan turned and began crawling away. Tears welled in my eyes.
     "But Dan, you could teach me so much!" I fought a sob, "We never really got a chance to talk."

    "You'll be OK, kid," came the reply from the darkness, "and don't forget what I said about the shampoo!" Darkness consumed the now-quiet Michigan night and I was once again left all alone. I just knew, however, that I would never forget them, or the valuable lesson they taught me.

I love you, Dan and Maggie, and someday we'll meet again. I just know it.

These bugs actually did visit me on my back porch monday night. I took all these pictures. Wether or not there were spirits in them, I may never know. I didn't want to open the door, because that would let bugs in the house. Yuck. Click on the pictures for blow-ups.

The Slow Ones - Intro and beginning of chapter one

2005-06-06T07:45:00.000-04:00

I dreamed this universe one night in the late nineties. I wrote it all down as an outline and began writing. I got the introduction and the barest beginning of chapter one down. For me, this sort of writing is very challenging--because I second-guess myself too often, I suppose. If I get feedback, I may return to this world.

Arrival of the Slow Ones:

Massive and beautiful, the Slow Ones’ habitat entered the solar system like a celestial glacier. So slow was it that at first it was seen as a huge wandering asteroid. Only after gradually changing course, first joining Neptune’s solar orbit and then steadily catching up to it over the course of a decade, did earth-born scientists take notice. Looking like an amorphous blob to ground-based optical telescopes, as if a smudge on a lens, it was revealed by orbital telescopes to be made up of literally millions of elements. Platforms, bubble-like objects, lumps of ice, rock and metal, unknown irregular objects of synthetic material, all these and more seemed to be tethered in a huge and disorganized web. In appearance, it could be likened to a fishing net adrift at sea, having accumulated masses of different ocean refuse. Here it was, unmistakable evidence of life from outside the human sphere. Here it was, unmistakable evidence of intelligent life not our own. What did this mean to the human race? Everything and nothing. As the years following the arrival of the Slow Ones to our solar system passed, they showed that almost every faction, clan, tribe, and clique had a differing interpretation as to the ultimate meaning and purpose of our visitors.

Perhaps it was a weapon. No-it must be a host of angels. Certainly it was evil. Surely it was good. Verily, God proclaimed it to be a divine sign calling for the extermination of those who disagree with this or that group of zealots. Perhaps it was space trash looking for a home like a fugitive barge-load of New York City trash touring the east coast. Soon a world already filled with minor conflicts and which had been disarming itself of nuclear weapons for decades began to disintegrate into conventional warfare. Small fights, large battles, a few scattered nuclear detonations, physical combat . . . these all killed a statistical few at first. But borders changed. Large nations became many small nations. Small nations died, or were changed forever. But the true holocaust was still to come.

Genetically designed illnesses were unleashed upon the Earth. Some targeted regions. Some targeted races. There were custom viruses that sterilized millions and created a race of mentally disabled people in Asia. There was a mutant strain of bacteria that caused a well-fed country to starve to death as their intestines stopped functioning. There were even a few nano-electronic microbe designs. These miniature devices spent decades quietly breeding in the spines of entire generations only to eventually destroy nervous systems when the assigned killing time came-creating a billion corpses in one night; those few who survived in the affected region started a new pass-over legend which is still told centuries later. Attack and counter attack, plagues and wasting sicknesses, within a century the population on Earth had plummeted to levels unseen in four hundred years.

For a while, defenses were developed. Nano-electronic defense forces were designed and microscopic wars were fought in the bodies of men and women everywhere. Viruses were released which altered the genetic make up of entire populations simply in order to innoculate against specific man-made diseases. Sometimes these backfired and had unforseen consequences. “Patch” viruses were developed to correct these mistakes. Unfortunately, a beta “patch” virus eventually became one of the worst diseases ever devised. Nevertheless, humanity survived...after a fashion...while the Slow Ones proceeded on their leisurely tour of our solar system.

As the humans started their killing, the Slow Ones left Neptune. Never having actually orbited the planet, they had simply chased it around the sun for 30 years or so. Years passed and there were still some humans watching as they slowly crept into Uranus’ orbit. By the time they broke orbit and drifted toward Saturn there was no one on Earth with the time to watch; the remaining technological powers struggled with their wars for survival and revenge. Decades later, when the Slow Ones visited Jupiter, there was nobody left with the means to watch. Earth had entered its second dark age, and the Slow Ones were still centuries away from our tortured blue green orb.

************

Legend of the Guard Clan:Year 1, the Calling

No matter what calendar anyone else used, the GuardClan members always counted their time in one way only: in the years that had passed since the moment of the Calling. On that fateful day, almost a billion people from what was once called South America perished. It was a quiet holocaust, without even a whimper or a single cry of pain. From the deserted dead zones of central America to the southern tip of the continent, the vast majority of people simply stopped, fell over if they were standing, and died. A continent of vitality and struggle became a continent of silence and corpses.

GuardClan elders say that the Keeper of the Roots screamed in panic that day as his gates were overrun with the newly dead.

The Roots, the elders tell, were suddenly filled with blood, and the WorldTree was flooded with life, as the souls of the Chosen watered the Earth. The WorldTree had Called, and its people had come home. Before that Call, however, the goddess of war and sacrifice interceded with the WorldTree. She plead that the remains of the people, their heritage and their possessions, should not be left unguarded. She cried that those who were not of the chosen might come and defile the homes of the dead, make their spirits unhappy and sicken the WorldTree. Furthermore, the remains of the chosen would be left without anyone to honor them, without anyone to light their pyres. The WorldTree saw the wisdom in her words and sent the goddess down to earth from her place high in the branches of the WorldTree.

Now as any elder can tell you, gods and goddesses are powerful, but cannot interact directly with physical things in either the Roots of the WorldTree or on the surface of the Earth. That is why the goddess took the names of certain men and women from the list of the chosen and decreed that they would act on her behalf.

They could no longer be among the chosen.

They would not see the Keeper and join the multitudes in the Roots when the Calling came.

They would instead be entrusted with Guarding the bodies, places and possessions of the dead while at the same time preparing the great funeral pyres. They would light those pyres and Guard them as they burned. And lastly, they and their decedents would Guard forevermore. Guard the holy sites. Guard their own people. Guard the truth and story of the WorldTree. And finally, they would Guard others in need of protection; those others who need the services of what was from then on called the GuardClan.

**********

Guard Clan:Year 475

Guard Duty

Guarding what was precious was the sacred duty as well as the livelihood of members of the GuardClan. Mozam was now performing that duty for a team of Outsiders in the quiet darkness of the desert night. This place, made up of crumbled ruins which appeared as any other pile to Mozam’s untrained eye, was not precious to him or his family, but it was very precious to the diggers from the College of Reclamation at Slow City. They were his family’s clients. They were his clients. And that was reason enough for Mozam and the family Tueth to Guard.

Here in the wastes of Mishilohio, the scrub grass grew in tall patches interspersed with many ruins and with scattered and twisted trees. During the day you would see nothing bigger than a fox as far as the eye could see, and at night you could barely see anything at all. An Outsider he met once during a supply run to Slow City told him that Outsiders who try to guard frequently get bored during night watches, and this amazed Mozam. He told of this to others in his family unit and they were likewise surprised. Night watches were at once one of the most challenging ways to Guard and the most personally fulfilling. During a night watch Vigilance had to be raised almost constantly despite fatigue or lack of stimulation, and the darkness created some level of difficulty in identifying the exact nature and numbers of possible assailants. None of this was insurmountable to an adult GuardClan member, but challenging nonetheless. The true personal fulfillment of night-time Guard duty, however, came in the solitude. An environment where all SHOULD be still allows time for mental exercises the likes of which would be more difficult during the hustle and bustle of daytime duty. Mozam, for instance, loved to practice raising Vigilance for multiple perceptions at once. Tonight he decided to start with hearing. Concentrating, meditating until the presence of...something could be felt, he visualized a light quickly flashing and dancing in a complex pattern over and over, and soon the sounds of his own breathing and heartbeat subsided. With those relatively cacophonous sounds gone, the desert could now be heard clearly. Almost subliminally, he could hear a mouse moving in the scrub two dozen feet from the ruins he Guarded. The sound was but a hint, not even a real sound, but he KNEW it was a mouse from experience. Soon, he could hear the stealthy pad-pad-pad of a feral cat approaching the mouse from the north. Concentration....mental routines...more flashing in his mind....his eyes began seeing with higher contrast. What was but a shadow in the distance now resolved to become a silhouette. The feral cat was a dozen yards away, but moving closer. Both animal sounds stopped suddenly and he fought successfully to hold himself from smiling. The cat had halted, hunkering down and preparing to pounce on the rodent. The mouse had frozen, somehow detecting that something was wrong...a momentary impasse as the two animals thought out their next moves.

As a little boy, Mozam had practiced the ways of the Hidden Guard by protecting wandering mice like this one from predators. A clansman acting as a Hidden Guard should both provide an effective defense to, and remain undetected by, the person or persons under his or her protection. It was a specialty skill, but one which the Tueth family unit was proud to call their own. As a boy, many cats went home hungry without their prey ever knowing Mozam was watching over them nearby. But tonight Mozam was on duty; this rodent would have to fend for himself.

A moment later and the momentary silence was broken by a quiet squeak and little scraping noises as the cat bagged his kill. The cat's silhouette, holding it's head high and it's kill above the scrub grass, trotted off into the wasteland to look for privacy...or perhaps her kittens.

Momentary interlude over, Mozam allowed Vigilance to subside to the normal level needed for guard duty. The presence was still there, as it always was when Vigilance was raised, but it was distant....quiet, and from years of practice Mozam hardly needed to pay attention to it to maintain the effect. His breathing and heartbeat became audible again, although still muted slightly. His eyesight dimmed from high contrast to merely light-sensitive. High Vigilance had it's costs, and even the best guards could only hold it for a while, followed by hours without the ability to raise at all. Mozam needed to stand here with Vigilance raised at normal Night Guard level for at least another hour.

Falling into the rhythm of the duty, Mozam slowly turned his head from side to side, scanning the area exactly once per 12 heart-beats as was the family custom. Listening....watching...this was not the sort of duty which required his utmost concentration to be effective. So, visualizing the entire site, Outsider base camp and GuardClan camp in his head, Mozam silently counted his sister and brothers on duty, their relative position to himself and the landmarks of the site. Time passed, and judging by the position of the moon, Rekzah should be along very soon to relieve him.

To Die For

2005-06-05T07:56:00.000-04:00

One of my piano pieces is a tune I've always called:
"I Say It Often."
In my head, the first line of melody always plays out as

I say it all the time
I do
but just because it's often doesn't mean its not true

     You may remember me mentioning once, in passing, that my wife and I have a somewhat gender-reversed relationship. Reversed, that is, in comparison to the gender stereotypes society saddles us with.

     You see, while Heather is petit and cute, she is strong and capable in ways normally not considered feminine. She once physically--and painfully--subdued an escaped suspect fleeing the court room at 38th District Court. She is a probation officer, and keeps tight control of her wards. She loves sports, has a Honda Shadow motorcycle, can't stand wearing skirts (she looks mighty fine in a pair of jeans, though!) and is never squeamish around gore or injuries. She loves big dogs, doesn't care for cats, and would rather watch COPS than Oprah. She's handy around the house, and isn't afraid to tackle a project.

     What about me? Well, I'm physically strong, and I exhibit many exaggerated secondary masculine characteristics. But... I like cats. I hate sports. I can't do home repair or improvement unless it involves electronics. I love to talk about relationships and feelings. I love to cuddle, and I want to lie there and talk after making love.

