Enough about you...

Mass Storage

2012-01-29T14:30:00.000-08:00

A friend raised a good point in a comment to a Google+ post of mine: Long books weigh more, so electronic versions of those books must do the same. The question is how much.

I think we can assume that 0s add no weight, so all of the weight must be in the 1s. It stands to reason that the more 1s, the more weight, and 1-heavy text would, on the whole, weigh significantly more than text with many 0s.

A quick glance at an ASCII table for character representation is illuminating. For one thing, in a coincidence that I find too extreme to be anything but a first-order conspiracy by the Knights Templar, *all* vowels have odd representations, meaning that they have an extra 1 in the least significant bit. Meanwhile, the space character is even (0 in the least significant bit) and lower-case letters come later in the code than upper-case letters.

There are some simple consequences of these facts that we can derive:

Vowel-heavy text will obviously have more 1s than consonant-heavy text, and will thus weigh more. Languages based on consonant usage, such as some African languages and traditional written Hebrew, fare much better in general.
Spaces, having no 1 in the least significant bit, cost less, so the higher the proportion of spaces to overall character count, the less weighty the text. So books with short words will be lighter than those using long words.
Books with a higher proportion of CAPITAL letters to lower-case letters will weigh less because they simply require less bits, and therefore less 1s, to represent those letters. As with the word length, books with shorter sentences will weigh less due to the increased frequency of the capital letters that start each sentence. Also, text by accountants and angry emails take less in general from the overuse of caps-lock typing.

So if you just want a little light reading, pick up a children's book on accounting written in traditional Hebrew.

Data compression is something else to consider. There is obviously a savings on the sheer number of bits involved. But the key is that compression makes data even smaller, and even values, as per my previous calculations, are lighter than odd ones, Q.E.D. I'll leave the details of this proof as an exercise for the reader.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2012-01-27T10:00:00.000-08:00

Those who can, do. Those who can't, shouldn't teach either.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Relative power corrupts through guilt and family obligations.

Bad news travels fast. Naughty news travels instantly.

Brevity is the.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2012-01-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Don't cut off your nose to spite your face. Do it to teach your lips an important lesson.

Don't upset the apple-cart. It can be a real bastard when it's mad.

Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration, which explains why geeks should shower more often.

He who can does canning.

Benny for your Thoughts

2012-01-15T11:07:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, for no discernible reason, I awoke in the middle of the night thinking about Benny Hill. I grew up watching reruns of the old Benny Hill Show, which was an odd mix of slapstick, titillating jokes, silly music with fast-forward running-around-after-scantily-clad women, and the occasional funny poem.

Most of the material got old as I got older, but I always found the poetry clever, and it was this I thought of when I really should have been sleeping.

So I thought I'd try my hand at it. No, I mean the poetry, not the scantily-clad women bits.

My Dear Old Ma

My mother used to teach me things

When I was two or three.

Here are lessons that I learned

As I dandled on her knee.

“My son,” said she, “You should not take

Candy from a stranger.

You should, instead, take cash and keys, for

These are worth the danger.

Neither a borrower nor lender be,”

(she quoted from The Bard)

“For they both have enormous risks.

Stealing’s better by a yard.

Never take more than you can use,

For greedy folk we're not.

But bring me all the rest of it,

'Cause I can use a lot.

Never take advantage of a man,

When he is in a bind.

Until he is not looking;

Then steal the sucker blind.

Time waits for no man,

And neither does a clock.

So steal a man's nice wristwatch,

And put it up for hock.

Don't abuse the sick and old,

For they have troubles enough.

Unless they have a lot of dough,

Then you should take their stuff.

I still recall her last farewell,

As she sipped her final scotch.

She took my hand into her own…

And then she took my watch.

It’s been long years since I lost my Ma

And my Dad did lose his wife.

She’s in the local prison now

Serving ten to life.

Once I'd written it, it seemed like it needed to be performed, along with some musical accompaniment. Here's that result as well.

Scout's Honor

2012-01-13T10:00:00.000-08:00

My son is in the Boy Scouts, in keeping with a long family tradition that started with him (I never made it through the Cub Scouts). There are many things to like about the organization: he’s learning more about camping, outdoors, and adventure than he would in a lifetime of hanging out with me. And the organization is is great, from what I’ve seen, at teaching the boys confidence, leadership skills, and appropriate group behavior, such as cooking for your patrol without killing them.

There are some aspects of the Boy Scouts that I’m not as wild about, but on the whole it’s a good experience for him.

There’s one dynamic with the group that is a bit odd when you first run into it; they are totally paranoid about what could happen between unsupervised boys and adults. They have all kinds of rules and guidelines to make sure none of this stuff happens, and parents have to take training courses before they’re allowed to participate in any of the troop’s activities.

It seems a bit much at first. After all, it’s just a bunch of parents with their kids. But it's probably a good thing as a general rule, and makes the troops a safer environment overall. And who knows, maybe other organizations could benefit from a few more guidelines and online training courses.

It was this background of paranoia and mandated homophobia that was on my mind when we had the pleasure of seeing the Boy Scout Memorial in Washington, D.C. this past summer. Okay, we didn’t go to D.C. to see the memorial. In fact, we’d never heard of it and wouldn’t have really cared if we did; we were there to take in the museums and to see our government inaction. It’s just that we were walking from point A to point B and it happened to be along the way.

But I was glad we saw it. It’s a fascinatng sculpture, with bold classical elements representing the hope and spirit of a Boy Scout and the wisdom and ideals of -

What th-, I, but....
Is that huge, naked man stalking that boy?

Yes, that’s right, the organization known for its paranoid attitude toward predatory behavior erected a sculpture that shows a happy and blissfully unaware scout being pursued by a big, naked guy. There’s also a woman there, but she’s got clothes on and doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

Clearing, the big, bronze adults didn't take the training course.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2012-01-06T10:00:00.000-08:00

Always put your best foot forward. Hop.

A house divided itself cannot stand teenagers.

A watched pot never boils.
Similarly, a watched boil never pops.

All's well that ends well.
Unless you still need water from that well that you just filled in.

When I am King: Card Blanch

2011-12-30T08:48:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

There will be greeting cards for more likely occasions.

Statistically speaking, there are nearly as many divorces as marriages. Just like death is the only certainty in life, divorce is almost guaranteed as soon as you tie the knot. It is, after all, just a knot, which you can usually pick apart with your teeth and fingernails. Or failing that, a rusty cleaver always does the job.

It is strange, then, to consider the world of greeting cards in this relationship reality. We have wedding cards and anniversary cards. And a myriad of beautiful friendship-oriented cards that sing out, “I just wanted to spend $4.95 on a piece of folded cardstock and an envelope so that you know that I was thinking of you when I was in the grocery store today.” But there is no stock of cards that address the most fundamental fact of most marriages: termination. Where are the divorce cards?

When I am King, there will be a new genre of cards that address this important phase of life. It is guaranteed that these cards will sell nearly as many as the marriage cards, since they are nearly equal in numbers. In fact, the cards targeted at celebrity divorces in particular should outsell celebrity marriage cards, since celebrities seem to get divorced at a far greater rate than they marry. (It’s not clear how the math of this works out - I have my best scientists on the problem now, plotting multi-dimensional graphs of time vs. beauty vs. IQ vs. child stardom vs. wealth vs. drug rehab. I expect to see an aswer soon in the tabloids).

We have worked out some preliminary attempts to share with you. Artists are still working on the visuals, but expect elements such as faded roses, cobwebs, knives, and pictures of lawyers.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you

far away

A marriage is the gift of a lifetime

Where’s the gift receipt, because I need to return it.

Our love is like a beautiful flower arrangement

Cut short, cooped up in a small space, and dead

Remember that part in our vows that went, “I promise to honor and obey?”

Obey this: Get the Hell out.

When I am King: Operation: Diet

2011-12-27T09:50:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

Losing weight will be an easy operation.

I had surgery recently and lost ten pounds in the following week. This is not even including the weight of the appendix that the surgeons removed. So we’ll round it off and call it an even 50 pounds.

All I had to do to lose the weight was sleep peacefully while surgeons gave my insides a manicure with a buzz saw. Then I took some prescription drugs for a few days.

Meanwhile, traditional dieting is difficult. Who wants to eat fiber when there’s ice cream in the fridge? Why wouldn’t you have a beer if all you need to do is open the fridge, see there’s none left, get in the car, drive around to find a store that’s still open, realize they don’t sell beer, drive around some more, finally buy a 6 pack, drive home and open up a bottle? And who in their right mind orders a salad with light dressing at a restaurant that also serves anything else?

But give someone drugs with instructions like, “Do not drink alcohol while taking this drug or YOU WILL DIE” and, “Consumption of dairy products or anything similarly tasty will inhibit the effects of this drug and YOU WILL DIE” and a diet becomes somehow easier and more palatable. Add to that the fact that, for reasons I don’t fully understand and are probably highly complicated and explained by Latin words, you really have no appetite after surgeries like this. Apparently your insides feel rather petulant and sulky after someone has been in there exploring with a camera and a swiss army knife. So even when you find a food that won’t kill you but that you think you can muscle down past your taste buds, you realize that you’re not really hungry after all.

When I am King, diets will become much easier. Instead of depending on complicated and completely undependable factors like motivation and willpower, dieters will have an operation and drug regimen to help enforce the rules. Having problems controlling the sugar intake? Maybe a procedure that messes with your blood-sugar ratio will help. Can’t resist the double-fudge sundaes? Try an operation and antibiotics that prohibit dairy. Too difficult to keep your hand from picking up another bottle of beer? Try amputating the hand.

This approach has the added benefit of immediately removing items from your body, freeing you from the weight they take up immediately. An appendix is small potatoes, but consider what you could lose overnight through removing larger organs, or whole limbs. A hand may not be worth the trouble for its weight, but consider the 10-20 pounds an arm would bring. Or double that for a leg. The head is quite dense and gives great immediate results, although you should consider this option carefully while you still have a brain because you won’t live long enough to enjoy the benefits.

So next time you want to lose weight, consider surgery ... if you have the guts.

Christmas Mourning

2011-12-25T12:06:00.000-08:00

The presents are opened,
All gifts are unwrapped.
But something inside the children
Has snapped.

Paper and tape fill
The air like confetti
And cover all surfaces
Like shredded spaghetti.

Junior’s tied up with
Ribbons and bows.
How it all happened
Nobody knows.

Brother Jim is
Playing with dolls.
Amputated limbs
Line the doorways and halls.

Sister Patricia
Sings like a choir
When someone unknown
Sets her hair on fire.

The boys must have loved
All the presents they got
‘Cause they haven’t been heard from
After that shot.

The little kids
Are in the upstairs hall
Seeing if their gerbil
Survives a big fall.

Dad is passed out
And fell off the couch.
He drank too much brandied
Eggnog again (ouch!).

Mom is nowhere at all
To be seen.
She escaped early on
In a sweat-covered sheen.