     Heather...not so much. She has never been a cuddler, and tolerates me doing so for short stretches of time. And after making love she usually passes out for the night. I can talk to her at that point, but not with her. Heh-heh.
Opposites attract, right? We've been together for ten years come this fourth of July, and have already been married for more than 5 years. We love each other dearly.

     Back when I composed the tune mentioned above, we had been together for four years. Almost the entire time we'd been together I had been telling Heather I loved her multiple times a day--another of those things I do that defies gender stereotype.
     Hardly any conversation could go by without me saying, "I love you," or, "you're my favorite person." I was starting to worry that I was cheapening the statement in her eyes, and that the sincerity of my sentiments might seem to be lost due to repetition. This is still the case today.

I say it all the time
I do
but just because it's often doesn't mean its not true.

     But now we have Samantha. Sam Ann Whited, age four. She's beautiful, smart, considerate (for a four year old), helpful in a destructively well-meaning sort of way, and she doles out love and affection to everyone around her, even children she meets in the park. I have been telling Sammy that I love her multiple times a day.
     Hardly any conversation goes by without me saying, "I love you," or, "you're my favorite little girl." But with Sam I never worry that it my sentiments are becoming cheapened.
     On the contrary, when she throws her little arms around my neck and says, "I love you too, Daddy," I know I can never say it enough.

     When I was young I sometimes wondered if I would, should the situation ever arise, be able to make the ultimate sacrifice and die so that someone else might live. I doubted I would. I felt guilty about it.
     After I fell in love with Heather I revisited this thought and realized I probably would, if only for her. It still seemed to me that it would be a hard decision to make, but if the need arose I would definitely die for Heather. But then Sam came along.

     After Samantha was born the list of people I would die for grew by one. When I revisit the question in my head now, would I voluntarily give up my life if it would save the life of someone else, I realize that the answer, when it comes to Sam, is gladly.

And I would go with a smile, and a single tear for missing what comes next.

Pascal and Aquinas

2005-05-31T21:58:00.000-04:00

PSOne Subject 2945:

A dialogue of Blaise Pascal and Thomas Aquinas regarding the existence of God

As a minor member of the research team involved in the original design of the device (very minor. I was the one in charge of Coffee Unit 26–the only unit to make it through the entire project without any maintenance difficulties!), I was not given access to the Personality Simulator One (PSOne) until late summer, 2068. Most of my colleagues had already simulated the most important historical personalities in the three years since the PSOne had come online, and in all honesty they performed a far better job than I could ever have hoped to accomplish. So it was with resignation that I perused the remaining list of historical figures in an attempt to find personalities who were important enough to bother with while simultaneously being documented in enough detail to produce a decent simulation. My selections? Blaise Pascal and Thomas Aquinas. As a philosophical-theistic-media-analysis minor, I had always been fascinated by their separate attempts to philosophically analyze the existence/nonexistence of God, and my involvement with the PSOne represented an ideal opportunity.

Blaise Pascal, the son of a lawyer/mathematician, was born in Clermont, France in 1623 and is more famous as a mathematician, inventor and scientist in his own right than as a philosopher. Throughout his life he had always been a very clever and pragmatic man, with rational and scientific inquiry being his modus operandi of choice. But following a carriage accident at the age of 31 he began publishing anonymous letters regarding religious philosophy. (O’Connor) His mathematically logical mind helped his arguments on religion to be particularly penetrating. It seemed, from reading his collected thoughts, that his mind looked from his secular and rational roots towards religion. This is the direct opposite of my second subject, Thomas Aquinas.

The second selection for the simulator, Thomas Aquinas, was a very different kind of man entirely. Born centuries earlier, in 1225, near Naples, Italy, Aquinas spent his entire life immersed in the religious establishment. He was tutored by a formidable and encyclopedic teacher named Albert and under his instruction proceeded to become at first acquainted with and then attracted to Aristotle’s thoughts. Since he was a very religious man, he sought to reconcile the teachings of his favored classical philosopher with his own theological beliefs. (Stumpf, 176-178) From this he developed an interesting set of rational arguments seeking to justify his pre-set faith. Therefore, Aquinas presented an interesting contrast to my first subject, Pascal, in that he seemed to be looking from religious roots towards rationalism.

In any case, it took me months to compile a personality profile for the two. Starting with their collected first person works and proceeding with second hand accounts and empirical biographical information, I fed the PSOne data on the two subjects until it indicated that it was ready to go.

The Pascal simulation was brought online with a subjective age of 40, the year after his real death. (O’Connor) This allowed for his simulated self to be able to recall all of his collective writings and accomplishments without presenting him with confusion or deja-vu artifacting. (my colleague, Fred Peterson, attempted to simulate Mark Twain at an age before his descent into bitterness and produced an unqualified failure; one which I had no desire to repeat.) I placed Pascal’s simulation on a bench in a European church, one of the few environments I believed both subjects would feel comfortable within.

Second into the simulation was Thomas Aquinas at a chronologically subjective 50 years of age, also shortly after his real death. He was placed on a bench nearby the simulated Pascal. To make the subjects comfortable, they were both made to wear simple monks’ habits. As a point of vanity and convenience, I gave each man my own face–there were no mirrors in the cathedral, so neither man would notice. Bandages were also placed on their heads and each was given a slight headache.

The PSOne indicated that both personalities had been brought online and were “looking” around in wonder and confusion. Aquinas gazed at his surroundings, a church he had visited and stayed at many times while in Rome, and then examined his strange companion. “How did I get here? I was...sick?” (Stumpf 178)

“In truth, I do not know you, man. And I do now know how I came to be here myself, or even where we are,” Blaise looked down at his clothes and then back toward Aquinas with interest. “All I know is that we wear monk’s robes, and sit in a church. My name is Blaise. Who might you be?”

“My name is Thomas. And I can help on where we are. This is the church of Santa Sabina, in Rome!” (Badenhorst) Aquinas spread his arms wide and half turned, admiring the familiar architecture, “I have no idea why we are here, but my brothers have always been accomodating of visitors. No matter why we are here, you can be assured that we are in good hands with the Dominicans.”

“Ah, the Dominicans. I have heard of this place. It comforts me to hear that. But...why are we here?”

It was with trepidition that I then sent a non-descript avatar into the simulation under my direct control. In the form of a simple peasant boy dressed in rags, my avatar walked up to the two men and asked them one question: “Please, sirs. I know you are still recovering from your accident, but the brothers tell me you are good teachers. I know and fear God, but...how do I know God exists?”

Aquinas looked from the strange teen to his new companion and back again. “Accident, hmm? Well, I’m sure we’ll soon learn the truth of our situation. But the brothers must have been lax in their duties to have left a young one such as you in such a state of doubt! Or perhaps they sent you as a joke? No matter. This is as pleasant a way as any to pass the time, and I love to teach, it is true! Well, young one, what do you know of cause and effect?”

Directing the avatar to avert his eyes, I made him say tentatively, “Only that all effects follow causes.” Blaise, interest now piqued, looked to the avatar with interest.

Aquinas, in the voice of the experienced lecturer, continued, “Well then, it follows that all effects were preceded by causes, which were in themselves effects of earlier causes, right?” I had the avatar nod in acquiescence. “But this cannot go on to infinity, because then there would be no first mover, and consequently, no other mover, seeing that subsequent movers move only inasmuch as they are moved by the first mover; as the staff moves only because it is moved by the hand. It is, therefore, necessary to arrive at a first mover, moved by no other. This first mover is God.” (Stumpf 669)

Blaise looked up in surprise and recognition at hearing these words of his new friend Thomas. “I have heard such an argument before, Thomas, in writings stored in a library by the brothers Jansen...but I have questions on it.”

The shabby youthful avatar forgotten for a moment, Aquinas’ eyebrows rose in curiosity and he turned to Blaise. “Well, and the writings of the Aquinas are wider spread than I had thought! Ask your questions, man. Perhaps I will teach two this afternoon!”

A deep breath by Pascal followed, and then Blaise began, “A first mover God, you speak of Thomas. Infinite movement, the point which fills everything, the moment of rest; infinite without quantity, indivisible and infinite. Necessary to provide existence with itself. Your analysis may seem sound, but it can only hint at the existence of a God.” his earnest face looked from Thomas’ eyes to the downcast visage of the avatar, “It is not sufficient to prove to our young man that the god is our God. I once wrote: ‘we know that there is an infinite, and are ignorant of its nature. As we know it to be false that numbers are finite, it is therefore true that there is an infinity in number. But we do not know what it is. It is false that it is even, it is false that it is odd; for the addition of a unit can make no change in its nature. Yet it is a number, and every number is odd or even (this is certainly true of every finite number). So we may well know that there is a God without knowing what He is.’ (Pensees,233) Reason is not, I think, allowed to reveal the true nature of God. He has hidden Himself from our knowledge, that this is in fact the name which He gives Himself in the Scriptures, Deus absconditus; [Is. 45. 15. "Thou art a God that hidest thyself."] (Pensees, 194)”

A shrug and a gesture toward the pulpit came from Aquinas, followed by, “You speak of

revelation. I posit that God exists, and that the knowledge of his existence is reachable through reason. His doctrines, however, are a matter of revelation. I agree, my new friend Blaise, that reason cannot know all of God. Indeed, it would be blasphemous to regard such knowledge as attainable through anything other than faith.” (Stumpf 181)

Pascal responded, “I would say that there is no way for a man capable of reason to so blithely embrace even such revelation.” He then stood, looking skyward, “Oh, how I wish this were not so for me. But my reason makes certainty of His existence, or indeed His non-existence, unattainable!”

Aquinas, feeling sorry for his companion and troubled by his seeming doubt, walked to his side and laid his hand upon his shoulder. “Blaise, God’s nature is revealed in a man’s heart, and if your reason is closing your heart then it is faulty. Faith alone....”

Shaking his head, Blaise covered Thomas’ hand with his own and looked into his elder’s eyes. He spoke urgently, “Ah, but Thomas, I do believe. I believe in Him, and His scripture. I have no reason not to, and every reason to do so! If God does not exist, one will lose nothing by believing in him, while if he does exist, one will lose everything by not believing. For this reason I believe I cannot afford to not believe in Christ and His church.”

Thomas withdrew his hand, and recoiled in shock. “This....this...idea of yours is crass self-interest! It is no more based on faith than the honor of a moneylender! If this..wager...is the basis of your belief, then you are a fool to think God would accept it as anything more than hypocrisy.”

“But, Thomas, we must choose either God or no God. We cannot fail to choose. I am merely showing you the mechanism of my choice. Is the choice any less valid for it? My faith is true. I know who my Redeemer is, Dominican! But if reason is used, and I cannot deny we have reason and neither, I believe, would you, then it will force us to decide thus!”

Aquinas, arms at his side, cocked his head and spoke, “I am not comfortable with this, friend Blaise. I feel your heart may be clouded somehow. Reason is inapplicable to matters of doctrine. My use of reason is only in the service of existence, and I believe my proofs to be sufficient for that.”

“Ah, but the proof you sited, that of first-mover, ignores the paradox of infinity! You would state that God chose to move and the world was created. But if God is infinite, and without a beginning, then He existed for eternity before his act of creation. But you cannot define a point on an infinite line! How could you say when He created if he is infinite?”

“Blaise, I would say that God created eternally. That He is eternally engaged in the act of creation. And that His creation is real is a matter of revealed faith.”

Blaise seemed to be considering. “A matter of revelation, then Thomas.” He turned his head from Aquinas to the youth. “God exists. You cannot afford to deny Him, but if you should be so careless with your soul to attempt to deny Him in any case...then think on what Thomas has said. Perhaps his arguments shall be sufficient for you, even though they are not for me.”

My time on the PSOne was nearing a close. I could hear the one-minute alarm behind me, and began drawing the shutdown sequence on the pad in front of me. But first, I sent a message to my avatar.

“Thank you, sirs. I must go, the brothers should be here soon...” and with that the avatar turned its too-skinny body and scampered out of the church.

Thomas Aquinas sat, folding his hands in his lap. “Friend Blaise, I wish to continue this conversation further. But first I would like very much to greet my brothers and learn why we are here.”

Blaise looked towards the exit the youth had just ran out of, wondering why he saw absolutely nothing through the briefly opened door and nodded absently. “There will be time for us to talk, I am sure.”

But he was wrong. PSOne froze the scene and began its record dump into my personal file. I sat back and wrote a few notes to myself. Pascal and Aquinas; both were men with faith that could move mountains. Where they differed was in their use of reason. Aquinas felt that reason could prove the existence of God with absolute assurance. Pascal felt that reason could not prove or disprove His existence definitively. Reason, he thought, would merely force a man to believe in God in order to avoid the possible consequences of being wrong. But, in the end, the two men both agree that God exists, and that Jesus is their savior. I can safely disregard much of Aquinas’ logic due to the scientific debunking of his evidence, and Pascal’s wager is faulty in that it ignores any possibilities in-between the absolute denial and the complete acceptance of the Christian revelation. So, in the end, I didn’t agree with either man. But the conversation was one I felt made the whole procedure worthwhile. I had a paper to write!

As I left the lab, I passed a graduate student heading into the PSOne lab. I know him, and have heard he plans on resurrecting Gregory Heins and Fred Astaire for some crazy virtual dance competition. I cannot help wondering what sorts of revelations he might be after....

Works Cited

Badenhorst, Martin OP. “A Tour of Santa Sabina in Rome” Order of Preachers(Dominicans) [Online] 1999 URL

O'Connor, J J and Robertson, E F. "Blaise Pascal" The MacTutor History of Mathematics archive [Online] December 1996. URL

Pascal, Blaise. “Pensees” Great Voyages:History of Western Philosophy from 1492 to 1776 [Online] Winter 1997. URL

Stumpf, Samuel Enoch. “The Apex of Medieval Philosophy: The Scholastic System of St. Thomas Aquinas” Philosophy:History and Problems Fifth Ed, 175-199

Stumpf, Samuel Enoch. “Proving God’s Existence from Experience” Philosophy:History and Problems Fifth Ed, 668-670

SafeT for Grade School President

2005-05-30T23:13:00.000-04:00

I should be class president because I will work harder than anyone else for you! In fact, I will strive to convince the local board of education to issue permanent hall passes to every man woman and child in this school and, god willing, in this entire school district.

Yes, friends, if I am elected, you will be able to roam the halls like packs of rabid ravenous rivening dogs and/or doglike quadrupedal creatures. Stand aside, status quo, because the hall pass culture is upon us!

Not enough of a reason, you say? Well, try this one on for size, kiddies. Each and every student will get their very own hamster pal complete with fun-ball, water bottle, locker-shelf sized hamster habitat complete with excersize wheel, and one semester's supply of hamster chow. This will serve two purposes at the same time for you, my stunningly attractive electorate:

You will have a small, cute, furry pal with you while you are wandering the halls under the protection of your permanent hall passes.
In the event of nuclear holocaust you will either have a small snack that can tide you over until the mutants arrive to rape you of your bodily organs and sew your body parts onto themselves or you have an adorably furry little bit genetic material with which to bond and form a new super human-hamster symbiont.

Surely this will be enough to bring you to the polls this friday, but if not, I am definitely willing to resort to fear-mongering. You asked for it, and if you didn't I will just assume you want it by default. All the rights afforded to you as a citizen of this student body. If you do NOT vote for me for class president, then the consequences will be quite dire indeed. Dire and ominous. Ominous and foul. Foul and furious. Furious and dangerous. Dangerous and rhinoserous. Rhinoserous and elephantine. Elephantine and epiphinacal. Epiphinacal and unical. Unical and United Way. And when the United Way has taken over and given the sovereignty of this, your hallowed halls of education, over to the godless socialists of the United Nations then....OH THEN!!!!! THEN you shall find yourself quickly without your rights!Of this hot, beautiful, attractive and athletic student body. If that happens you will all certainly become geeks, nerds and beggars and will develop an atrocious acne problem of biblical proportions.

This nightmare could easily come true, my friends. And if you want that, then go ahead and vote for my opponant. The UN will be on our flag, and blue helmets will wander the halls on corn-and-mayonaise day.*

DID I just say corn-and-mayonaise day? YES I DID. You heard me. If my opponant is elected school president, you will have nothing to eat at lunch the first tuesday of each month besides CORN AND MAYONAISE. I have heard from anonymous sources from within my opponant's organization that he will not only institute this despicable dietary program, but will make it mandatory. That's right, no one will be allowed to leave school premises during luch nor will they be allowed to bag their own lunch on corn and mayonaise day. I haven't even gotten to the liverworst and meunster day.

So, what is it going to be, my fellow students? Life with hall passes and hamsters, or life under a UN mandate with loose bowels as your only comfort?

Thank you and god speed, my orgasmically gorgious electorate.

* Corn and Mayonaise day stolen from Invader Zim.

Autopilot of the Damned

2005-05-30T16:33:00.000-04:00

This short story was written in 2005

       I'm not much for flying, but the Altris Specialized System Design Integration Conference (ASS-DIC for short) was being held in L.A., and that was just too damn far from Chicago for me to drive. There, at ASS-DIC, my colleagues anxiously awaited me and my new bio-feedback skull-harness to amaze and inspire them. So I sat on the tarmac, my prototype harness on my head, staring at my laptop which was perched on the rediculously tiny seat-back tray; I waited for the tired looking pilot-man to direct us to shut down our electronic devices and get ready for take-off. Some people call me a geek, and I guess from their point of view it might be so. But I prefer hacker, albeit a paranoid and obsessive hacker. So in the brief run-up to take-off I donned my skull harness and used bio-feedback mind commands to load our flight path up on my Microsoft Flight Simulator. Hey, why not? I just want to know where I am, and how things are going, and if our pilot is competent and...well....I soon had the flight setup on the screen and the scenario ready to execute the moment I thought, “go.” Nothing left for me to do until take-off, so I sat up and craned my neck to look around the over-crowded jetliner I would be sharing with several hundred anonymous fellow citizens for the next 6 hours. I was only one or two rows behind the first class section and had a pretty good view of the front of the cabin.
The plane was still boarding, and among the normal and dreary mid-lifers, college pukes, kids and elderly making their way to their itty bitty seats I noticed a cute little girl being wheeled onto the plane, nurse in tow with IV drip and monitors tethered to her tiny frame.
       "Poor kid,” I thought, “I wonder what's wrong with her and why she's flying to LA.”
       I didn't have much time to consider this, however, as I was being spoken to by a thin, balding, bronze-skinned, professional-looking man who was carrying a slim metal attache case.
       “Excuse me, sir,” he began in a heavy Indian accent, “but I believe I sit next to you. 12C is my seat, I must tell you.”
       I hurriedly closed my laptop, leaving the scenario up and ready. I stood, scooting as far back as I could to allow my apparent seat-mate to squeeze past me on the way to his flotation device—I mean, seat. After he sat, and I had repositioned my laptop, I turned to the curry-scented man and made some idle chit-chat.
       I offered my hand, “My name is Peter Bucephalus. And yours?”
       “Nehleash Chaudry, and I am pleased to be meeting you.” we shook hands. We continued our talk and I learned that Nehleash is a neurosurgeon on his way to Los Angeles to assume a post with UCLA as a research fellow. He specialized in neuro-electronic prosthetics. Essentially, he worked on mind controlled false limbs. I then told him about my job and, in response to his quizzical stare, allowed him to examine my laptop and prototype headgear. He seemed suitably impressed with the new skull input harness, which he stated was very similar in design to some of the control systems he'd been working with; and he politely agreed that using Microsoft Flight Simulator to follow our actual flight path on my laptop was...kinda cool.