Uncle Bob is curled up,
Softly weeping
Hoping that his
Wounds will soon stop seeping.

Auntie Jane
Just sits and rocks
And hums and chews
Her red Christmas socks.

For hours, Grandma hasn’t
Moved her head.
For all we know,
She could be dead.

Some friends stopped by
To visit a spell,
But ran away screaming
From our little Hell.

We’ve locked ourselves
In the basement with care
With hopes that tomorrow
The house will be there.

We’ll hide here all day and
Shiver with fear,
Then do it again
This same time next year.

If Santa Used FaceBook

2011-12-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from our 2011 family holiday haasecard.

Happy holidays!

The Santa Letters: Jenny

2011-12-21T10:00:00.000-08:00

The Santa Letters: Henry and Simon

2011-12-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

To the Parents of Simon,

Thank you for your (and I mean your, not Simon’s, letter of last week):

“Simon would like a stuffed bear, an electric train, and a savings bond worth $100.”

Isn’t it about time you let Simon make his own way in the world? Let him fight his own battles, win his own victories, die in his own defeats. He’s been too long tied down by the apron strings and should be cast off to make his own path. Like Oedipus, let him find his way and return triumphant one day to kill his father and … okay you don’t have to let it get that far. But you know what I mean.

Let him write his own letters, ask for his own toys for Christmas. He’s two, for Christ’s sake. Leave him alone.

Ho,
Santa

The Santa Letters: Sheila

2011-12-19T10:00:00.002-08:00

The Appendix

2011-12-16T10:11:00.000-08:00

It was a quiet day at the office. A cup of coffee, a little coding, a little snack, some more coding, more coffee, then into a meeting. At which point my appendix decided that 46 years cooped up inside my body was more than enough.

I don't know if it was a coffee overdose or the tedium of another meeting, but the organ had had it; it wanted out. And it was going to get out, one way or the other. I believe its strategy was based on the plan used in Alien - find the quickest way out of the body. I decided to give it another route and had it forcibly removed instead.

The process of getting to the removal stage was, of course, not quite so easy. First we had to figure out what the problem was. All I knew was that I had severe nausea and pain in that whole gut area. I've seen enough movies to know what the problem was: I was about to go into labor. As I told my wife on the way to the hospital, "The contractions are about 10 seconds apart."

My second thought was that it might be appendicitis. This came from my general approach to medical problems, where I just assume the worst possible scenario. A reasonable diagnosis would instead be that I simply had some kind of flu, and that I should go to bed and sleep it off. And in fact that's what the first doctor came up with. He gave me some really nice drugs, including a shot that took me about five minutes to go from pain-wracked to happy, drunken stupor and then knocked me out for 16 hours.

This was great, of course. I haven't had that much sleep in one session since, well, since ever. I should have life-threatening organ failures more often. Unfortunately, the drugs and flu diagnosis didn't change what was going on inside. When they finally saw the results of the blood tests, they sent me in for a CT scan to make sure nothing was wrong. I waited patiently (the painkillers were still swimming in a happy narcotic haze around my system) to hear that everything was normal. Instead, they came and told me that I needed to go to the Emergency Room. Stat. Apparently, they saw the little bugger trying to execute its cunning plan for exit. If only they'd had a CT scanner on the Alien ship. But then we wouldn't have gotten to see Sigourney Weaver blasting alien carcass in the sequel. Life is a tradeoff.

So off to the ER we go. First, I get to sit through triage, going through the same questions that I've answered many times before so that the nurse can decide whether to admit me. Apparently the hospital doesn't trust the word of the clinics. Perhaps I should have groaned louder. Or threw up on her desk.

I finally get admitted, get put in a bed in ER and … wait. Here's this organic time bomb in my gut, just waiting to explode, and I'm sitting there for four hours while a long parade of nurses, technicians, administrators, and surgeons come trooping through my room, most of them asking the same questions, like "When was the last time you ate?" I must have said, "One Saltine cracker at 8:30 this morning" about 15 times. I think they didn't believe me. I mean, who eats Saltines anymore?

Most of the visitors also drew blood. I think this is what medical professionals do when they don't know what else to do. I wasn't on the operating table, so they couldn't actually cut me open. So they drew blood. Over and over and over. Now I'm not a medical professional, so I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that they only need a little tiny bit of blood for each of those many tests they ran on my blood. So why did they need so many different vials of it? Were they trying to starve the appendix into submission? Or is it easier to cut me open if I'm not going to be spraying the docs and the room with gallons of blood? Maybe if they can just whittle it down to a trickle, it makes everything that much more pleasant.

Whatever the reason, by the time they were done I'd been stuck at least 10 different times, between the blood draws, the IV drip, and the several "Oh, that vein doesn't seem to want to cooperate" mishaps. In the end, I felt like my arms had lost several games of mumblety-peg. Though it still wasn't as bad as five minutes outside with the mosquitos on an early Minnesota evening in July. I miss Minnesota.

Finally, everyone seemed satisfied; I had informed the entire hospital staff about the single Saltine I'd had that day, and there was nothing more they needed to know. So they moved me into the Operating Room wing. Not into an actual Operating Room, because those rooms were still occupied. Maybe they didn't bleed those patients enough and were still scrubbing down the results.

No, they moved me into a corridor in the OR wing. There I was, sitting next to shelves piled high with plastic medical devices (the one closest to me held "intubation tubes", which I recall from early seasons on House is the main device used by every doctor for every patient). And there I lay, on my gurney. Just me in the corridor, next to the shelves. I was afraid they'd find me there years hence, when someone went looking for another stash of intubation tubes. "Hey, there's a guy here!," he'd call out. They'd answer quickly, "Ask him whether he ate anything this morning. And draw some blood!

But after a half hour of me observing the complete lack of anything interesting, someone new came by, hooked up the good drugs, wheeled me into the operating room and … I woke up two hours later.

So here I am "recovering" this week. It's a weird thing, recovering from this kind of surgery. If I'd had an amputation, I could see the evidence. If I were on serious mind-altering drugs, then I wouldn't feel like doing anything. But after this kind of operation, you feel nearly normal. The main thing you're supposed to do to recover is not actually act normal. Don't exercise, don't lift anything bigger than a fruitcake, and definitely don't go skydiving, or you'll find yourself back in the OR corridor. I think they just want to bore you to health.

I'm not sure why I wrote about this, except that it was something different I did recently, so it seemed worth recording. Like winning the Nobel prize, or traveling to Portugal; it's not something you do every day. Well, unless your Portuguese. And maybe I wanted to pass along this advice to anyone that has a similar experience: always assume the worst outcome from anything you feel. Then you won't be surprised when it comes true, plus you'll have the added benefit of feeling good about yourself because you were right. And if it's not true (which it generally isn't), you'll feel better about whatever the real problem actually is.

Oh, and don't eat that Saltine in the morning before your surgery. They just won't shut up about it.

The Santa Letters: Suzie

2011-12-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

The Santa Letters: Timmy

2011-12-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

The Santa Letters: Johnny

2011-12-13T09:10:00.000-08:00

I've been fortunate enough to receive some correspondence from Santa this year, letters that he's written to some of the many children around the world who wrote to him. I'll post some of the more thoughtful pieces to spread the warmth and happiness of Santa throughout this holiday season.
- Chet

Dear Johnny,

Thanks for your recent letter in which you so thoughtfully just listed everything you wanted without asking anything about me. I’m sure you meant to, but just didn’t get to it, right? Right.

Things here at the North Pole are, well, they’re cold and miserable. Not like it’s any surprise to anyone; we knew what we were getting into when we moved here. But I never get used to it. It’s just so damn cold this time of year. It’s colder than a freezer on the Mars rover. For all they’re talking about global warming, you think it’d make it nicer up here, but not as far as I can tell. Maybe the glaciers are melting, but I’m not.

I guess we just lied to ourselves when we settled here. For one thing, we went house shopping in the summertime, which is always a mistake. Everything looks better on a summer’s day. What you really want to do is see a place at it’s worst. If you could tour a house during a blizzard in mid-winter, or during a hurricane evacuation, then you’d really know the downsides. But no, we saw something that looked almost nice, and convinced ourselves that it’d be fine. And now we’re stuck, so far underwater on the mortgage that we couldn't dig ourselves out with all the snow shovels I make every year.

And at first we loved the isolation. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand it was all the people around in our old neighborhood. Always stopping by, putting in a good word for themselves, trying to see what List they were on, asking what they were going to get for Christmas. Bah! We had to move up here just to keep from strangling the next neighbor that just happened to drop by unannounced.

But after a few decades, the silence really gets to you. You start to have conversations with icicles. And you don’t want to know what happens with the reindeer on a cold night. Good thing they can’t talk.

Still, it’s better than some places. At least the crime rate’s low here. Anyone stupid enough to be skulking about outside at night dies of exposure before the morning anyway. There’s always a couple each year. Keeps the price of feeding the herd down.

Ho ho ho,
Santa

When I am King: End-dorsements

2011-12-06T10:00:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

All products will use unknown actors in their advertising.

There’s something sad about the use of famous people to pitch products. I should buy a watch just because a sports star is paid to wear one during an ad? Or I should buy some insurance just because an actor I know is paid to talk about it? Or I should wear a certain kind of bra just because an actress I like is paid to say that she wears it (which, by the way, didn't fit me at all)?

Unfortunately, the system works: we recognize these people, pay more attention to the ads and, for some reason, feel better about buying the products just because these people got paid to endorse them. It’s a sad statement on society that we look to others to make our product decisions for us, even when these other people are not friends and were simply pocketing a check for the odious chore of selling out.

But there’s something even more pathetic about a company that hires unknown actors to do the job. Take, for example, the ad banner below that I ran across recently. You know when they say the name of the actor that (a) they’re not famous enough for you to recognize by sight, but (b) they hope that you’ll at least recognize their name. But sometimes, when the company doesn’t have enough money or sense, neither one is true and we end up with ads like this one. I don’t recognize the face and I’ve never heard her name before.

This situation drew me in further than any famous face would have; I wanted to know more. It turns out that she’s some kind of finance person, famous (I suppose) in circles where people give a crap. This didn’t make me any more interested in the product, but at least I noticed it just because the situation was so ridiculous.

When I am King, all products will use complete unknowns for their advertisements. Products will be chosen based on the curiosity of people to find out more about the people pitching the product: Who are they? Why were they chosen? What does that have to do with anything? Why am I wasting my time finding out?

It’s also possible that consumers will then make choices based on the merits of the products themselves instead of unhealthy interest in someone paid to fake their interest in it. Alright, maybe not.

When I am King: Time to Go

2011-12-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

There will be no time like the present.

Tick, tick, tick...

We have an atomic clock. Or, rather, as Wikipedia corrects me, a radio clock, receiving radio signals from an atomic clock system somewhere else. This is a comforting distinction, as I’d rather not have an atomic device directly in my house. Much better to have it in the neighbors’ house, where we can derive benefits such as accurate time while foisting the potential for a core meltdown on them. They’re nice people, I’m sure, but they’re not us.