       Hours passed; take off went without a hitch, and we'd already eaten our peanuts, had lunch, and drank our colas—Diet Coke for me, and Squirt for Nehleash. Squirt? Who'd of thunk? Anyway, I idly noted our current position as calculated by my laptop's flight simulator and then settled down just a tiny bit deeper into the decidedly uninviting chair. I reclined the seat its maximum one or two degrees and tried to lean my head back, futilely attempting to get more comfortable in that flying sardine can. Suddenly I heard excited voices coming from the front of the cabin.
       “You will all sit still in ze seats!” he yelled with a thick French accent, “If you try anything I kill YOU and whoever is sitting next to you as well! Your choice, bourgeois pigs! We are flying to freedom! We are flying to Quebec! Viv la Quebec!”
       Marxist Quebecers? On an American flight from Chicago to LA? In any case, a man with a gun stood at the front of the plane, one arm wrapped around the neck of a flight attendant while the other pointed the barrel of his pistol at her head. Cries of panic rose from the cabin around us. Confusion was threatening to take control, when another man emerged from the cock-pit with the entire flight crew at gun-point. Nehleash and I watched in fearful silence as the copilot and navigator were marched into the forward bathroom by this second hijacker, muttering French curses at the unfortunate crew. The first hijacker let go of the flight attendant and stepped back, training his gun first at the Pilot, who remained outside the bathroom, and then at the flight attendant, who had slumped to the floor sobbing something about overtime pay. The second one, after making sure that the flight crew was secured inside the john, performed the unlikely feat of producing a welding torch from his fanny pack and proceeded to weld the bathroom door shut.
Then, the sick little girl, who had been watching events unfold with a wide, unbelieving stare, suddenly cried out in pain and clutched her chest.
       “Tasha!” cried her nurse, bending over the wheelchair and its frail occupant, “not another heart attack! Not now!”
       The hijacker with the gun, turning momentarily to look at the stricken child and her attendant, was immediately jumped upon by the pilot, who was effectively taking advantage of the distraction. Quickly wresting the pistol from the terrorist, the pilot raised the gun and two quick shots rang out; renewed screams filled the cabin as both the hijackers slumped, lifeless, to the cabin floor. A pool of blood began to spread from the two dead Canadians.
       The pilot, raising his hand above his head, attempted to calm the situation, announcing in a firm but urgent voice, “Everyone, please calm down. The situation is under control.” there was a smattering of applause from those capable of applause considering the terrible events they had just witnessed, and from the hapless flight attendant there was continued sobbing about work conditions and long hours. The nurse had her young ward on the floor and was frantically administering CPR while sniffling back tears of anxiety. Nehleash leaned close to me so that I might hear him above the din and asked,
       "So, friend, please be telling me where your computer says we might be?"
       Tearing my eyes away from the pilot, who was now pulling at the sealed bathroom door while his frightened crew mates pounded loudly from the inside, I scanned my laptop screen. According to Microsoft we were likely passing over LA, and further, according to its estimation, we were probably getting a bit low on fuel. I hurriedly explained the readings to Nehleash, who responded with a muted, “Oh, my gosh!”
       Seconds later an anguished cry rose over the clamor of the chaotic cabin, “She's dead! Oh, Tasha, why?!?” It was the nurse, laying her head upon the unfortunate little girl and weeping uncontrollably. The pilot, startled by the scream, slipped and let go of the bathroom door he had been unsuccessfully wrenching at. He fell back and, with a sickening crack, struck the back of his skull upon the bulkhead opposite the restroom. He flopped unceremoniously face first on the floor making nary a whimper.
       “That man is dead, I would bet my professional reputation upon it this day, I tell you,” whispered Nehleash urgently. The stewardess quit her self-pitying blubbering and crawled to the motionless form of our apparently dead captain; she futilely rolled him over and began shouting in his face, “Paul! Paul! Wake up! Paul, we need someone to fly the plane!” From inside the bathroom one of the two remaining crewmen called out,
       “Christie, what happened to Paul?” and “Let us out of here!”
       Christie the attendant had just reached the same conclusion that Nehleash had come upon just moments before and leaned against the bathroom door heavily.
       “Oh my god.....he's dead. Rich, Paul is dead.”
       “Dead?!?” came the reply from the bathroom, “but with us in here, who's going to land the plane?” The men in the bathroom began pounding on the door with renewed vigor, but the dead Canadian had done far too good a job with his impromptu spot welding and the door, accurately proclaiming itself “occupied,” remained firmly shut.
       At this point, I looked at Nehleash, and he at I. Perhaps we were soul mates in some previous life, because we both spoke at once.
       “I have an idea!” a momentary pause and then,
       “You go first.” I said,
       “No, my friend, YOU go first. I insist.” came the reply.
       “Well,” I began, “maybe I can hook my laptop up to the controls and have it fly us in and land the plane! But....no, that won't work. Someone or something needs to use the yoke and pedals to fly us in. This is an older jet, and it doesn't fly by computer control,” I spoke with certainty, having researched the plane prior to boarding so as to make my Microsoft simulation accurate, “If only I had a robot. I have programs for that.”
       Nehleash nodded hurriedly, “Now for my idea, Peter. Bring your laptop and that skull harness of yours and come with me.” With some urgency, he nudged me out of my seat, and, grabbing his attache case, pushed me down the aisle. I barely had time to grab my laptop and skull harness as he had asked.
We quickly approached the four dead people and two crying women at the front of the plane. Nehleash kneeled down next to the very dead Tasha and pulled me down to join him.
       “This will be the best candidate, I think. She is small, so your laptop will be more likely to produce enough current to provide adequate stimulation.” with that, Nehleash grabbed my skull harness and began pushing it onto the dead little girl's head. The nurse, sitting up and seeing this began protesting,
       “What are you doing? She...she's dead....are you a doctor?” she almost begged Nehleash with her eyes to give her some kind of hope.
“Peter, make sure she does not interfere.” With that, Nehleash opened his attache case and removed a tightly rolled piece of black cloth. He lay it upon the cabin floor and unrolled it, exposing a wide array of hair-thin needles and some small tools that looked for all the world like fancy needle-nose pliers. To the nurse he said, “I am a doctor, ma'am. Please stand back and let me work.”
       “Uh....ok..,” she began, but consternation soon registered on her face and she yelled, “HEY!”
       Nehleash had begun inserting the needles through my prototype skull harness deep into the skull of the dead little girl. I put my hand on the nurse's shoulder reassuringly, although I was none to certain myself. Nehleash spoke over his shoulder distractedly,
       “You should load up the program you were going to use to fly the plane, Peter. Quickly now!”
       I rushed to comply, slowed by the fact that I had to use the keyboard instead of the harness, but soon had Microsoft Flight Simulator and my robotics control software loaded. Moments later, I had linked the two together with a small middleware program. As soon as the middleware began passing data from the flight simulator to the robotics control software, Tasha's arms stuck straight up from her little body where it lay, and her legs mimed operating pedals.
       The stewardess screamed again, and backed up against the far wall of the cabin. Demands to know what was going on issued from the still sealed toilette and the nurse fainted, leaving me with one less thing to worry about as I gently let her down onto the floor next to the dead pilot.
       “Quickly, Peter,” yelled Nehleash as he scooped the now wriggling undead girl up into his arms, “Carry that laptop, and make sure the cables don't get stretched. The harness is not very secure, I think.” I obediently followed close behind into the cabin and watched as Tasha was placed into the pilot seat, her lifeless little fingers wrapped around the flight yoke and her dead feet upon the control pedals.
       “Now, tell your Flight Simulator to land us in LA!”
       Finally understanding what it was we were about, I squatted next to the little girl and tapped at my keyboard madly. I loaded the scenario, consulted the dials and readouts of the real plane to make sure they matched the simulation, and gave the command to bring us in...to LA. Nehleash was saying something into the radio, but I was concentrating on the jerky movements of the very dead Tasha, and I have no idea what he said. As only the walking dead can, our zombie pilot turned our plane around, her lifeless legs pumping the pedals, her rapidly cooling arms expertly operating the yoke.
       Within an hour, a 13 year old girl named Tasha, landed the jetliner safely on the tarmac at LAX, to the cheers of the passengers, and to the confusion of the men in the bathroom. Nehleash and I hugged, the nurse cried, and the flight attendant woke up and began screaming again. Tasha said nothing.

The end.

I am J-Lo at 49

2005-05-29T23:54:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in 2004.
I think I need a new plastic surgeon. I don't need much work, after all, I've kept myself up well over the years and don't think I look a day less than thirty, but I could use a couple little tiny touch-ups and no matter which doctor I go to the result is less than what I deserve.
Tomorrow I'm calling up that nice young man that does Brittney Spears' work to see if he can fit me in sometime in the next few weeks. That asshole who just about butchered my chin last month is lucky I haven't sued him into submission.

Speaking of incompetent people who are dependant on me, what the hell is wrong with my agent, Bernie? He hasn't called me in three months and I'm starting to get a feeling that he might not be trying hard enough to find me the right part. I mean, its all well and good to be the new spokesperson for Stay-Free Hit-Or-Miss Menopause pads (for those months when you just aren't sure you still need one) and I really think that a classy job like durashears infomercial co-hostess is a nice thing for me to do in my spare time, but come on! I still haven't gotten the academy award they fucked me out of all those long years ago, and I'm getting tired of waiting.
I think I'll go cut another album. There's a whole generation of young people that need to hear my timeless message of cheap sex, self centered materializm and public drunkenness that only I can bring to the table. So, Bernie, wherever your jewish ass is, hop to it!
Not that I need any work, after all, my past accomplishments are indeed timeless.
Who could ever forget “The Cell”, or “Gigli”, or my ground-breaking come-back movie, “She Still's Got Booty” (my 2011 return to the direct-to-DVD silver screen).
And my accompanying album, “Vaguely Ethnic, Sexy, and Drunk”, which was poorly understood by the general public and undervalued by the critical establishment, is such a magnum opus that should I never sing again I would still go down in history.

Ah, well. My personal trainer, Chuck, should be over soon. I really need a deep tissue massage, and he's pretty good at it. At first I thought he was straight, but since he doesn't want to have sex with me he must be a flaming gay-wad. Didn't think I would use the word “Gay-wad”? Well I just did, honey.
I'm just THAT amazing.

Anyway, off to the tanning salon after that. This skin doesn't look like leather for nothing, you know.

Thats about all I have to say on this subject, except for botox, female condoms and mercury poisoning are causes I think I can turn to my benefit in a charitable manner.

Big Fish Story

2005-05-29T23:29:00.000-04:00

This story was written in 2003
It is intended for children, so is quite a bit different in tone than my other work.

      Once upon a time there was a small boy named Peter Bucephalus, and this little boy lived in a small house with his parents next to a great, big, dark lake called Lake Formicabed. Peter's bedroom window overlooked the lake, and every night before bed he looked out the window at the lake and would wish that he was a fish.
      Not just any fish, Peter wanted to be a great big fish, the king of all the fishes in Lake Formicabed. You see, Peter and his father had gone fishing many times since they'd moved into the little house, and the fish he caught always looked so happy, so friendly that they'd always thrown them back. Surely it would be fun to live with those happy fish and have reign over their underwater world.
      One night, long after Peter should have been sleeping, long after his parents had gone to sleep, he looked out his window and wished his wish again.
      “I wish I were the great fish king, Peter the Scaley! I would be the best king ever.”
      No sooner had he said this than the water in the middle of the lake began to bubble and spin like water in a drain. A light shone from the depths of lake Formicabed, and a whistling sound began to rise out of the foam. Then, with a loud 'sploosh', the biggest fish Peter had ever seen sprang out of the water and landed smack on the grass outside Peter's window.
      “I heard your wish,” said the big fish, “and I've got to say, I am very relieved!”
      Peter couldn't speak, and just stared. The fish continued,
      “I'm king Glubby the Great and Gargantuan! And I have been working so hard for so long, and I just need a vacation. I have some special magic, and I can make your wish come true for one night while I go and have fun. What do you say?”
      Peter thought about it. Why shouldn't he become king of the fishies?
      “Yes! I would love to become king for a night!”
      As soon as the words came out of his mouth, King Glubby began spinning, chanting, “For one night, and one night only, this event is not to be missed. Make this boy king of Formicabed lake, as soon as he is kissed.” and with that, Glubby jumped up and kissed Peter.
      Peter flew from the window, and hung above the lake. His arms became fins, his legs stuck together and gills sprouted from his neck. Into the lake he went!
      Once in the lake, he was surrounded by fish. They were happy to see him, but not for any reason Peter liked. They were all complaining at once about things. This one was unhappy that his house was next to a slimey spot. That one said his wife had stolen a pretty shell from him. Another one said it was too loud by the clambed since the young clams took up tubaplaying. No wonder Glubby wanted a vacation! Being the king was hard work.
      Peter spent the whole night trying hard to solve everyone's problems. When morning came, Glubby finally appeared next to him.
      “Did you have fun, kid?” asked the Great and Gargantuan.
      “No! I just want to go home!” wailed Peter.
      “Well, thanks for the vacation anyway. So long!”
      Peter began spinning, shooting towards the surface of the lake. His arms grew back, his legs grew back and as he flew out of the water towards his house, the gills dissapeared.
      Peter woke up in his bed and looked around his room. He never ever ever wished he was a king of ANYTHING ever again.
The End.

The Extra Musician of Bremen: MoB part II!

2005-05-29T23:25:00.000-04:00

This story was written in 2004.

      When last we visited the Musicians of Bremen (the MoB), we left our heroes living a life of relative luxury in a palatial estate. A palatial estate they appropriated from a band of brigands our friends encountered while on their way to the city of Bremen—where they had originally planned to live as popular musicians.
      But they never stopped dreaming, and they never stopped practising. Then, one day...
      VRRRRUUUM! VRRRRUUUM! A low slung Harley chopper pulled up to the gates of the MoB estate. Davey the dog looked up from the patio where he had been practicing his drumming and was amazed to see the most collosally huge pig climb off of the motorcycle and slowly look back and forth, scanning the area. The pig was wearing leather chaps, red bandana, dark black sunglasses, a hitler mustache and a guitar strapped to his back with the words, “Born Squealing” stenciled on the side.
      “Hey, lads!” called Davey over his shoulder into the mansion, “take a look at this blighter!”
      Soon, one at a time, the other members of the MoB emerged from the house and lined up to ogle the great porker. Katey the cat, the lead singer of the MoB, was the first to walk up to the gate, followed by Rocky rooster towing his bass guiter.
      “So, like, who ARE you anyway, gross pig thing?” Katey asked around a mouthful of chewing gum.
      The pig took his sunglasses off and cocked his head cockily towards the cock and cat and spat on the ground at their feet.
      “I'm Big Pig. They sometimes call me B.P, right before I tear their fucking heads off. I heard you guys quit the business, and I came to make you an offer.”
      “What kind of an offer, bawk?” asked Rocky
      “Either you can let me join the MoB and we can go on tour, or I can stand here at the gate and mock you mercilessly with impovised songs of derision from now until the end of time.”
      Duck Donkey, the keyboardist and the leader of the band, walked up behind his bandmates and protectively placed his hooves on their shoulders.
      “We don't do gigs anymore, man. We don't gotta, and we're all settled here. We don't live the life no more.”
      Davey the dog had finally gotten up to the gate, and, looking back and forth between Duck and BP, said, “Speak for yourself, you bloody great ass. I think its high time we get on the road again. This place has gotten deadly dull these past days.”
      Duck sighed, looking at each MoB in turn, “Well, crew, what'll it be?”
      “Well, like, lets hear what Big Pig can do, right? It's, like, SO prematu-re to make plans without knowing.”
      With that, BP unslung his guitar, and began laying down the most deadly, demonic, rocking licks the MoB had ever heard. There were scintillating highs, terrifying lows, and bridges that seemed to arch from hell to heaven. Katey let loose with a grinding yowl of sexual need in response to the urgent, turgid wailing. Duck bobbed his great head along with the implied rhythms, and Davey tapped out a pattern on his thigh, enveloped as he was by the music of BP. When BO was finally done, Duck was the first to say, “Fuck, yeah! Lets do this!”
      So the band left their estate behind, and with Donkey pulling the cart, the musicians headed towards Bremen, where they had many adventures, had lots of sex, did lots of drugs, went into lots of rehab, and then became a lot of has-beens. They eventually went back to their estate and lived out their lives in wistfull, nostalgic solitude. But if you should happen to pass through that area you can still hear MoB and the BP screaming their defiance in a musically unique and driven way.
The End

News that May Save Your Life

2005-05-29T16:23:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in 1999
The engine in my Ford Focus is growing cold and my neighbor, making yet another pass by my car while following his circuitous lawn-mowing route, glances in my direction. He is wondering why, minutes after pulling up my driveway, I am still sitting in my car, vaguely staring off into the distance. He doesn’t understand because he is still one of the unfortunates who has yet to discover the joys of NPR--National Public Radio--news. I smile reassurances in his direction.

Satisfied by that momentary acknowledgment that I am not drugged-out or ill, he turns his full attention back to his precious lawn-care. The story I was listening to, an engaging and detailed look into the political ramifications of former Indonesian President Soharto’s dismissal from court as being too ill to stand trial, finishes and I hurriedly wrench the ignition key from the “accessory” position to “off”; I must not allow myself to hear the beginning of the next story, as my wife would very much like to see me in person this evening.

I slowly climb out of my car, my back a bit stiff from the long drive, and walk steadily into the house and hug my wife. After dinner is eaten, we both settle down onto the couch to watch a little TV before bed. A quick flick through the on-screen guide, and we settle on a sit-com we both find palatable. I’d only just set the remote control down onto the coffee table when a deep, grave voice announces: “Find out what local area business may be taking YOU for a ride you may not survive--tune in at 11 for details!”. I look up involuntarily and catch a few speedy shots of what looks like the inside of a garage somewhere. At this point I am struck, as I often am these days, by the huge difference between what passes for news on TV and the exemplary fare offered by our local NPR news station. Indeed, while the majority of Detroiters happily absorb what is fancifully called "news" by the ratings-hungry and reckless commercial TV networks, a few weeks of listening to NPR radio news programming would quickly reveal to them, by comparison, just how self-serving and sensationalist NBC, ABC, CBS and FOX newscasts really are.

The producers of Network TV news believe that their tireless efforts put a face on the news, bringing the sights and imagery of the people and places featured in the stories they tell into the viewer’s home. They rightfully believe that the audience is attracted to the beautiful men and women who sit behind the desks and present the information, and they are likewise drawn in by the expressive and opinionated voices used to impart the news.

However, these networks need to retain viewers on behalf of their corporate sponsors in order to make money; hence, they seek to engage the audience with sensational news and with information they think will shock or scandalize them. Meanwhile, they claim to simply be delivering the news and to be providing a valuable public service. NPR’s news service, in contrast, has no one to answer to but the audience itself. They rely on listener contributions for the majority of their operating expenses and are obligated to serve the public good--not the corporate greed. As a result, it should be no surprise that TV news is manipulative and sensationalist in comparison to NPR news. Examine the all-too-frequent demand that the viewer "Tune in at 11 for news that may save your life." Simply put, if network news departments were in possession of news needed to save a persons life, and they refused to surrender the details until 11pm, they would, technically, be guilty of criminal negligence. From this simple bit of legal logic, therefore, it is obvious that the TV news department has engaged in sensationalism. They have taken news which may be interesting, but couldn’t realistically be termed life-threatening, and they have exaggerated its importance to the viewer in order to entice them to “tune in at 11" and watch some commercials with a smattering of news in-between them. Other than as satire, an NPR commentator would never be heard saying such tripe. Furthermore, TV news services are frequently guilty of blowing situations out of proportion. Last year, for instance, there was a list of doctors, grossly delinquent in repaying their student loans, whose names were posted on a government web site. TV News quickly labeled it the "dead-beat-doctors" list, and scoured the yellow pages looking for local doctors appearing on that list. Consequently, there were no less than four news-trucks assigned to staking out one middle-aged dentist's office in Warren because he owed $200,000. This might be a lot of money, but did it require that the neighboring businesses be subjected to what amounts to journalistic terrorism as the TV crews attempted to bully their way into their premises and “interview” people who might possibly know the indebted dentist? Did the subject matter justify a half-hour exposé on the evening news? WDET, Detroit’s local NPR station, contributed a thirty second story about the list of doctors to that evening’s national news show. This was a more realistic representation of the subject’s newsworthiness. When all was said and done, WDET never mentioned any doctors by name, nor were their reporters part of the rabid pack of wolves that physically chased the dentist to his car and subsequently pursued him in their vans as he drove home.

Even had the hapless doctor granted those jackals an interview, it would surely have been heavily edited so as to present the doctor as a veritable Satan’s lapdog of a man. It would not be characteristic of them to even entertain the notion of showing that dentist’s side of the story in a fair light. Indeed, TV news is usually one sided and, more often than not, reduces a complicated story, like the high-gas prices of earlier this year, to a collection of one-sided or self-serving sound bytes. FOX2 news, supposedly an impartial journalistic organization, actually attempted to garner viewer support by endorsing--and pursuing, for Gods sake!--a "repeal the state gas tax" campaign. This wasn't only self-serving ratings based journalism; it was a partisan and possibly misguided political action. No opposing viewpoints were ever presented, or even acknowledged. As a result, anyone exclusively loyal to FOX2 News would have had no choice but to conclude that not only were gas prices high only because of the state gas tax, but that the only reasonable answer to the problem would be to repeal that tax immediately! In contrast, NPR's evening news show, All Things Considered, presented a full-length story covering many of the possible causes of the high-prices. While they did interview some people who thought, as FOX2 did, that tax relief was a possible answer, there were other experts consulted. Some of these advised that national petroleum reserves should be tapped, but others maintained that Americans are basically spoiled brats who brought the problem on themselves, should pay the high prices and should just quit whining about it. Accordingly, all the various viewpoints were presented without any bias. As usual, people on every side of the issue commented that they thought NPR was biased against their particular point of view—a sure sign of true impartiality!

In their defense, it may be said that the characteristic one-sidedness of television news may be brought about by their colossal time constraints. Perhaps they just don’t have time to show both sides; after all, TV news never goes into enough detail to adequately inform a truly interested observer about one side, let alone both. They operate under commercial obligations to perforate their broadcasts with advertisements, leaving them with only a portion of their already inadequate, one-hour time allotment within which to deliver substantial news coverage. These strictures force TV news to rush through most stories at a breakneck pace. Presidential campaign speeches are usually reduced to a 10-20 second sound byte, which is inevitably taken out of context and stripped of its original meaning. NPR, however, will often play at least a minute or two of any important speech, and will have commentary on what that excerpt means from two opposing points of view.

This balanced approach allows a thoughtful individual to come to his or her own conclusions. This is diametrically opposed to TV news, which often tries to help their viewers form meaningful opinions by giving them cues in the form of newscasters’ facial expressions, body language, and tone of voice. Consequently, a TV audience member knows exactly how to feel on any given subject and can avoid undue confusion or thought; indeed, the appropriate feelings are all modeled to them like so much French lingerie by that beautiful person sitting behind the desk.

To understand why these differences exist, it is necessary to ask why commercial TV stations even offer news to begin with. Network TV stations were originally given their licenses to broadcast over the public airwaves for free. At the time, they were told that in exchange for this veritable bonanza they were required to provide news and public service announcements for the public good. At first, much of TV journalism was balanced and important, and represented an honest attempt to fulfill that obligation to the public, but as TV shows became more and more expensive to produce, advertising fees failed to increase proportionally to cover the added operating expense. As a result, TV news became much more profitable in comparison to prepared programming, as it is cheap to produce the news and easy to sell it to advertisers. Nowadays a commercial network may make the lion’s share of their commercial revenue through the advertising dollars gained during the news broadcasts which were, originally, intended to fulfill their public service obligation. In order to keep bringing in that money they must guarantee viewers to their sponsors; however, delivering impartial news is incompatible with that new, purely monetary, goal. NPR, on the other hand, is beholden to no one but its listeners. They have, and they exercise, the freedom to deliver timely, complete and balanced news and information without fear of retribution from a marketing department. Indeed, listen to NPR for a week and watching network television may become a frustrating and painful ordeal. The superiority of its comparatively thorough, balanced, and broad-based news coverage may prove addictive and could turn a body off of TV news forever, as it has this author. One word of caution, however: once hooked, NPR will ask a listener to donate a small amount towards their support, but would anyone begrudge them this pittance, if in exchange they receive such a superlative wealth of information?


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Die With a T!

2005-05-29T16:20:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in 1998.
The dollar goes in, a button is pressed, and moments later an aluminum cylinder is deposited in a plastic chute with a "thump-thump!" noise. Transaction complete, I wander off with the cold, sweating can in my greedy clutches. While plain, old water is probably more beneficial to the human body, many people choose, as I just did, to drink carbonated soft drinks. Once that choice is made, what remains is the decision between diet and regular cola.
A trio of diet colas!
Once upon a time that can would have been filled with regular, sugar-filled cola for me, but not anymore. Far too many people choose regular soft drinks which soak their teeth in syrupy sugar, jack their bodies with a large dose of sucrose when it least expects it, and produce sticky, bug-infested, piles of empty cans. While diet cola, which has no sugar and no calories, is not actually good, it is very much the lesser of two evils and as such is my choice in beverages.

There are those who claim that the chemicals used to "sweeten" a diet soft drink are hazardous to your health. To them, the statement that a natural substance, such as sugar, is superior to any kind of synthetic chemicals is a no-brainer. Perhaps in the case of Saccharine, a sweetener now found only in TAB, they might be right. But aspartame, aside from those few who are allergic to certain chemicals it contains, is a wholly benign compound which has withstood two and a half decades of extensive studies--many of which were commissioned by those who oppose its use! And unlike sugar, which is hardly natural in the crystallized white form we use every day, aspartame doesn’t affect your blood sugars or rot your teeth. Another source of popular dislike for diet cola is a supposed "after-taste" experienced after partaking. On the contrary, I find the effect to be the opposite! The sugary, syrupy, gummy aftertaste I get from regular pop creates a compulsion to go rinse my mouth out in a hurry, or to brush my teeth poste haste!
Bullet calmly watches over the toothpaste.
Diet cola, on the other hand, leaves no aftertaste in my mouth and can be drunken while driving without fear of "yuck-mouth" developing by the time you arrive at your destination. Another reason that some dislike diet cola is that it isn't sweet enough. But any diet cola drinker quickly learns to look at the bottom of a can before opening it; if the expiration date is more than a month in the past you may be drinking a bitter can of seltzer water! Most diet colas consumed before their expiration date will be refreshing and slightly sweet, with virtually no calories at all.