Centrally located in our kitchen, the clock is in the perfect place for a timepiece that always shows the correct time. Even amidst the uncertainties of as many as two (2) time changes per year, due to the incomprehensible and hopelessly outdated “Daylight Savings Time” tradition, our clock will always tell us what time it is right … now.

Or at least that was the theory when we bought it.

In practice, our atomic clock is just a clock. It either doesn’t talk to the atomic clock server, or it doesn’t bother to listen to the conversation. I think that it must be a teenage clock, knowing with deadly certainty in its acne-covered head that it is right, and that the atomic time server is an old fool.

So when the Daylight Savings Time change occurred a few weeks ago, we gave it a couple of days to get its act together. After that waiting period, we took the thing down and changed the time manually, as usual. Honestly, I don’t know how we manage it twice a year: reaching up, taking it down, spinning the little minute-hand wheel, and then hanging it back up on the wall. It’s all a bit too much and we have to take the next several months to recoup the energy to do it again in reverse. It’s a good thing that the time change doesn’t occur more often.

My wife called me yesterday to inform me that the clock had just adjusted itself. So now it’s an hour early, since we’d already, at great personal energy expense, set it back an hour. Again, I detect adolescent behavior at work, with a petulant, “You want me to change my time, Fine! There, I did it! Happy?!?!” [followed by the slamming of a virtual bedroom door and the boosting of heavy metal stereo volume to tsunami levels somewhere in the house of time]

I liked the idea of the atomic clock - no more worry about whether the time was incorrect; it would just work. But between its relationship difficulties with the time pulse, the draining of its batteries, and the fact that it doesn’t actually keep time that well to begin with, it’s worse than a normal clock without the fancy atomic-clock feature.

With a normal clock, I’d know to keep an eye on it and would never completely trust its information without checking some backup source. But with this kind of device, you feel like it must be right, making its mistakes a continuous surprise. It’s like having an untrained dog versus one that is mostly trained. With the untrained dog, you keep him confined to areas he can’t destroy and can mostly keep things from going off the rails. But with a dog that is mostly trained, you trust him enough to have the run of the house, and eventually come home to find your leather shoes in his mouth and a steaming pile on your bed.

Even a broken clock would be more dependable - at least it would be correct twice a day. The atomic clock runs constantly slower than the real time, guaranteeing that it will only be correct when we bother to reset it, which happens twice a year.

I thought the clock on my phone would serve the same purpose - it’s talking to some time server out in the ether (probably costing me serious airtime minutes in the process - after all, time is money). So its time is always correct. Until you go out of service, like on a plane or in a sub under the Antarctic, or in a great coverage area when the mobile network is feeling despondent. Then you look at this dependable time piece and it says nothing, because you told it to get the time from some service that it’s not on speaking terms with at the moment. So now you have to set the time manually, but the only time you know is the one from your phone, which isn’t very helpful at the moment.

When I am King, there will be no more time. It’s so difficult, never quite knowing what the real time is, or whether your clocks are lying to you. Moreover, it’s stressful having appointments scheduled at exact times, trying to figure out what time it really is, being late because you had to get a coffee on the way and then had to go to the bathroom because of the coffee and then you met someone outside the restroom that you hadn’t talked to for a while and grabbed a coffee with them, and had to go to the restroom again where you met someone else and had a conversation with them. By the time you get to the meeting, it’s over and everyone is upset just because your clocks weren’t giving you the correct time. So no more: time will be a thing of the past.

That’s all for now - it's time to go.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-12-02T10:00:00.000-08:00

Don't cry over spilled milk. Cry over the bleeding wound caused by its container.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, so there's nothing to cushion the blow when it hits.

A stitch in time saves nine, so doing no stitches at all saves ten.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, or until the beauty fades and they become bitter, tragic parodies of their former selves. Whichever comes first.

A Thanksgiving Poem

2011-11-24T11:20:00.001-08:00

Today is the day when we gather together

And digest as much as we can.

We eat way too much and we drink even more

With our friends and our family clan.

We celebrate something of pilgrims and Indians

Sharing their meat and their bread,

Taking a break from gathering harvest and

Beating each other till dead.

But mostly we gorge ourselves over and over

On everything we see before us,

Like turkey, potatoes, and stuffing and gravy;

A greasy, masticating chorus.

So I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving today;

May you eat till your stomach is puffed.

Inhale all you can of the food that you see.

In short, I wish you’d get stuffed.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-11-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

All journeys begin with a single step, as do falls from great heights.

All things come to he who waits, except the time wasted waiting around for things.

Don't burn your bridges behind you. But if you have to choose, it's probably better than burning them in front of you.

Don't change your horse in midstream, unless it's drowned. Then it's probably a pretty good time to find a different ride.

For Goodness Sake

2011-11-06T08:34:00.000-08:00

As is probably obvious by now, this blog is all about educating you, the innocent bystander that just happened to click on a link that took you here instead of to that site with cat videos that you were actually searching for.

In pursuit of that higher goal of learning, today's article is about the ancient Japanese art of making Sake, the rice wine traditionally consumed when you're in a Japanese restaurant feeling culturally open and guilty about the micro brew you really wanted instead.

I visited the Takara Sake plant in Berkeley yesterday, in an effort to understand more about this important element of alcoholism, and because it seemed like something to do on a Saturday afternoon. I highly recommend the visit as well as the tasting. But in case you can't make it there yourself, I thought I'd teach you a little about how Sake is made, gleaned from long minutes spent in the Museum of Wooden Things and from the video they showed (a very professional affair, interleaving scenes of serious artisans carrying bags of rice and windswept ponds).

First, it's important to realize that Sake is a true wine. You can tell this in the illustration on the right, from a diagram showing the steps of traditional sake making. In this step, we see the men stirring the rice with their feet. Despite access to the abundant wooden stirring implements that we'll see below and these things called "hands" (which the men in the picture clearly own), they chose to use their feet, realizing that this is what makes a real wine.

The next thing that struck me as I wandered through the large Room of Wooden Things was how many different types of buckets and sticks Sake making entails. There were placards and different names for all of them, but although my knowledge of Japanese is somewhat minimal (I can pronounce the word "Japanese", but after that it gets a bit sketchy), I'm fairly certain the translations of the placards would have said things like "large stick", "small bucket", "stick with handle", and "large, misshapen bucket".

Of course, the previous display was just an initial sampling of the vast array of sticks and buckets they used. To the right was another set of sticks leaning casually up against another wall, as if after a long day of stirring.

There were also smaller sticks used, as seen to the left.

There were also sticks seen mingling with buckets, foreshadowing the more complex tools seen below.

At this point, the tools got far more interesting as they started combining functions. For example, in this piece we see the powerful discovery of putting a stick into a bucket.

And in this exhibit, we see a fundamental leap in thinking as sticks and buckets got combined into wholly new stick-bucket tools.

The advances seen in the stick-bucket prototypes above were refined into these more advanced, and quite substantially longer production versions.

Perhaps the most important advancement in sake tooling came when another stick/bucket combination resulted in this triple combination of a long stick and two buckets.

The final, and quite startling, piece on display was this altogether new tool, neither a stick, nor a bucket, nor a stick-bucket combination. You can see it next to the flat sticks to the left. It is, obviously, a hedgehog.

That's all for today's lesson about sake making. I hope you learned as much as I did.

Tricker Treat

2011-10-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

Things I Believe: Little Thoughts for Friday

2011-10-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

Those who live in glass houses shouldn't.

Time waits for no man. It waits, instead, for a woman named Irene, who's very, very late.

Absinthe makes the hearth grow flounder.

Beauty is only skin deep, which explains why someone's so ugly when you cut their skin away.

Sunday Comics: Sound Logic

2011-10-23T12:33:00.000-07:00

I've always wondered at the difference between people like me ("music snobs", according to my wife), and people who care deeply not about the music itself, but rather the quality with which the music is reproduced (heretofore referred to as "audio snobs").

I've done some research and have created the following Venn Diagram to help others understand the important distinctions in these demographics.

When I am King: Buy the Way

2011-10-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

We will buy only what we can actually use.

What is our fascination with Costco? Do we really need that much of anything?

I was there the other day, pacing the aisles, and came across some scissors. “Great!,” I thought, because we had only one pair at home and they were broken. Clearly we needed new scissors. Perfect timing.

I ignored the fact that I was buying a pack of scissors - not a pair. And not just two of the things - this pack had three pairs. But I was fine with that, happy in fact, because this meant we’d have back up pairs. So when one breaks, you can just reach in the drawer and pull out another one. No need to rush to the drug store in the middle of the night to replace the scissors - just root around in the junk drawer and pull out the next pair. And I had proof at home that the things do break, so this was obviously a good thing.

This rationalization completely ignored the fact that we’ve had that broken pair at home for the last two years. At no point did the situation escalate into a scissors emergency. The only time it ever occurred to me to replace them was in that aisle in Costco. There is no “emergency” with scissors - just situations that might require a bit more time and care in cutting. Or the use of, say, a knife. Or teeth.

But somehow, we’re brainwashed in that massive store into thinking that we need these huge things. And lots of them. Potato chips? Love ‘em - gimme that 10 pound bag. That taquito tasted pretty good - I’ll have a bushel. And my, isn’t that a great deal on a steamer trunk full of car batteries?

One of the reasons for the overabundance of things in each package is the currency that Costco uses. It’s based on the U.S. system, but works a bit differently. In the U.S., we’re debating whether the penny should still be in circulation; it costs more to produce than it’s actually worth, and rounding off to the nearest nickle seems like a fine workaround (tragically unfair to President Lincoln, but then he probably won’t know). But in the sovereign state of Costco, they have done away with the penny entirely. And the nickel, and the dime, and all coinage for that matter. They’ve also eliminated the one and the five dollar bills. They have made the ten dollar bill the minimum denomination; everything in that store costs at least $10.

They obviously want to sell items that actually cost less than $10 in the real world, so they make it work by just throwing as many of them in as it takes to get to that minimum price and then shrink-wrapping the whole ugly bundle together. That’s why I have enough disposable razors and Q-tips to last me until the zombie apocalypse. I’ll have the cleanest brains those zombies will ever slurp.

Meanwhile, we all need larger and larger cars and houses just to transport and store these items. SUV owners might claim that they buy their cars for their wild, off-roading lifestyles, but we know better. I’ve seen Expeditions slow to a crawl just to cross a speed bump in the grocery store parking lot, truly an exciting expedition for that family.

No, we all need these monster vehicles just to fit our purchases from Costco. We also need bigger houses to keep the stuff. This explains why in California, where we don’t have basements, nobody parks their car in their garage. Instead, it’s where we keep the stacks of napkins, and boxes of diced tomato cans, and pasta packs that cannot fit in the house.

It shouldn’t be called Costco, it should be called Bomb Shelter Depot. Why else would we need so much damned toilet paper? Only when the Big One hits are we going to justify all our stockpiling efforts. Of course, that’s when we’ll realize that we were really good at storing shipping containers full of ramen noodles, but didn’t happen to set aside any drinking water.

When I am King, we’ll all buy just what we need. More like the Native Americans. When they hunted, they killed just what they needed and they consumed it all. They didn’t buy a herd of buffalo and stick them in the bench freezer. Heck, they didn’t have basements either, or even garages; where would they have put the things?

We need to return to that model: figure out what we need, and buy that. Simplify, scale it down: purchase, consume, repeat. Except for those potato chips, because they look really good. And I know I might to need a second stapler one day, so I’ll just get that two-pack now.

When I am King: Age-Old Solutions

2011-10-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

There will be no more mid-life crises.

The mid-life crisis is one of the most significant moments of our lives. It is the turning point where we go from thinking that anything could happen to knowing that nothing did.

It’s the out-of-fuel part of the journey, that time on the highway where the gas tank Empty light goes on, and you see nothing but prairie and tumbleweeds for miles around. All you can do is to ease off the accelerator, turn off the air conditioning, and turn up the hope as you coast toward your fate.

It’s also a time to take up new hobbies, like heavy drinking and visiting the doctor. It is the time of life for which television shows like Jerry Springer were invented, to help you realize that no matter how bad things are for you, they could be a lot worse.

But all of this is such a waste of energy and drain on our society. There are so many other things that we could not quite achieve in our lives, if only we could continue to make the pointless effort.

When I am King, the mid-life crisis will be a thing of the past. Or, rather, it will be a thing of the future. Medical advances will greatly extend the human lifespan, using everything from robotics to formaldehyde. Mid-life will, necessarily, be extended by years as well, allowing us decades more of productivity before we recognize our inherent uselessness and insignificance.

The best part is that medical advances will extend how long we live, but not the aging process, so we will still be getting senile in our 80s and 90s. This means that if we can manage to hold off our mid-life crisis until the same time, then we’ll have the added advantage of combining these maladies. So while a mid-life crisis may be just as torturous and meaningless as it always was, our senility will ensure that nobody will notice, remember, or care.

When I am King: Filling You In

2011-09-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

We won't need dentists.

I went to the dentist recently and was told I’d need fillings. That’s pretty normal - my teeth attract cavities like nerds attract bullies. It’s just the natural order of things.

The annoying part was that I needed fillings … to replace my fillings. The dentist said, “You have some older silver fillings. We have to replace those because you can get cavities under them.”

Hold on - they want to fill teeth that have already been filled? Why is that fair? I’m pretty sure the dentist manual says that they’re supposed to fill cavities. Moreover, once those cavities are filled they’re supposed to go rooting around to find more cavities to fill. They are definitely not allowed to go looking back at filled teeth to see about re-filling them. They’ve been there, done that - my filled teeth have done their part and sacrificed themselves for the greater good of my mouth. Now get the hell away from them and go find something real to charge me for.

The problem could be that there’s not much enamel left in my mouth for them to poke and prod. My set of teeth simply don’t provide a fertile soil upon which the dentist can plant future profits. So she’s looking for other ways to ply her trade. If your only tool is a little metal pointy thing, everything looks like a cavity. Even a filling.

When I am King, everyone will have artificial teeth. I’m pretty sure it’s the only way to keep the dentists and their sadistic ways away from our mouths. People think that Jaws, the James Bond villain, had those metal teeth for some nefarious purpose. Not true; he just hated dentists. And if they tried to fill his teeth anyway, he’d bite them.

Things I Believe: Little Thoughts for Friday

2011-09-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

Life: If it's so great, why are people dying to leave it?

Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. So answer your damn phone and put it on vibrate already.

Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. And massive debt.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Words like, "Is that oatmeal on her chin?" and "Does your camera know how to focus?" and "Was this picture really worth the cost of the frame?"

Joke Like a Pirate Day

2011-09-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

In honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day:

What's the letter between T and V?
Arrrrrr! (pirates don't know their alphabet)

What does a cat say?
Arrrrr! (pirates don't have pets)

What does a parrot say?
Arrrrr! (He thought you said 'pirate')

Describe the inherent conflict between the Ego and the Id in modern society
Arrrrr! (pirates like one-word answers)

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-09-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

Two heads are better than one, unless we're talking about acne.

The longest journey starts with a single step toward the car.

Too many cooks spoil the broth, unless you're making human broth.

Diamonds are forever, like styrofoam and nuclear waste.

When I am King: Statistical Significance

2011-09-09T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Statistics will be .3% more productive.

I read the following on a news site recently: “The productivity of U.S. workers slipped 0.3% during the second quarter, after falling 0.6% the prior quarter.” And I thought, what am I supposed to do with this information? Should I type faster? Think more cleverer? Stop visiting the bathroom so much and use the jar in my office instead?

Where do these statistics come from? (Don’t answer that, economists. I guarantee I won’t be interested in the real answer.) More importantly, what should we do with such abstract information? It’s like someone knocking on my door in the middle of the night to tell me the iron content of my drinking water - am I supposed to care?

I think the real reason that they tell us these things is so that we can worry more.

We have so many truly scary things to worry about in this world: terrorism, natural disasters, employment, our health, more reality TV shows - the list goes on and on. Each of these things is real and could affect us at any time. If we really thought hard about them, we’d die of stress long before any of them could actually do us in.

That’s where these other worries come in: they make us think about completely intangible ideas, complete with meaningless numbers and data. We’re so busy worrying about all of these things that we can’t possibly understand, much less do anything about, that we spend less time worrying about the ones that will actually kill us. In so doing, we live happier lives. It’s not that we’re less stressed or have less worries; in fact these things give us far more to worry about. But it’s a less focused and reasonable worry, and therefore a safer one.

When I am King, I’ll have my ministry issue statistics on many more things for people to think about. Why limit ourselves to economic growth and productivity data? What about body fat density averages? Number of donuts consumed per capita, per day? Number of tweets per hour, as a national average and per region? Tubes of toothpaste capped, with charts? Beers consumed per day: weekend vs. weekday?

We’ll be so busy trying to understand the data that we won’t even have time to worry and will lead .7% more productive lives.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-09-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

As ye rip, so shall ye sew.

Putting lipstick on a pig isn't so bad. It's kissing the pig that's the problem.

Don't put the cart before the horse, unless it has a motor with more than one horsepower.

Don't upset the apple-cart - it can be a real bastard when it's mad.

When I am King: O Canada

2011-08-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Everything we own will proudly display our flag.

Way back before the dawn of time, when I was a student traveling around Europe, I noticed the Canadian travelers. It wasn’t that I noticed those people more than others, but I noticed that they were Canadian. It’s not that they looked any different than other travelers, or dressed differently, or acted any less “I’m a student tourist” than anyone else on the circuit. And it wasn’t because of their cute accents, eh? It was for the simple fact that they all had, to a person, Canadian flags pasted very visibly and obviously on their backpacks.

I was reminded of this a few weeks ago while traveling in Washington, D.C. There, the embassies litter the city like gum on a sidewalk. You can’t walk ten paces without passing the embassy of some country (probably one you’ve never heard of - there are a lot of those).

Most embassies are subtle; they are generally nice buildings with a small plaque near the front door telling you what it is. If you’re lucky, there might be a flag, but generally nothing so obtrusive.

The Canadian embassy, meanwhile, was awash with flags, flying in the breeze like so many towels after a big day at the beach.

These grand showings of national pride confused me because I didn’t associate major nationalistic behavior with our neighbor to the north. After all, this is the country whose national anthem has a title that reads more like someone just remembering what it was they were going to sing about, “O.... Canada”. Or maybe they’re wondering how to pronounce it, or if it’s really worth all the bother, “Ohhhhh, Canada?”

The great Canadian hero Dudley Do-Right didn’t do much to sway my opinion of their nationalistic fervor.

Meanwhile, I’ve met Canadians over the years and of the words that come to mind, “nationalistic” is not one of them. “Humble”, maybe. Or “pale”. But not “nationalistic”. I mean, this is the country that still has the Queen of England's face on their money. It’s like their still living in their parents’ basement (even though they’re really in our attic).

So what gives with the flags on all of the backpacks?

Well, I spoke to one of them. I hired a local interpreter to translate between our dialects of English (translation apparently consists of added an “eh?” to the end of each of my sentences. So Canadian English is actually a variant of Pig Latin, eh?). It turns out that the backpack flag is not so much a statement about Canada as it is against the U.S. That is, the Canadians that I asked said that they mainly didn’t want to get mistaken for Americans, so they put the Canadian flags on their backpacks to make sure that didn’t happen.( As if: they look totally different from Americans, eh?)

So they weren’t proud to be Canadian, just proud to not be Americans. I suppose this is an extreme form of humility, where you define yourself not by your own characteristics, but by those of people near you.

In any case, it got me thinking: I think it’s a great thing to make a clear national statement with your clothing, your buildings, and your camping accessories. Let these accessories say a little about who you are. Or, in the case of Canadians, who you aren’t.

When I am King, we will take the approach of our friends to the north (i.e., Canada. Unless you live in Alaska, then they’re your neighbors to the East. Or if you’re Hawaiian, they’re not really your neighbors at all, just some people from a colder place. Much colder. Like a whole country made out of shave ice.). We will fly our flag proudly. But it’s not enough to fly it on our embassies; we will put it on everything we own. Babies will be tattooed with the flag, teenagers will fly flags from their piercings, clothing will be patterned only in the flag’s colors and styles.

I even have the flag already designed. Sure, it’s early days, but you can never be too careful with something as important as your nation’s flag. Here it is:

The Greatest Disappointment

2011-08-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

I watched the original Star Wars movie this weekend with the kids, and relived the greatest disappointment of my childhood: the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Actually, the death scene itself was lovely. You got to see him evaporate as Darth’s light saber hit him, like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. Darth was left alone, kicking the robes and wondering what just happened. “[shhhhhck] Hey! [shhhhhck] Come back here, old man! [shhhhhck] That is not fair, I totally cut you in half. [shhhhhck]”

No, the disappointing part was the aftermath of this battle. Before he died, Obi-Wan told Darth, “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.” Then he waited until he saw Luke was watching (which is more than a little creepy), raised his weapon and let himself be popped like a piñata.

This was an awesome lead-up into something wonderful. Would he become a god and smite Darth? Would he become Luke’s protector? Would he add power to the light side of the force, like some human turbo-booster? Or was he just screwing with Darth and wasn’t going to die at all? I couldn’t wait - it was going to be fantastic.

And then.... nothing. Zilch. Except for a couple of “Use the force, Luke” and “Hey, Luke, listen to me, you young whippersnapper!” Obi-Wan became a total non-force in the story. He returned for a couple of lame cameos in episodes V and VI, but didn’t do much besides play a supporting role as a low-res hologram, mumbling on about the force and how kids these days should listen to their elders more.