But my reasons for drinking diet cola aren't really dietary. While I could stand to lose a few pounds, I am not obsessed by my weight and spend little time thinking about calories. I have other, more pressing reasons. One such reason is that I like my nice, white teeth. As a teenager, I drank regular pop almost exclusively and soon developed bad teeth, even though I brushed them in the morning and in the evening. Perhaps this twice-daily regimen didn’t constitute adequate brushing, but surely it should have prevented at least some of the myriad cavities that I was plagued with throughout my adolescence. I switched to diet cola when I was 19, and I am proud to say I haven't had even one additional cavity since. Perhaps there are other reasons for this cessation in tooth rotting activity, but I can't think of any other change in my eating or oral hygiene habits that might have had this welcome result.

The experimental shirt with cola. Another good reason to drink diet cola, to my mind, is what I call “the stain issue.” Take this test yourself: pour some regular, sugary Pepsi or Coca Cola on a white shirt. Blot it dry with a towel, and then wear it for a few hours. This is a good simulation of what happens if cola is accidentally spilled on one’s shirt during lunch. Dr. Science!Now try to wash that stuff out—and good luck! Perform that same ritual with diet Pepsi or diet Coke. I am no chemist and haven’t an adequate explanation of why; but somehow that diet cola always comes right out in the wash, while the regular stuff saddles you with a stain forever. Dr. Science might say that the sweet sugar molecules are the molecular equivalent of homesteaders, driving the natives from the fibers and putting up little strip-malls. But he’s not a real doctor, and neither am I. An explanation is not forthcoming from this quarter, but that stain certainly is.

You may infer from that last point that I may not be the most careful or graceful of human specimens. And, indeed, it would be only a slight exaggeration to say that I could’ve been voted “most likely to require toe amputation” in my high school yearbook. A few spills here and there are just part of my package. Therefore, another important reason for me to drink the diet stuff is floor stickies; that’s right, floor stickies.Stickies in the making! Spill a half-can of regular soda on the floor and then mop it up. Wait about, oh, half an hour. Now, walk across the spot where the pop was spilled. There’s a reason for that sickening, ripping, tearing noise and the accompanying tendency for your feet to stubbornly resist further movement. All the sugar that couldn’t be wiped up has now congealed into a layer of gum and has turned the floor into an oversized, linoleum sheet of flypaper. Diet cola, on the other hand, is about as sticky as water—that is, not at all. A quick wipe with a dry paper towel is all that is required, and even a rinse is optional; that floor will be blissfully free of the infernal glue that is sugar, unless someone else pours some regular soda there afterwards.

And if that regular pop hadn’t been meticulously cleaned up after the last experiment, some unwelcome visitors might have soon come along to help out with the clean-up. Yep, I’m talking about bugs. Yet another compelling reason not to drink regular soda. There is nothing on this earth that an ant likes better than sugar, and regular cola slicks have it in spades. As proof, here’s another experiment! Grab two cans of soda, one regular and the other diet, and step outside. Take a gander around, and try to find an anthill. Diabolical. Evil. Socialists. Ants.Watch the ants for a while, that’s what I always do. Aren’t they fascinating? Happy, little, socialist masses, working hard for the proletariat, they toil and toil endlessly. They deserve this little treat; first, pour some regular cola on the ground about one foot away from the anthill. Second, pour some of the diet cola on the ground; only this time, pour it only six inches from the anthill. Wait a few moments, and it will soon be clear what the ants’ preference is. While some ants investigate the diet slick, and occasionally make trips there to retrieve what they think is water, they will literally swarm on and around the regular cola with abandon; they see that regular cola as a very convenient and abundant source of food. Congratulations on furthering the exploits of the colony! But if that regular drink should get spilled in the kitchen, it may soon come to pass that these ants, or some ants very much like them, will be traveling out of their way to take that wasted sugar off the hands of the bourgeoisie homeowner.

Ants aren’t the only bug that like the regular stuff, either. Ever wonder why the bottle flies like to hang out by the company can-catcher? Ever been bothered by persistent buzzing noises when trying to return used cans at the store?Flies! O my! Fruit flies, gnats, bottle flies, and any number of other flying insects love it when people forget to wash out their regular soda cans. Baby flies. Aren't thay cute?Tinier creatures, like bacteria and mold, also find cans and bottles an agreeable lattice upon which to festoon their progeny. If a person wants to avoid having little creatures breed in their empties, they must wash each can out thoroughly in the sink before storing it. This is a waste of time, and also a waste of water. With a diet drink, one need only shake it out a bit, so as to avoid dribblies, and place it in the can catcher. As the remaining diet cola dries, it leaves nothing but food coloring and a bit of residue. No bug, microbe or fungus would ever be attracted to it, and that suits me just fine.

I won’t deny it; all of regular cola’s detriments, with the exceptions of the hundred calories per can and the affects drinking it has on a body’s blood sugar, can be avoided through effort and forethought. Dirty cans can be cleaned, spills can be carefully avoided and, if a person is packing a travel kit, teeth can be brushed after each can is consumed. But cleaning cans is a dirty job, and besides which, it’s a waste of time and water. Aaaahhh.....so refreshing.And sometimes spills can’t be helped, especially when people like Joe Whited are taken into account. Finally, brushing multiple times thoughout the day is a pursuit fit only for the obsessive compulsives among us. So, while there are those who think that diet cola has an unwelcome aftertaste, isn’t sweet enough, and may not be natural enough, I say drink the diet! The benefits, convenience and, in my opinion, the lack of any discernable sticky aftertaste make diet the choice for the clumsy, lazy and dentally conscious among us!

A Matter of Weeks

2005-05-29T16:17:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in 2000.
At 20 years of age, I had experienced relatively little in my adult life, and not only because I had been an adult for such a short time. Socially introverted, I had gone through adolescence without dating, with only a small cadre of friends and with my primary entertainments being video games and science fiction. My closest companion was a cat named Mittens, and he was 16 years old.

I vaguely remember when we got him from the Macomb County Humane Society. I don’t remember picking him out, and I don’t remember the inside of the building. My only memory is the ride home, with that little tiger striped kitten sitting in my lap, cradled within the brown fuzziness of my mother’s winter hat. I looked into his quite possibly frightened, huge, green eyes and proclaimed his new name to my mom.

“His name is Mittens!” I said, stroking his head in that brutal and clumsy way only a four year old would think was gentle.

“But this kitten doesn’t have any mittens, Joey!” And Mom was right. From the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose, the kitten was a uniform pattern of yellow and orange stripes. But some weeks before, Mom had taken me to the public library and had gotten out a children’s book, which featured a black cat with white paws that was named, aptly enough, Mittens. I loved that story and refused to consider any other name for my new kitten.

“But his name is Mittens. He doesn’t need to have mittens.” According to what Mom says now, this conversation went on for a while, but in my memories that was the end of it. He was Mittens from then on.

Mittens proved to be an unusual cat. He formed his strongest bond with me, the little blond child, instead of Sue, the much calmer and gentler mother. Mittens would follow me around the house, put up with my rough affections and would sleep at my side each night. I talked to him and read him Dr. Suess books. Recited them, actually. I couldn’t read yet, but I had memorized the words to “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.” It’s doubtful that Mittens cared about the story or the rhymes, but he seemed happy enough to hear my piping, little voice.

So loyal was he that If I went away for more than a day Mittens would run away and wouldn’t come back until I returned.

After returning from a week of visiting my father on one such occasion, Mittens sauntered in the door and Mother told me, “He was out looking for you,” I frantically squeezed the big, orange cat, “now he thinks he found you, and he’s happy!” In retrospect, I am less certain that Mittens was looking for me, and now consider it more likely that he simply wasn’t interested in anything in that house while I was gone.

As I grew, Mittens meant more and more to me as we shared our lives. When I was 12, he sat on my lap and gazed adoringly up at my face while I typed away on the family’s first computer. As I reached 15, he would sit in my room patiently as my stereo blasted his sensitive, little kitty ears, happy to endure the noise so long as he was close to his Joey. At 17, I would talk about him to my friends. Not long after my 18th birthday, I was posting made-up stories about Mittens’ adventures on a Prodigy bulletin board every day. I talked to the cat. I sang to that cat. I even made up silly songs about that cat.

When I was 19, and Mittens a healthy and active 15, my grandfather Vick passed away. After the family had returned from the funeral home, I stood in the kitchen and confided to my stepfather, Tom, “I don’t think I felt anything. I know I was supposed to be sad, but I’m sorry.... I wasn’t. Happy or sad, that is.”

Mittens had come up from the basement and had leapt onto the kitchen chair next to me. I absently stroked his round head. As the low drone of his broken motorboat purr wafted up from below, Tom replied, “You’ll understand a little about death when that cat dies. You’ll see.”

Mittens? Die? I’d always had Mittens, and he was still healthy. He would live for YEARS yet.

A year passed by. As I said in the beginning, I was 20 years old and inexperienced. I stood in my basement and watched Mittens stagger drunkenly towards me from the pillow he had been restlessly lying on. His back legs couldn’t move right, and he wove from side to side. Secondary eyelids half closed in pain, he still struggled to get to his Joey, purring half-heartedly. I’d taken Mittens to the hospital several days before because he wasn’t eating, had sat in one spot for a whole day, and wouldn’t come to the sound of his name. The doctor told me that his kidneys had failed him, but he would see what he could do. After much effort, the doctor de-toxified his system and gave me supply of prescription cat food. He told me that I might be able to keep the cat alive for another year if I fed him only this special food, and he sent Mittens home with me. But as I swept the frail, little cat into my arms, I knew that doctor Nelson had lied to me. This cat was in so much pain that he couldn’t open his eyes, could barely walk, and wouldn’t eat. I looked at our reflection in the wall sized mirror mounted behind the bar there in the basement. It was a reflection of a dying cat and his man. How very tiny Mittens looked in my large embrace! All those years I thought he was a big cat. But he had never been big.... I had just been smaller. Ironically, I never felt smaller than at that very moment. Mittens would be better off dead; that was single hardest decision I had ever made, and one that, in my cowardice and sorrow, I couldn’t follow through on by myself.

I begged my stepbrother, Gerald, to take him to the hospital for me. I couldn’t see through the tears, couldn’t stop sobbing, and told him I couldn’t drive in that state. I helped put Mittens in the cat-carrier and said goodbye. Watching Gerald drive down the street, I collapsed against the house and tried unsuccessfully to say goodbye in my heart. I found out later that Gerald was almost as unhappy as I, but had been much better at holding it in, much better at hiding it from the family. I’ve never forgiven myself for making Gerald take Mittens to die that Saturday.

Understandably, I wasn’t the most amusing guy to be around in the following week or two. I went to the house of my friend, Scott, to play cards the following Wednesday, just as I had every Wednesday since high school. Tim, Matt, Erich, and my best friend at the time, John, were all there, my only friends in the world, and I was hoping they might be able to cheer me up. Heather, Scott’s pretty younger sister, would also be there. She, with her short, straight hair, bright hazel eyes and penchant for wearing a conservative jean-and-T-shirt ensemble, was one girl I always liked to talk to, and thought about fairly often. She was four years younger than us, and would often bring me food and drink if I asked nicely.

“What the fuck is wrong with you anyway, Joe?” came from across the card table. This was from the wise-ass, Tim. He was the sort of person who only seemed happy when someone else was being laughed at. Normally, we would trade mock-insults the entire evening, trying to out-do one another. But my mind had a cat shaped hole in it, and I wasn’t up to the normal verbal sparring.

“I told you, my cat just died! Give me a break.” but they didn’t give me a break. I got no sympathy from them, and proceeded to endure their insults for the rest of the evening.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” Heather asked as I left the house an hour earlier than normal. I didn’t trust myself to answer her, so I silently walked past her, drove home, flopped into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours.

Saturday came. One whole week had passed without Mittens, and I wanted to go out with my best friend, John, to Metro Park, which was our Summer-time weekend ritual. We would walk the trails, look at girls, and shoot the bull for hours about nothing. Just the thing to get my mind off Mittens! I called John’s house and got no answer. Maybe he was at one of the other guys’ house? I called Scott’s house, and spoke with Heather.