This awesome warrior let himself be killed just to end up as a minor cameo character spouting soundbites; that was the greatest disappointment of my childhood.

The greatest disappointment of my adulthood was years away and would come in several installments: Star Wars episodes I, II, and III.

Thank You, United Airlines

2011-08-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

Thank you, United Airlines, for the stunning customer service available exclusively on your awesome website. I haven’t been provided such prolific up-selling since the last time I went to McDonald’s. But fast food joints only offer me more fries and soda, whereas your site allowed me to choose from a myriad of ways to spend hundreds of dollars.

Thank you for starting out the experience with an ad in the middle of your home page for luxurious travel packages completely unrelated to the reason that I came to your site.

Thank you for putting up an ad instead of a progress bar while you searched for flights, so that I could read about how I can now pay you $349/year so that I can check my bags for free. Imagine, only $350 to get back to the good old times a decade ago when bags were always free. Wouldn’t you pay $350 to spin back the clock hands and do it over? Wouldn’t you?

Thank you for posting a price that didn’t happen to mention the extra fees of another 10% on top of the price you quote. If there’s one thing I don’t want to be bothered with when I’m shopping, it’s those pesky details about how much things actually cost. I don’t know how many times I’ve used a Sharpie on the Denny’s menu so that I can choose my breakfast Slam with flagrant disregard to the price.

Thank you for putting up an ad for your mileage program after I chose my flights, because I know it was time-consuming for your servers to take me from the page with the flight choices to the page with just the ones I chose. Why, it probably takes a supercomputer to calculate all of those extra fees that you didn’t bother me with on the previous page.

Thank you for the sidebar ad for your credit card, which I was eager to read to take a break from all of those details about how much my $408 flight actually cost. And how convenient that you gave me the opportunity to get a credit card; I was wondering how I’d pay for these tickets.

Thank you for the offer to join your Red Carpet Club during the lengthy transition from the page that asked for my name to the page that offered me seats. If there’s one thing I want to spend money on, it’s an entry fee to a room in which I can spend my time luxuriously while waiting in airports when you've canceled my flight or made me so late that I miss my next leg.

Thank you for the opportunity to upgrade from your standard sarcophagus seats to your more roomy caged-veal seats. And for only $39 a leg, that’s less than $80 each way. Why, that’s quite a deal when you think about what a square foot of rental space costs in a good neighborhood these days. Of course, that money only buys me the space for the four hours of flying time, but I'm sure it's worth it.

Thank you for the multiple other opportunities to rent more legroom; I enjoyed getting to read the same offer on every single seat selection page. As I like to tell my kids over and over, “Anything worth saying is worth saying again.” Or even four times, as in this case.

And finally, thank you for putting up a beautiful, dedicated page of offers before I could actually purchase tickets in a last attempt to sweet-talk me into the same upgrade options that you presented me with several times already. And there's nothing more enjoyable to me than having my decisions questioned by people that don’t know me. And the best part? You conveniently selected all of the “I really want to give United more money” options, so that I could easily find myself buying those wonderful upgrades for a couple hundred bucks. It was sweet of you to offer, but fantastic for you to assume.

All in all, it was wonderful to see how such a successful company (the largest airline company in the world, according to a rousing speech by the CEO that we all enjoyed listening to on the airplane televisions before every flight) can, through the wonders of the web and a brilliant advertising strategy, prostitute itself every bit as well as those kiosks that sell mobile phone cases in the local mall.

Thank you, United, for helping me to consider using any other airline next time around. Or maybe I’ll drive.

Owed to the Credit Card

2011-08-14T10:50:00.000-07:00

The Card is My Shepherd
A Song of Credit

The Card is my shepherd; I shall not want.

It maketh me to eat in expensive restaurants; it beggeth me to purchase the still waters of Evian.

It restoreth my debt: it leadeth me in the paths of spending for the sheer hell of it.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of debt, I will fear no bankruptcy: for thou art with me; thy rounded plastic rectangle and thy magnetic strip they comfort me.

Thou preparest a shopping list before me in the presence of mine desires: thou anointest my wallet with grease; my credit limit runneth over.

Surely consumer goods and joy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the loving embrace of the Card for ever.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-08-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

You are what you eat. Today, I am a donut.

You are never too old to learn, but you can get old enough to not give a damn.

You can't win them all. That's why cheating was invented.

Women and children first. Then if it's safe, the men will be along eventually.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-08-05T10:00:00.000-07:00

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but only if you throw it really hard.

What goes up must come down, except your age. And the U.S. national debt.

Any port in a storm. Or sherry.

Might makes right. Then realizes its mistake and makes U-turn.

When I am King: Founding Fathers

2011-08-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

I’ll be a less grumpy ruler.

I spent last week in Washington, D.C., taking a look at how the U.S. government is run. Or how it crawls, as it were. And how it all began.

For one thing, the founding fathers were grumpy.

It’s tough to know the true faces of our fathers. At least, it’s tough if you’re talking about our founding fathers, who passed away some 200 years ago. But we can learn a bit about them through their legacy and through the images they left behind. In particular, we can look at the paintings, sculptures, and monuments that were, er, erected

in their honor.

When I saw the first painting of one of these great men, I thought it was that the model was just having a bad day.

Or maybe that the painter was feeling ornery.

But the more paintings I saw, the more grumpy old men I discovered.

Then I looked at the sculptures. Now, you could say that marble or bronze is a hard medium, producing hard looks. But this guy would beg to differ:

You could also say that the sculptor had a bad day

or that the model got tired of posing

But after all of this art and all of these different men, I’ve come up with a different, more reasonable theory: the founders of democracy were just plain grumpy.

I can’t say I blame them. Look at it from their point of view. They put up with the tyranny of a remote and somewhat insane king for a long time. Then they finally got up the nerve to fight a doomed war with no army, no central government, and not even a decent pair of boots. They manage to defeat the other side only to then suffer years of bureaucratic hell debating what kind of government to form. They manage to do this in just eight years (compare that to anything accomplished in any two terms of presidency since that time), establishing a democracy that survives to this day. It took the French years and more than a few severed heads to get this far, after which they chucked it all away and begged for an emperor to take over.

After all of that work, they then started the real hell and torture of their lives, learning that democracy is just a fancy Greek word for “everybody gets a chance to whine”.

By the time they sat down to pose for the artist, they simply had no joy left.

I believe that another, more probable, reason for their demeanor was that they were simply constipated. Perhaps the diet in those days just didn’t offer the variety of fiber-rich foods that we see today on our way to the donuts. This theory is borne out by the linguistic fact that constipation comes from the words Constitution (the governing articles these men created) and pater (father). So constipation is literally the state of being a founding father.

When I am King, I’ll have all of my portraits done before my term begins. Oh, and I’ll also manage to enjoy my rule. This won’t be no stinking democracy where I have to actually listen to the people and compromise. Plus, I’ll eat more fiber.

When I am King: Racing Gear

2011-07-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

We will all wear racing gear.

I love the fact that everyone on a casual bike ride wears a racing outfit, even though they’re not actually racing, unless it’s to the nearest Starbucks. “Last one there buys venti lattes!”

I think I actually see these spandex gangs more often at the cafe than in transit. But maybe that's just because they move so fast on the roads that I miss them.

Meanwhile, these racers are decked out in shirts so bright they don’t need headlights and shorts so tight they sing soprano around the turns. Their wraparound sunglasses can catch all of the bugs that will splatter at the blistering speeds of up to 10 mph that they’ll achieve on the way to the cafe, and they wear racing helmets that look like a silver slug, stretched slightly in the breeze. Their shoes clip into the pedals to ensure that if they are ever in an accident, they will avoid an painful injury by being clicked inseparably onto the bike thus dying immediately.

The best part about bike footwear is that it's basically tap shoes with clips. So when they do go down, they’ll go down dancing.

This entire kaleidoscopic ensemble is topped off by enough logos to populate a shopping mall. Real logo’d apparel is bad enough. You know the ones: the shirts, shorts, caps, and jockstraps that real athletes (that is, athletes we pay to see) wear to indicate that although they’ve never used the products, the companies that put them there pay them millions of dollars for the rights to make the athletes prostitute themselves.

The logos worn by the weekend workouters are somehow worse; they pay way more than a shirt is worth for the privilege of wearing the logo of one of these companies, so that the companies can turn around and pay it to the prostituting athlete, who then inspires fans and sycophants to go out and pay even more for such a shirt. Don’t they realize that the athlete isn’t wearing that shirt by choice, but because of her debilitating gambling habit? Or his massive alimony payments? If the athlete had a choice, they’d wear something a little more understated. Like solid gold.

Meanwhile, other sports aren’t suffering the same fate. I continue to see people out jogging with nothing more than a pair of shorts and functional shoes. Or out playing basketball in shorts and a t-shirt. Or shooting darts in the bar with nothing more than a dribbled-on polo shirt and a huge buzz. Clearly, these other sports have some work to do.

When I am King, all sports will require appropriately overachieving apparel. Runners will be required to wear shoes with wings and fake motion-blur. Basketball players will wear tank tops and shorts that hang down to the tops of their high-top shoes. Pickup games of touch football will require full tackling uniforms with mesh jerseys and a cooler of Gatorade to dump on the winning coach. And hockey players will be required to sport blood on their uniforms (but that requirement is easily fulfilled within the first couple of ~~fights~~plays).

And all uniforms must be covered in logos. All sporting participants must look like Indy 500 cars, apart from the speed, the endurance, and the sponsorship. And we’ll all wear tap shoes, because everyone loves a nice tap routine.

When I am King: More Demerit Badges

2011-07-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Boy Scouts will get better merit badges.

This is a continuation of my previous Demerit Badges diatribe. Anything worth saying is worth saying again. And again. Until you run out of material.

Last time, the merit badges of Television and Couch Potato focused on important skills that scouts learn and use at home. These skills will benefit the scouts as they grow into men and take on the mantle of laziness and sloth that our society expects.

Someone famous could have said, "We are defined not only by our actions, but also by our interactions." This time, we highlight badges that the scouts can achieve in the real world, as they interact with peers, adults, and strangers. These badges represent the best that scouts can be in a confusing world.

Geek

Getting out in the wilderness and exploring nature is what scouting is known for. But a well-rounded Boy Scout can be so much less. This merit badge will cover the important skills of today’s introverted geek: self-absorption, social awkwardness, and a disturbing attraction to computers.

Requirements:
1. Don’t talk to anyone. If you have to, reply in single. Word. Sentences.
2. Play with computers all day and night. If there is no computer available, pretend there’s one and type on it.
3. Make beeping sounds like a video game.
4. Pretend you’re a robot car for a week.
5. Learn pi to 28 places.
6. Meet with a merit badge counselor and stare at them awkwardly for the entire session, without saying anything.