“I don’t know where he went,” came her pleasant voice from the phone, “His car is gone, though. Do you want me to have him call you when he gets back?”

“Sure. Thanks. See you Wednesday, probably.”

Next, I called Tim, but his mother said he’d gone out, and she didn’t know where. There was no one home at Erich’s house, and Matt’s father had no idea where Matt was. Where was everybody?

Uncertain of what to do, and too depressed to stay at home, I drove to John’s house on the off chance that he was working outside and hadn’t heard the phone ringing. I pulled up into his driveway and walked slowly up to his door. Dark silence almost radiated from the empty house. I knocked a few times anyway, and then turned hesitantly back towards my car, face screwed up in puzzlement. That’s when I noticed the cars parked in the street. Erich’s truck, Matt’s little Chevette, Scott’s Malibu and Tim’s old Cutlass were all neatly lined up across the street. Only John’s car was missing from the line-up. The inescapable conclusion was that they all drove somewhere in John’s car. I wondered where they had all gone off to, but told myself I wasn’t that concerned. I can’t remember what I did for the rest of that day, but it likely involved lots of driving and video games.

The next day I visited John at home. We sat on his front stoop and watched the neighbor kids play in the street.

“So, where were you guys, anyway?” I asked, feigning indifference.

“Ah, we just went to Port Huron.” he looked away from me, not meeting my eyes, and threw the grass he’d been chewing down towards the lawn.

“What did you do up there?” I asked in confusion as I thought, “What in the world is in Port Huron?”

“We just sat around. You know, just wasted time. You didn’t miss much.”

Still, he wasn’t meeting my gaze, and I was perplexed. We hung out for a while and then I left, my butt damp from the cold, concrete stoop.

On the following Wednesday, card night again, I arrived a little late to Scott’s house. I lingered downstairs for a bit, talking to Heather, before going up to join the guys. Something seemed to be bothering her, but I wasn’t sure. Ah, well. I climbed the stairs, listening to the laughter of my friends who were already there, and I walked into the room smiling and ready to play. They were already at the card table, but instead of cards, they were passing around photographs. Curious, I walked behind Tim and craned my neck over his shoulder. There, on the table, was a celluloid sheet with an image of Tim, Erich, John and Matt in front of the gates at Cedar Point.

“When did you guys go to Cedar Point?” I asked, suspicion and a burgeoning hurt bubbling up as I anticipated the answer. Tim looked around the table at the rest of the gang, as if seeking tacit approval to be the one who explained the situation. No one else spoke up, so he finally set the pictures down and looked up at me.

“We went Saturday. We decided at the last minute to go, and couldn’t track you down fast enough, so went without you. You shoulda been there! It was great!” I wasn’t so sure about this story; especially given the bald-faced lie John had told me on Sunday. Listening to their stories about the rides, hearing about the things that happened to them on the trip, and enduring their retelling of the conversations they had and the jokes they told to one another, I felt confused and a little hurt. My AT&T answering machine was sometimes a bit flaky, so it is possible they might’ve had a hard time leaving a message. But I had been home the entire evening that Friday, and no one had called.

Later, as we all trickled out on our way home, I bumped into Heather downstairs.

“Call me later,” she whispered as her brother walked past us and into the bathroom, “I don’t want to talk in front of Scott.” My heart skipped a beat. Heather was, as I said, four years younger than I, but very pretty. I had been attracted to her since she was fourteen, but I was too shy and felt too old to talk to her. Age difference not withstanding, I was immediately filled with hope that perhaps she was interested in me, and I raced home. The Cedar Point incident, nearly forgotten in my testosterone-crazed ambition, was the last thing on my mind as I ran into my house and tore off to my basement to use the phone in private.

My fingers shook slightly, and my heart dashed against the inside of my chest as I dialed Scott’s-I mean Heather’s-phone number. She answered on the first ring, and as soon as I said hello in my wavering, nervous voice, she began speaking.

“I thought you should know: they planned that Cedar Point trip Wednesday after you left. They didn’t want you to go because they thought you would be too depressing to have around, and they all agreed not to let you know about it,” she paused, and as if to answer my next possible question, she rushed on, “I found out about it tonight, or I would’ve told you Saturday when you called.”

My heart, which had been racing with hope, stopped beating altogether and sank towards the floor with alarming rapidity. A year earlier, the guys had gotten Heather to call me and pose on the phone as another girl whom I had then liked. That had been a cruel and hurtful prank, and Heather had apologized, promising never to lie to me again. So I believed her when she told me about that trip to Cedar Point. The revelation struck me silent momentarily. My friends had, because I was “depressed”, planned a fun trip to Cedar Point, and had conspired to keep all knowledge of it from me. My “best” friend, John, had lied to me about it, though not very well. And then Tim lied about the circumstances surrounding their trip. I felt very, very lonely at that moment. Mittens was gone, and so were all my friends. With nothing left to lose, I found I needed no courage to ask the next question.

“So, do you wanna go out to a movie tomorrow night?”

…

We “dated” for two weeks, and during that time I was, for all intents and purposes, happy. But Heather never seemed very comfortable around me, and she let me go on a Saturday.

I arrived at her house to pick her up for a date, and she met me on the front porch with a concerned expression on her face.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” she blurted out. I somehow knew this was coming as soon as I saw her standing there with that strangely intent expression. My chin began to dimple involuntarily as my face began tugging my mouth into a grimace. I fought off the sob and asked in a shaky voice,

“But, why?” But I knew why. I was 20, and she was 16. On several occasions she’d alluded to the fact that this was an arrangement that made her most uncomfortable, and it had now come to a head.

“I just can’t handle the age difference Joe. I’m sorry.” There. She’d said it outright. My mind flailed, searching for something I could say to change her mind. Unable to think of anything on my own, I sought assistance from the only person nearby. Her.

“Is there anything I can do to change this? Can I do anything?” Her answer was to sadly shake her head.

In a matter of weeks, my life had changed three times over. It had been Saturday, death, Saturday, betrayal and Saturday, heartbreak. I learned a little about life that summer, and while I do not regret those lessons, I would never voluntarily repeat them again. Certainly, I’ll someday experience the death of loved one, but because of Mittens I may be a bit more prepared for how that will feel. Betrayal has visited me since but my calluses, thickened by my former friends, protected me well. Finally, heartbreak is a fact of life that can never crush hope, a lesson learned from the incomparable Heather. These are things I needed to learn someday, but was forced to learn all at once that summer. Lessons learned all in a matter of weeks.

Whats on TV

2005-05-29T16:14:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in 1999.
Viewing television--also known as TV--has become all the rage in North America lately. This new technology allows people to travel far beyond the bounds of their little worlds, effectively bringing the places and events of the world at large into sharp focus. But, as more and more American families bring these new-fangled TV sets into their lives, it becomes apparent that their very manner of partaking in this new pastime has countless variations; moreover, the execution of this habit has even been found to variate to some degree within the confines of a nuclear family. This essay will produce for the reader a few examples of the inexplicably dissimilar viewing habits of a typical American couple.

First, picture a small living room in a small house. A well-used, 23 year old couch sits, throw blanket draped across its rear cushions, with it’s back against one wall. If a person sitting on that couch would but turn their head to the right they would find themselves gazing out a large picture window at the surrounding neighborhood through five foot long vertical blinds. the 23 year old couch!A glance to the left would show them a small fish tank, the hall leading to the kitchen, and a sturdy old Baldwin piano with clean simple lines which harken back to the era of the Bauhaus. These vistas are, for good or bad, most often ignored. Why? Because directly across from that elderly elmwood sofa is a monolithic entertainment center, complete with its primary occupant, a 25" GE television. Its warm glow fills the room at night, and the two people who dwell here gaze at it for a couple hours in the darkness, seeking mindless relief from their daily toils. These two--let’s call them J and H for now–together seek some of their entertainment from their TV. Observation would soon reveal that they exhibit very different interests in what they watch; however, a perceptive observer might also note that these two have many similarities as well.

Now, an observation of viewing methodology. Consider subject J. J works for a professional services company and, as sometimes occurs, has returned home from work several hours earlier than H, who labors in a hospital setting and works late hours on occasion. After feeding the family pets and changing his clothes he plops down, cross-legged, onto the floor in front of the couch. Soon the television is activated and he’s enjoying reruns of the Simpsons while playing with his cat,Odo on J's knee. Odo. On other days he has been known to disassemble something that might have been carelessly left within his reach by H. Many such incidents have ended with J covered in splotches of ink, or surrounded by bits of paper. But today he simply tussles with Odo and rocks to and fro, listening to–and frequently glancing up at--the television as Homer and Bart embark upon some silly adventure. Soon, H walks through the front door and scolds J for sitting too close to the TV. This otherwise sound advice is soon rendered unnecessary as J--television momentarily forgotten--leaps to his feet and jumps up-and-down with happiness at H’s arrival. Minutes later, H is moving about the house and J has returned to watching TV. H will likely gather the day’s mail to read, or the dog to play with, and will sit on the couch and patiently wait for J’s show to end before claiming her right to the remote. At that point a concerted effort will be made by each to find a program that they both find acceptable; this is a difficult, but not impossible, enterprise.

Next, consider H. H works in a hospital setting and, as sometimes occurs, has returned home from work earlier than J, who labors for a professional services company and works late hours on occasion. After feeding the family pets, she sits on the couch in her work clothes, wrapped in a blanket, hugging her knees in front of her. She flips through the channels looking for something interesting, and settles on some medical documentary, preferably with many close-ups of bloody body cavities. Soon, J walks through the front door, greets H and, as soon as he notices the TV show, loudly proclaims the “gross”ness of the subject matter. TGross Operation Show!he scolding is soon ignored as H, television momentarily forgotten, leaps to her feet and hugs J in celebration of his arrival. Minutes later, J is moving about the house and H has returned to watching TV. J will likely gather a magazine or book to read, or a handheld video game or cat to play with, and will sit on the couch to patiently wait for H’s show to end before claiming his right to the remote. At that point a concerted effort is made by each to find a program that they both find acceptable; this is an undeniably difficult, but not impossible, enterprise.

These scenarios are both commonplace, though not universal, and demonstrate how the methodology of TV viewing for H and J are quite different. J, for instance, tends to be a bit more active while watching TV, but not more productive. At times, he is even involuntarily destructive if left unsupervised. In contrast, H seems to be a more controlled and calm viewer. She also tends to have a bit more flexibility in which shows are viewed. J, however, is a creature of habit who will watch the same shows, at the same time, every day if at all possible. But both J and H will watch a show of their own choosing while awaiting the arrival of their mate; likewise, both J and H will attempt to complete their chosen show even after the other has joined them within the dwelling. And finally, both H and J will attempt to find a viewing selection considered permissible by both parties.

As hinted at by the shows which were chosen by H and J in the above methodology scenarios, each member of this couple has very different viewing tastes. J’s tastes tend to favor absurdist, satirical, or satirically absurdist humor. The Simpsons, a popular “animated” show referenced previously, is an example of the latter combination of absurdity and satire. The Upright Citizens Brigade, promoted as “seriously f*?&ed up sketch comedy,” is another.Upright Citizens Brigade He also appears to enjoy science and nature shows--provided they are not hosted by people with British accents and do not endorse superstitions like psychic powers or ghosts. Also enjoyable to J are programs dealing with history, so long as they do not center on either World War II or Adolf Hitler. This stipulation is not put in place because WWII and/or Hitler make him feel guilty, angry, or outraged, but merely because he is “sick of seeing black and white pictures of Nazis goose-stepping.” He naively thinks that historical, scientific or naturalistic programming can actually teach him something, or help him develop in some way other than pelvic width. COPS is filmed on location with the men and women....H, on the other hand, thinks absurdist comedy is often stupid, and quickly grows bored with edutainment programming which, in her opinion, never goes into enough detail to teach anybody anything worthwhile; instead, H’s favorite programs tend to be based on reality. Her long time favorites include “COPS”, “Trauma Life in the ER” and “Animal ER”. She also appears to enjoy biographical documentaries of popular personalities such as VH1's “Behind the Music” and “Where are They Now?” J thinks that real gore and blood are repulsive, and becomes disturbed and depressed when actual death is shown on TV. He also has little interest in the lives of popular musicians or actors who, in his opinion, neither deserve nor need his personal attention.

There are times when J’s or H’s choice of programming, and the methodology selected for the presentation, are employed as a means of performing a joke or prank upon their counterpart. An example of this phenomenon is the following morning ritual performed by J. Every weekday morning at 7:00am, CHiPs reruns are aired on TNT. Provided H is still sleeping peacefully, J will blare the funky disco-era CHiPs theme music as loud as he can stand it–much to H’s annoyance! Another example of TV based practical joking is exemplified by H innocently asking J to, “check it out,” while gesturing at the television the precise moment a nauseating surgical operation, such as a vasectomy, penile catheterization, or cataracts removal is being displayed in all its organic beauty. While both these pranks differ in execution, they do not differ in their intention: to use the TV to force the other to experience TV programming which they otherwise would avoid. It may be difficult for most individuals to accept this sort of visual ambush as humor, but J and H continue this behavior to this day.

Besides all this, there do occur moments of TV agreement, unlikely as that may seem. As an example, consider that J and H have fundamentally the same taste in situation comedies. Both enjoy "Drew Carey", "King of Queens" and "Everybody Loves Raymond"; furthermore, they both generally reserve their greatest reservoirs of dislike and hatred for the same programs, such as the popular sitcoms "Friends" and "Seinfeld." That is, while they may dislike many of the viewing choices their opposite member makes, they do not usually hate those choices. True hatred is often shared by both H and J, and is reserved for the likes of MTV’s “Spring Break,” ABC’s “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” and any fashion show or supermodel expose’ on the E network. Inane and obvious sporting event commentators are also given a special place in the halls of the damned as far as H and J are concerned. Ice skating commentators advising that “you’ve got to remember, ice is very slippery,” or hockey commentators explaining with a straight face that, “if he’d have just gotten that goal, he could’ve scored another point,” fill them both with unreasoning anger, and give them, at least for a moment, a common enemy. Even while they are angry, they feel happy. “We agree!” they think.

Finally, consider H and J in a final scenario. It doesn’t matter who arrived home first, as it is now later in the evening. H and J are on both on that old couch. One sits up, one lies down. One rests their head on the other’s thigh and the first is stroking the hair of the second. They are sharing friendship, comradery, love. They are smiling--for this moment at least.

While this essay has not been all-inclusive, and has centered on only one couple, they may be considered a good basis for future incursions into this subject matter. That is, while H and J–and their fancy TV–cannot be said to be a statistical representation of any appreciable segment of the American populace, it may be borne out through future observation that they do represent a realistic portrayal of what might be found within the walls of many homes in this day and age. Furthermore, while their viewing habits are, on the surface, very different, they can also be said to be ultimately compatible. As far as H’s and J’s relationship is concerned, it doesn’t even matter what’s on TV.

Crush On Things

2005-05-29T16:07:00.000-04:00

This essay was written in the year 2000.
"But why would you want it? What would you use it for?" were the questions Matt asked me late last year as his bemused gaze rested upon the single, lowly floppy disk I had proudly slapped upon his desk.

I always need people like Matt to ask those questions of me which I never think to ask myself. Why did I spend an entire evening of my life preparing this floppy? Was there any justification for my having wasted five hours late at the office, five full hours my fiancé would have loved to have claimed for herself? Of course!

After all, the disk on Matt's desk was clearly labeled, "Win95 on a floppy, baby!" Don't you see? The floppy disk, which was undeniably pitiful, inadequate, good only for the transmission of small files and boot-sector viruses, was now doing a job way beyond its job description. I had stuffed the essence of Windows95 onto a single bootable floppy diskette, a task that could be likened to stuffing a grizzly bear into a cat carrier. All it had was one font, a single mouse cursor, File Manager, and about 3kb of free space (enough room for a half-page of Word text). Like all floppy disks, it was effectively useless, and I loved it, as I have loved so many anachronisms in my life.

Perhaps a floppy disk doesn’t seem so much of an anachronism. Well, how about a single-tape answering machine? Mine wasn’t just any single tape answering machine; it was an AT&T 2600. It had been thrown away by Charlie, an old smokestack of a man my former boss occasionally had business with. Does it matter that I was 19 at the time? Nah. This could just as easily have happened three days ago.

“Charlie, what’s wrong with this answering machine?” I asked, having spotted the sad, forlorn thing peering up at me from his trash can. Charlie pulled the cigarette from his cracked lips and rasped,

“Nothing. I got a new one. You want it? You can have it.”

At this point in my life, I was living in my parent’s basement and, as such, actually did have a need for an answering machine to service a new phone line I had recently installed as part of a futile attempt at feigning independence. So I took it home, put a tape in it and proceeded to use it for the next eight years. It could play back messages to you over the phone if you punched in the right number and, lucky for me, that magic number was printed on the belly of the thing. I remember calling it at various times during the day, listening to my own recorded pleas for callers to leave a message, and then I would punch in that number. Usually, there were no messages, but I just loved the act of using that old machine. Lord help me, I would actually tell people about that thing as if it were a pet! I’d go on at length about how reliable it was and how it used a full-size cassette so I’d never have to buy one of those micro things that cost twice as much. People who actually called me would get annoyed because of the excessive length of its screeching beep. Sometimes it seemed to become confused and would play its tape to whomever might have called me; on these occasions it was likely to play old messages which had been long forgotten. This quite disturbed my girlfriend Heather (now my wife) when it once played to her a lengthy message left me by an old lover two years earlier.

Very embarrassing, but nothing was bad enough to make me discard my beloved answering machine. It wasn’t until earlier this year that I came home from work to discover a new machine in its place. My fiancé had thrown my trusty, old, faux wood-grain AT&T2600 away andreplaced it with a sleek, green, metallic, tapeless, digital answering machine... It works... I guess... I’m not angry at Heather for throwing it away. But I will never love this new machine like I loved that 2600, which had loyally performed its job years after it should have been thrown away. I can no longer proudly tell people about how old my answering machine is, how I fished it out of the garbage, or about its economical, full-sized cassette tape. This new answering machine will never have a story to tell.

Come to think of it, all my beloved anachronistic possessions have had stories to tell. Even my first air-conditioner had its own story. When I was 24 I purchased a house. A modest home, it was a little post-war, cheese-box bungalow built in 1959 with no basement; it was all I could afford. No longer merely feigning independence, I was on my own, but without an air-conditioner. It was a very warm summer that year, and I was getting tired of sitting in my boxers, on a towel, on the floor of my living room, watching television and wiping the sweat off my forehead. Visiting me one day, my stepfather told me that it was “hot enough to curdle water” in my little house. I was unclear as to how that metaphor worked, but was nonetheless attentive as he told me about a certain air conditioner.

“I bought it in ‘74 and it broke in ‘75,” he began, “By the time I got around to taking it to Montgomery Wards to get it fixed I had moved into an apartment complex with central air. I got the compressor replaced anyway, and it’s been sitting in Ma’s attic ever since.”

Oh, the romance of it! A 21 year old air conditioner that was, paradoxically, brand new! I loved it before I even met it. In all haste I grabbed Heather and drove down to my grandmother’s Polish, Detroit neighborhood and ventured up into the musty old attic to retrieve the precious cooling unit. There it was, snug in its floral-print cardboard box, circa 1975 Montgomery Wards. The box was open on top, and there was a yellowed,, old newspaper covering the unit itself. We drove it home, lugged it in, and hooked it up in the living room. That lovable, old, chilly beast drew so much current that all the lights throughout the house would dim whenever the compressor kicked in. It easily kept the entire first floor cool and ran quietly that entire summer. I couldn’t stop telling people about it and frequently found excuses to bring it up in conversation time and time again. It was my brand-new 1975 air conditioner, keeping a house cool so far past its expected running life that it gave an entirely new definition to the phrase, “durable goods.” Unfortunately, its renaissance was short lived. Two years later, I replaced my furnace and had a central air unit installed in my house. The original furnace was as old as the house, and badly in need of replacement; the central air unit was a logical addition to the purchase at the time. Now the house is comfortable and the electric bills are more affordable, but....it’s somehow not the same.

But not all my favorite anachronisms are retired or out of service like the AT&T2600 or that air conditioner unit, though. No, I need look no farther than my laundry room for confirmation of that point. Along with that furnace, my house came equipped with a washer and dryer. I didn’t think much of them at first; they were just these old, pea-green, steel monsters in the utility room. I even speculated that I would likely replace them as soon as I could afford the expense. Predictably, I soon fell in love with them. I first suspected I had found something special in these appliances when I discovered the original manuals for them atop the utility closet. Look at the bell-bottoms and banana curls on those happy young models--why, they’d be middle-aged people by now! My, but the fonts looked funky in that two-color printout. Big, blue and lighter-blue flowers decorated the cover, and inside were care and use instructions that the “busy housewife” could follow in order to make her life a little easier. Rapturous! Then, I found the original warrantee card for the set. From the date on that card I determined that these appliances, these glorious, green monuments of domestic tranquility, were older than my wife, and not much younger than I! Not only that, but they actually worked! How could I not love them? They still squat happily in my laundry room, faithfully scrubbing our clothes for us and then drying them respectively. Five years have passed since I bought this house, and I have only had to replace a belt in the washer and an electric gas igniter in the dryer. I would gladly spend far more to keep my precious washer and dryer set going.

There is, in me, a deep fondness for things, like that washer and dryer set that keep going when no one would expect them to. There is, likewise, a deep affection for things that are being used to reliably perform some task that they would not be expected to be able to do. Sometimes an object combines both of these properties; that is when I am most likely to become infatuated. One such item is a certain hard working computer at a medium sized multinational client of mine. It is an old Gateway Pentium 75Mhz, which is now five and a half years old. Dwelling inside this computer is a seven year old, full-height, 5.25", 1GB hard drive and accompanying controller. For those who are not technical, suffice it to say that this is an old computer with an even older hard drive. This machine handles every single Internet message sent into, or out of, that company’s network. Its name is HQIMail, and it has performed this job for four years. HQIMail handles over 15,000 messages a day, a fact I know well because it sends me a report every morning to tell me how it’s been doing. It is now older than any other computer in the main building. It may be older than any computer in that company. I think about HQIMail all the time, and he makes me happy.

What is it that makes me love these....things? The examples go on and on. Examples such as my car, so small yet so capable. Or my old AOC television, which I rescued from a TV repair shop for $125-just look at that picture, I would say to anyone visiting my house! I could talk at length about my Fischer stereo amplifier, which even now is playing jazz for my pleasure, eight years after I bought it from a clearance rack. Gladly, I would talk the ear off any unfortunate passersby about my 1952 Baldwin piano if given half a chance. I love its ugly, plain, Bauhaus-esque shape, and loud, bright tone, but I couldn’t define why, exactly.

I don’t think it’s possible to ask why anyone loves anything, since love itself is a confusing idea that cannot be defined well. The fact remains that I have these, well, crushes on things. I experience childish infatuations with whatever is around me, and it happens again and again. It’s still happening. I fell in love with this rolling table-thing in my shop at work today.... but that’s another story.