Related Awards:
Computers, Binary, Anti-Socialism

Helping the Old Lady Cross the Street

Since the beginning of the Boy Scout program, the act of assisting an elderly woman across a busy street has represented the most important elements of what makes a great Boy Scout: kindness, selflessness, and annoying level of nosiness. This merit badge will focus exclusively on this fundamental skill of scouting.

Requirements:
1. Find an old lady. Find a busy street. Bring the two together. This is most easily done by leading the old lady to that street, but some scouts may wish to do it the other way around (this requires the Traffic Cop chit and a whistle).
2. Guide the old lady into the street. Some old ladies may be unwilling. The scout may need to take her hand or, in some situations, handcuff her to you (this requires the Tough Cop merit badge).
3. Guide the old lady safely across the street, getting her hit by no more than 2 cars or trucks. If the old lady is hit by more than two vehicles, you will need to start over, probably with a new old lady.

Related Awards:
Traffic Cop, Tough Cop, Dodgeball

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-07-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

Necessity is the Mother of invention. Laziness is the Father.

Money doesn't grow on trees, but is harvested from fertile banks.

No arrest for the wicked.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be a bug.

When I am King: Demerit Badges

2011-07-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Scouting achievements will be more realistic.

My son is a Boy Scout, following in the great family tradition of - wait, I wasn’t a Boy Scout. No, he's obviously interested in camping and the outdoors because his family - wait, we hate camping (somehow the combination of sleeping outdoors, in the cold, near either people that are too loud or animals that are too hungry has never appealed to us). Perhaps he's just attracted to the open and liberal social attitude of the Boy Scout organization, a bastion of openness and acceptance in the reality of today's evolving societal and family norms. Or perhaps not.

Okay, search me why he's doing it.

One of the thing that drives the scouts is the skills that they acquire as part of advancing rank, in the form of “merit badges.” This badges are awarded to scouts that learn particular skills and can demonstrate their proficiency to the troop leaders. There are merit badges that range from First Aid to Nuclear Science. You can learn about animals in Mammal Study and then learn how to hunt them down in Rifles.

But I feel, looking through the list of badges, that they are all rather dated. Sure, there are badges on Computers and Robotics, and the traditional Hoop and Stick Games badge was finally retired in 2007. But the current badges do not represent those characteristics of our society which we hold most dear. Where is the Shopping badge? Or the Wasting Time Online badge? And without badges such as these, how can a scout hope to succeed in a society that has come to expect such behavior?

When I am King, Boy Scout merit badges will better reflect the attitudes, values, and achievements of our society. No longer will the scouts produce men of quaint but dated character. Scouts will become shining examples of all that we respect in the world.

Here are a couple of badges that I’m working on:

Television Watching

The Television Watching merit badge introduces a boy scout to this core activity of our society, where he will learn to lose his time, his mind, and his life.

Requirements:
1. Watch television non-stop for 10 days.
2. Describe absolutely nothing that happened in the world during that period.
3. ~~Name three ways in which commercials benefit society.~~ [Retracted]
4. Meet with a merit badge counselor during a commercial break. Fail to meet their eyes, staring instead into the distance with a listless, glazed expression.
5. Be able to hum at least 15 theme show songs and 35 ad jingles.

Related awards:
Couch Potato, Obesity, Teenager

Couch Potato

Taking the time to relax is an important element in a fulfilling life. Extending that time to the exclusion of all productive activity is an art form that can only be appreciated by its active pursuit.

Requirements:
1. Do nothing
2. Get nothing accomplished.
3. Don’t meet with your merit badge counselor. Doing so would prove that you have not yet mastered this skill.

Related awards:
Television Watching, Eating, Sleeping

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Parenting

2011-07-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

On the proper raising of children, with respect to the literature provided therein

And so it was, on that seventh day of July, in the year Two Thousand Eleven, that The Book (heretofore referred to as The Book) was given unto a child. And, Forsooth!, the wisdom and mysteries of the ages passed to the next generation. And there was great rejoicing.

Last night, that I realized that my oldest child was perhaps old enough to appreciate the wit and sagacity of that ancient and revered tome, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. One of the greatest things about having kids is trying to force-feed them the same content on which your own misguided life is based. Usually, this ends in disinterest on the part of the kid and great sadness and self-doubt on the part of the parents. Time and disappointment will prove whether this time the decision was merely flawed or completely stupid, but for now it seems like the right thing to have done. Like hopping over barbed wire instead of walking the extra 20 yards to go around a fence.

Douglas Adams’s books are some of my favorites, and are required reading in my chosen field (itinerant geek). The Hitchhiker's Guide series is the perfect combination of humor and science fiction, where by “science fiction” I mean it has a completely irrelevant and nonsensical plot. And by “plot” I mean, well, I don’t care. It’s just funny, dammit.

I should point out that The Book is, I believe, a massive apologia for the PC game, Starship Titanic. The game was written after the massive success of the Hitchhiker’s series, so in true Adams form, he had to go back in time to write the books to make up for the game in advance. So to have the right feeling about the author, you should really enjoy his works in the order in which he produced them: the game first, then the books. That way, you’ll end your relationship with him on a good note. Or, like me, you can read the books first, then play the game, then read the books again to wash the taste of the game out of your brain.

In any case, I hope I’ve just just added another Douglas Adams fan to the planet. Or at least another person that knows that the answer is 42. It's always 42.

Independence Daydreaming

2011-07-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

Today is July 4th, a day of special significance here in the U.S. It's a day on which we go to barbecues, drink too much, set off small explosives in dry climates causing untold fire damage, and generally celebrate what it means to be an American.

It's supposedly also the day on which we declared our independence from the evil overlords, our good friends in England.

(That day was also significant because it was the last time that any committee came to any decision on anything, a feat much greater in significance than the actual declaration of independence. Bureaucrats the world over rejoiced this act, then went back to debating important matters of process and lunch menus).

It is my country's independence which I wish to celebrate today. I'm thinking about some of the things that Americans can be thankful for, which could not have happened if we hadn't cast off the yoke of monarchical oppression and donned, instead, the yoke of democratic stalemate that has dominated our political scene ever since.

Here are some of the things that I am thankful for, which could not have happened without our teenage rebellion:

Driving on the right: This confuses me every time I’m in England, the way that everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road. Thank the founding fathers that we don’t have to do it here. Besides the sheer ridiculousness of the habit, it would totally mismatch our cars, which are manufactured with the steering wheels on the left. I'm convinced that this change has saved countless lives and allowed us to be the much lazier drivers that we are.

The weather: Some U.S. states are cold, some are hot, most have varying weather (except Hawaii, the lucky bastards). But none of the states have weather quite as miserable as that in most of England. Who knows what our weather would be like if we’d remained part of the kingdom? Probably something more like Seattle, except without their three days of Summer.

Criminals: Australia, a penal colony (insulting in both purpose and name) inherited the criminals of Jolly Olde England (much jollier for having gotten rid of the convicts). The same thing may have happened to us, which would have been awful because our prisons are already filled to capacity.

Coffee: Say what you want about tea, but there’s nothing as satisfying in the morning as a strong cup of coffee. Tea’s okay every now and then, especially when served with scones or those little tiny sandwiches (how small or their mouths in England?). But on July 4th, we established a democracy upon the firm foundation of coffee. And Starbucks franchising opportunities.

Oh, Canada: Without our stalwart presence below Canada, that ridiculously large land mass would come crashing down on the helpless Caribbean islands and fragile spine of Mexico and Central America. But beyond this important physical support role, our great nation also acts as an important filter between Canada and Mexico, limiting the flow of illegal immigrants coming up from below and illegally reasonably-priced prescription drugs from above. Without these United States, these nations would quibble about these border disputes instead of leaving the quibbling to us. Quibbling is our national pastime, one of the founding principals of the country. Why else would we have established the quibble-maximizing two-party system that drives our elections and daily political discourse?

Language: Many visitors to our country make the same simple mistake: that we speak the same language as those in England. It may sound the same (minus the stuffy accents, ‘cause we’re all jus' common folk here), but it has enough critical differences that make our languages as different as, say, American English and Canadian, eh? In particular, we changed elements that made the language just too darned difficult, like the extraneous ‘u’ in ‘colour’ and the regular use of large words that nobody would ever really use. English would never have achieved the world-wide usage that it has today without these important changes. And without that important adoption of our language, we'd travel even less than we do today, because understanding other languages is just really, like, hard.

These are some my favorite things about our free and independent nation. What are yours?

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-07-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Don't put all your eggs in one basket. Use an egg carton instead. Wicker is useless at protecting the things.

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen and call 911.

Limitation is the sincerest form of flattening.

It is better to give than to receive IOUs.

When I am King: Warning: Smoking is Gross

2011-06-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Anti-smoking campaigns will be more effective.

Once again, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me alerted me to the critical news of the week. I rely on the podcast of that show for all of my information about current events, this time about

the new warning labels required on cigarette cartons. Apparently, the government, not satisfied with pithy quips like, “Can cause birth defects” and, “Has been known to cause cancer in just about every living organism” decided that it was time to make the message clearer, going for a more folksy, “You Will Die” message in the new labels.

I applaud their intent: every smoker is obviously so happy with their life choices that they need these little reminders of their impending doom. In fact, I’m jealous of the fun they get to have with every new pack, wondering what the picture and caption will be. The prizes and games on our cereal boxes pale in comparison.

But I disagree with their approach to the problem. It simply won’t work for this reason: everyone that would quit the habit because it can kill them already has (either by choice or by death). Everyone that’s left is either not getting the obvious message or just doesn’t give a damn. Making the labels more graphic will just stiffen their resolve like a toddler being asked to please not throw a tantrum in front of the nice lady from Child Protective Services.

Now you not only have a society full of smokers, but one full of grossed-out, pissed-off smokers.

The problem has always been in the messaging. Telling people that they might die eventually because of it, or that others have died from it doesn’t hold a smoking candle to the allure of teenage rebellion. And it doesn’t do much for the person weighing that risk against the difficulties of quitting an addiction.

When I am King, there will be a more effective marketing campaign to get smokers to quit. The ads will just point out other people in your chosen community. Parents who smoke will be shown that their kids are smoking, and teenagers will learn that their parents smoke. Both groups, horrified by the prospect of being lumped in with the other, will finally have some real motivation to quit.

One other approach the FDA could try is to make the labels as frank as possible, like “This cigarette will kill you,” and then backing up the threat by lacing it with poison. Not only will this be truth in advertising and an excellent disincentive to others that see the warning, but it will also reduce the smoking population, one by one. I’m not actually arguing for that approach, just saying that it would work better than the ones taken so far. But perhaps killing the target demographic is not what the marketing folks had in mind.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-06-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

Forgive and forget
to not punch them.

First come, first served.
So always arrive fashionably late to a cannibal's party.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but strangeness breeds infrequently.

Every man has his price, but every woman knows the manager and gets a huge discount.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-06-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

Live each day as if it were your last - in bed, wheezing, filled with sadness and a deep sense of regret.

If time is money, I'll have seconds.

To err is human, to forgive divine, to blame is usually the best option.

Those who cannot remember history are condemned to repeat it incorrectly.

When I am King: Affairs of State

2011-06-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Escort services will be provided for all.

I was horrified, like everyone else, at the Weiner Affair of the past week. That is, I was horrified by the public reaction of shock and surprise. His actions seemed perfectly normal to me. Especially for a, er, member of Congress.

Taking the picture of his anatomy: odd. Tweeting the picture: stupid. Screwing around (or trying to do so) after being married for such a short time: sad.

But the act of looking around while being married seems like the act of a sane person; he’s just scouting out the territory ahead.

Think about the process of getting a job. It’s always easier to find a job when you already have one. You are negotiating from a position of strength, without the feeling of desperation that occupies your mind if you really need the job offer. Quitting first and then hoping you land something is simply not the best way to go about it. Much better to look around while you don’t need to and to find the best opportunity, and make a reasoned decision about whether it’s worth leaving your current job for the new one that’s being offered.

(Of course, this last bit always breaks down, because that new job always looks better than the one you’re currently for the simple fact that it’s new. New beats old, always. Until you get there and realize that it’s not new at all; it’s just different. But at least the change in cafeteria food adds variety.)

Regardless, this is a proven technique for finding the next job - why shouldn’t it apply to relationships as well? It’s the same principle at work - people are more attractive when they’re in a relationship than when they are not. Someone that’s in a relationship has the proof point to offer that someone felt that they were good enough to hang out with. It may not be a very high bar, but it’s at least a sanity check that you’re not completely incapable of getting a date. And you’re probably not a serial killer, unless you’re just biding your time or are also a procrastinator.

Beyond this initial check, there’s just the confidence that being in a relationship brings. It’s like the job negotiation; you have a fallback position, so you aren’t depending on this new opportunity to pan out. This more relaxed approach to negotiation helps in closing the deal. Without it, your desperation will seep from every pore and you won’t have a chance.

In fact, this is such a proven technique in life that Weiner may have had this as his strategy the entire time. Maybe he was having a hard time meeting women, so he got married to make the whole thing easier. So it wasn’t a colossal screwup or a temporary infidelity; it was all part of the plan. The only mistake was that he got caught, somehow not realizing that tweets can become part of the public conversation (see my earlier comment on “stupid”).

What’s unfortunate here, besides the fact that this person was elected as a trusted representative of anyone’s interests but his own, is that a proven technique for effective negotiation can have an impact far beyond the current deal on the table. If your boss hears that you’re interviewing, you may not have a job to return to. Or in the case of Mr. Weiner, you may soon be hearing from your to-be-ex-wife’s lawyer. Clearly, we need a solution to address the underlying social issue.

When I am King there will be services available to help. For example, if you are unemployed you can hire a temporary employer prior to interviewing. It may not be a real job (since you’ll be paying them instead of getting paid by them), but it will force you to get suited up every day to get in the mindset. More importantly, the service will lend that air of credibility in the interview that arriving in your bathrobe and slippers fails to do.

You will also be able to hire someone to pretend to be in a relationship with you. Escort services exist today that can fulfill a similar role, but these pretend relationships are typically shorter and more physical than the service being proposed. Our services, which will consist of supplying cute couples pictures, answering the shared phone, and providing alibis, can last for as long as you need them. Depending on your capabilities, or on how low you set the bar, you may only need a weekend. But if your standards are higher, or if you have just embarrassed yourself in front of the entire country, you may need the service forever.

When I am King: Trips with Kids

2011-06-03T08:59:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Strollers will be banned.

I spent last weekend at Disneyland, for reasons that I won’t go into. Suffice it to say that raising children does not result in opportunities for exciting travel and exotic nightlife.

Besides the obvious joy of spending two days and evenings standing in line with thousands of my very closest friends and overpaying for bad food from perky cashiers, the highlight of the weekend had to be the transportation contraptions for the children.

It turns out that Disneyland is where all children are. The place is overrun. It’s like the Gulag for little political prisoners. I thought my kitchen had an ant problem, but it’s nothing compared to the kids scurrying around Disneyland.

My strongest memory of the experience was of the many strollers. They were everywhere, These handy inventions allow parents to drag their kids to places that they’re too young to appreciate. So where evolution and common sense trains us to know that anywhere the kids can’t get to on their own is not somewhere they need to be, strollers allow us to take them anyway. These wheeled contraptions also serve as modern pack animals, allowing us to store necessary provisions like sodas and snacks to keep us fattened up and further unable to hand-carry these items.

All of this is fine - if people want to bring their infants and toddlers to places that they aren’t old enough to enjoy and won’t remember in 2 weeks and generally make the experience awful for the whole family, that’s up to them. I don’t mind the kids. It’s the strollers that I want to destroy.

Strollers are mobile tripping hazards. They’re like the shoes in the entryway, the toy cars in the kids rooms, the sleeping dog at the top of the stairs. And they’re constantly on the move, shoving their way through the crowds like a miniature Italian driver. The only person not tripping on them is the kid in the driver’s seat. This is probably the real enjoyment that kid has; he can’t enjoy any of the fun rides, but it must be a kick to keep seeing adults jumping out of his way and falling over his moving throne.

Strollers are like the shopping carts of the homeless, filled with recyclable containers and the mostly important possessions of the parents (plus the children). But at least the homeless have the decency to use carts that aren’t tripping hazards; you can heard and see those things rattling toward you for miles. Strollers sneak up on you and stick their front wheels in front of your sneakers before you know they’re there.

Then there’s the other approach taken by parents of children that can walk but can’t be trusted: leashes. These clever devices attach to a harness on the kids and allow they to walk with their parents without the parents having to go to the effort of actually reaching down to take their hand. They’re just like dog leashes, except for the choke collar. Ostensibly, the leashes allow the children the freedom to walk on their own without letting them completely escape. But in practice they’re used very differently. You typically see them being used by people that seem too tired to walk around and are using the energy of the children to help; the kids are straining at the harness and helping propel their parental blobs forward. The other way I’ve seen them used is like fishing tackle - when the parents want the kids closer, they reel them in and land them like a forty pound trophy fish. All they’re lacking is a barbed hook; maybe there’s a catch and release law in effect.

The leashes share a similar tripping characteristic with the strollers. But where the strollers perform their job with the front wheels jutting out in front of your feet, the leashes do so by stringing a trip wire at knee height across a wide distance. On a good catch, a leash can net three or four adults at once.

When I am King, these tripping hazards will be banned. Ideally, we’d return to the sane approach of only taking the little tykes to places where it wasn’t a complete hassle to transport them; if they can’t walk and they’re too heavy to carry, try spending that day at home instead. It’s why television was invented. And duct tape.

But I realize that some parents will insist on carting the little creatures around, so we’re working hard on replacement solutions. For example, there is now a surgical procedure to attach wheels to their feet. So when they complain that they just can’t walk another two miles to that ride with the two-hour waiting line, you can pop the wheels on and drag them.

There are also backpacks available for easily carting children around. These have existed for ages and provide a great solution to the problem, but fights against the tradition that we have of not exerting any effort. So my ministry will make available a Sherpa service to assist you in carting your brood around. Getting young children around the theme park or even the local Walmart can often seem like climbing Mt. Everest, so we’ll provide the appropriate resources for these excursions.

With these new inventions, you’ll be able to take more trips with less trips.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-05-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

Beggars can't be choosers. Besides, making good choices is probably not their forte.

Behind every great man is a great woman. Behind her is the guy's wife, and boy is she pissed.

The best defense is a good offense. And gun turrets.

Better to light a candle than curse the darkness. Save the cursing for when the candle spills hot wax on you.

Cheap and Easy

2011-05-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

And now, a word from our sponsor:

Just a quick note about the book. No, not that book, this one. Not that book, either: this one. The comedy one. When I Am King.... The one that's more fun to read, albeit harder to justify as a business expense.

My marketing department recently completed some extensive research which conclusively proved, with an insignificant margin of error, that readers prefer books that are, get this, cheaper. This secret dynamic apparently powers the paperback market as well as borrow-from-a-friend-and-forget-to-return market.

Given this startling find, the entire team has been closeted in top-secret meetings for the past several days, with only pizza, coffee, and reruns of Seinfeld to sustain us. We've been crunching the data and sitting through presentation after presentation in an effort to come to some conclusion on the impact that this data should have on the book's marketing campaign. We've had straw man polls, we've had debates, we've had obsequious soliloquies by lieutenants, but in the end, we had to make a decision. As the author, marketing department, and sole member of the team, I knew that the responsibility fell upon me. Here is that decision.

The price for When I am King... is now lower. Much lower.

Now, for the low, low price of just ~~$14.95~~ ~~$12.30~~ ~~$7.95~~ ~~$6.95~~ ~~$8.95~~ $5.95, When I am King... can be yours.

No longer will you look in longing at your friend's shelf where the book would sit if your friend owned it. No longer do you have to wonder if it's worth going without Top Ramen for an entire year in order to afford the previous cover price. Now you can simply buy the thing: $5.95 and still available for free shipping on Amazon.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled weblog...

End of End of Days

2011-05-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

I had another blog entry written and ready to go in the likely event that I was taken up with the rest of the Deserving on Saturday’s Rapture. Here it is:

Hey Everyone,

If you’re reading this, it must mean that the Rapture happened and I’m now in a better place and that, well, you’re not. But hey, it’s not that big a deal. I mean, you still have burgers down here, and I’m not sure we even have cows where I’ve gone to. And how much harp music do you really want to hear every day?

Anyway, please enjoy the rest of eternity. Perhaps reading my book
will help pass the time and help you forget that you just weren't quite good enough. Or maybe it was just a clerical error; it was a really big project getting everyone together, try to have a little sympathy if they messed up on some of the details.

But alas, ‘twas not meant to be. It looks like I was left behind.

I’m sure they meant to take me, just like that girls in high school that meant to call me. And the women in college. And my wife. It’s just that people forget, right? And so do Gods, apparently. I mean, he made us in his image and all.

So here I am, wondering what to do with the rest of my life. Everything I’ve done to date was leading up to that single moment when I got to take the back exit and get away from all of life’s obligations. Now I have to actually do my job, pay my mortgage, communicate with my family - will the torture ever end?

The first thing to do, obviously, is to prepare for the next Rapture, just in case there’s a chance to hitch a ride next time around. You never know when these things are going to happen, Superior Beings being the busy people they are and all. The memos just don’t get around in time. You don’t want to be excluded from the party just because you didn’t see the invite, right? So it’s best to be prepared. Here are some tips for staying ready:

Stay packed: Remember that carry-on bag you packed on Friday? Keep it packed. You might switch out the book you packed, because you were probably in the middle of it and you’d like to finish it. Besides, the library probably wants it back, now that you’re still on Earth and all. So switch it out with something timeless and long, like Anna Karenina. Or an encyclopedia; you never know if there might be a quiz on facts on words in the range of Ce to Di when you get up there. If you don’t pass the test, it’s an awfully long way back down.
Keep your eyes on the skies: If you see crowds of people wafting up into the clouds, that’s probably a sign that it’s time. Either that, or jetpacks have made it to the consumer market, finally, and commuting will get a whole lot more fun.
Watch your weight: In case there’s a weight limit, you want to make sure you’re under it. The Bible was very sketchy on travel details, but it can’t hurt to play it safe.

Alternatively, your continuance on Earth might indicate that you simply aren’t cut out for the Rapture thing. Maybe preparing for being one of the Unchosen is more appropriate. Here are some tips for sticking around on this mortal coil a bit longer:

Unpack: You ain’t going anywhere for a long time, and you’re going to need that toothbrush. Brimstone has a habit of sticking in the teeth.
Return your library books: It was okay to tell yourself that you didn’t have time to return that stack of overdue books when you were preparing to be lifted up into the clouds for eternity. But now that you’re here to stay, you’d better get them back to the stacks. Those librarians can make your life Hell on Earth.
Hydrate: If the Rapture actually did happen and these are the End of Days, then it could get a bit hot down here. Drink plenty of liquids; it’s so easy to get dehydrated in the fires of eternal damnation. You’ve already lost your soul; you don’t want to also lose your health.

Rapturous

2011-05-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the world is coming to an end tomorrow. And I’d just gotten used to the place.

It seems worth spending a few minutes preparing ourselves. I mean, the world only ends once. Here are some tips for how to deal with The End:

Brush your teeth. There’s nothing like starting on a long journey and realizing your breath stinks. And who knows when you’ll see a tube of Crest again?
Put a lot of food out for the dog. Hell, just open the rest of the bag out onto the floor. We’re going to be gone for a while.
Make sure the stove and coffee pot are turned off. Check them twice. Three times. You don’t want to worry about that for the rest of eternity.
Bring comfy shoes: We always want to look our best, but nobody looks good when they’re hobbling along for miles because of the blisters. And you don’t want to break a heel in all the kerfuffle.
Pack light: The Bible has never been clear on the baggage rules. Will we be able to check bags? Does the first bag cost $25? Is there enough room in the overhead, or do we have to take up precious leg room for our carry-ons? Better to pack light and avoid the hassle. Leave the parka at home and bring a windbreaker instead.
Take those pills: We don’t know what the travel accommodations will be like, so if you’re at all prone to motion sickness, it’s best take your pills in the morning. Besides, they might help you sleep. It could be a long journey.
Bring something to read. Long flights with no entertainment are so tedious; don’t risk it.
List your accomplishments: Just in case there’s an opportunity for an upgrade, you might want to list out all of the good things you’ve done in your life. Just for a reminder (they probably know already). If they do have a rewards program, these will probably be your points. And you don’t want to travel in coach if you don’t have to.
Get some good sleep the night before. It's always more fun to travel when you're well-rested.
Lock your door and sit on the curb. Like the stove, don’t wonder whether you remember to lock it. And go outside to sit on the curb and wait. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if they stopped by to get you and you didn’t hear them because you were in the bathroom? Don’t run that risk.

That's all I can think of. I need to go check the stove and coffee pot. See you tomorrow.

When I am King: Ups and Downs

2011-05-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Buildings will only have single stories.

Elevators are such wonderful spaces. They take people who enjoy a personal space between themselves and others roughly the distance that a bullet travels, stuff them in a space just large enough to raise tender veal, and make them ride together on a journey of awkwardness. We stare at the numbers clicking by, we stare at the floor, and we stare at the doors, willing them to open on our floor so that we can finally run to our cubes and breathe heavily into the paper bag that we keep there for that purpose.

Meanwhile, we’re all in a hurry, and the time spent in that stall with no toilet is wasted. It’s as if you’re hurrying down the hall and then pause, motionless, for a couple of minutes. It’s probably a helpful tactic when being chased by a motion-sensing reptile, or when having a seizure, but is otherwise useless. So many things need our immediate attention, but we’re stuck in that place just because of our need to move in the vertical direction.

When the doors open somewhere along the way, they stay open for just about ever. When you’re about to do something really desperate like verbalize your impatience to your fellow travelers, the doors begin slowly sliding closed. Then someone on the outside hits the Up button and the waiting game starts again.

The only defense we have against open doors is the Close button. It’s right down there next to the Open button, with a very similarly illegible icon. So we casually jamb our finger on the button and wait for the doors to respond. And wait. And wait.

The thing is, the inventors put the button there to make us feel like we were doing something. But they didn’t want the elevator to actually have that functionality. Either through cheapness, or an inherent pride in the workmanship of the Open feature, they decided to abandon the Close feature at the level of the button. You can push it all you want - those doors will close when they’re damn good and ready.

The elevator close button is the placebo of the mechanical transportation industry.

On some advanced and expensive elevators, the button is hooked up, because it’s considered tacky and cheap to simply have it sitting there with nothing behind it. Unfortunately, these elevators hook it up to the Open function, which explains why pressing the Close button makes it seem like it takes even longer than it does otherwise. Those doors remain open as long as we hold the Close button.

Sure, we could take the stairs and avoid all of this hassle, but then we’d just be made aware of how out of shape we are, and who needs that extra guilt?

When I am King, buildings will only have single stories. A second story is like a sequel: a pale imitation of the first, produced just because they figured they already spent all that time and money with the first one, they might as well do another one. Single stories will eliminate the awkwardness of the elevator experience and give us back the time that we would have spent standing too close to other human beings, so that we have more time to post status messages and emails to friends that comfortably far away.

If you really want to take the stairs, there’s always the gym. And if you miss the elevator, you can always ask a group of strangers to follow you into a toilet stall.

What it looks like	How it works

Sunday Comics: How Elevators Work

2011-05-15T13:56:00.001-07:00

How elevator controls look:

to the user	to the elevator

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-05-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

A penny saved is a penny earned, but if you're counting the pennies, you're screwed.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Just take the damn thing.

Where there's a will, there's a way
to contest it.

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do.

When I am King: Friendless

2011-05-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

I will have no friends.

I got several notifications from LinkedIn this week which reminded me how much I hate these emails. It’s not that I mind reconnecting with people, or being connected to them. It’s not that I mind them contacting me. And it’s certainly not that I have too many friends: geeks are naturally anti-social creatures and can use all the friends they can get.

However, I do object to the assumption, in these emails and on these social sites in general, that everyone is my ‘friend.’ They are not my friends: I hardly know them. If we’re counting friends, I’m pretty sure I can depend on my wife and my dog (depending on whether I helped out around the house that day). And of them, only one of them could possibly send me a ‘friend’ request on the computer (I don’t give my dog our account passwords. You never know what havoc they’ll wreak while you’re out for the day).

Outside of the house, I do have some friends. But mostly I have colleagues. And social acquaintances. And business acquaintances. And networking contacts. And people I met at conferences. And friends of friends. And people I met in a bar last night. And other people I met in the bar later last night when I was face-down on the floor. None of these people are what I’d call ‘friends’.

Friends are people we are close to. We grew up with them, or we roomed with them, or we spent too many years sequestered in the same cube at faceless corporations with them. In other words, friends are the people who have the dirt on you, the really nasty stuff that you don’t want anyone else to know. You keep these friends close because the alternative is worse. Everyone that’s not in that category you specifically want some distance from so that they don’t find out the dark secrets that could make you befriend them.

When I am King, social networks will be more honest. You will not get email telling you that someone says you’re a ‘friend.’ Instead, there will be more helpful information, like:

John Johnson has indicated you are:
a remote acquaintance.
someone he’s heard of.
another human being.
a person with a neat name.
someone whose contact information he wants to acquire.
someone he’d like to spam with a random headhunter email completely unrelated to your interests and experience.
someone who might know the answer to their homework problem.
someone who left a face-print on the floor of the bar last night.

We may not end up accepting connections with these people, but at least the relationships will be more honest if we do. And who knows? They could even someday become really good friends, unless you manage to keep all of the embarrassing personal secrets off of the social site accounts to which they now have access.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-04-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

Good things come to those who wait tables.

Haste makes waste. Donuts make waist.

Honesty is the best policy, but the premiums are unaffordable.

If we were meant to fly, we'd have wings. If we were meant to be too fat to fly, we'd have wings with ranch sauce.

Sunday Comics:The Easter Story

2011-04-23T11:22:00.000-07:00

The real reason he left his tomb that Sunday morning.

Epiblog: The Rest of the Story

2011-04-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

No jokes today; just a quick and completely self-serving note about a story I wrote a few weeks ago (The Day of Rest). I decided that it was more of a standalone 'story' than my typical pieces, so I wanted to try to publish it somewhere in addition to my blog. It turns out that writing for my blog and publishing books has taught me zilch about publishing stories. Where to send it? Who publishes humor? Online or print? Do I have to use Comic Sans font?

In the end, like we do for all of life's many mysteries, I searched the web for answers. My search came up with humorpress.com. They have a humor story contest every couple of months. I'd never heard of them before, but they had the words 'humor' and 'story' in the contest title, so it looked perfect.

I just got word yesterday that my little story won 1st Prize for February/March. Here's the ribbon to prove it:

Or if you need more proof, check it out on the winners' site on humorpress.com. You'll recognize my story on that page by the part that has my name on it. Unless there's someone else with my name, which would be even more bizarre than my winning this contest.

When I am King: What's the Worst that Could Happen?

2011-04-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Doctors will predict the worst possible outcome for their patients.

Whenever I go to my doctor, I try to envision the worst-case scenario for my latest injury. For a neck issue, I went with paralysis. For my shoulder, I opted for amputation. And I make a habit of telling my doctor that I’ll see her the next time my body falls apart, unless I’m dead.

My doctor seems to find these predictions alarming and rushes to assure me that the surgeon is not going to amputate, or that my cold is not lethal. But I find it comforting to know the worst that can happen and to verbalize it. Sure, I probably just have a sore throat - but what if it's an early indicator of Bubonic Plague? Or what if that slight headache really is a brain tumor?

The optimist would say that you should look on the bright side. See the positive aspects of any situation and hope for the best. I do consider myself an optimist. To me, the glass is always half full. But I wouldn't drink it because it could be laced with cyanide.

My method of hoping for the best is to realistically consider the worst. Then things can only get better from there. And if things are as bad as I predict, I have the satisfaction of being right, which always feels good.

For example, maybe amputation is an extreme outcome for a sore shoulder. But what if the injury takes a long time to heal? Or what if it requires surgery, which can have risks and complications? These would be unfortunate to one simply hoping for the best. But in my world, they’re not so bad compared to hauling out the bone saw and hacking off the limb.

When I am King, doctors will clearly outline the bleakest possibilities for patients. For example, your doctor might say, “You appear to have a cough, Mr. Jones. This may just be the cold that is going around, but it could also be the beginning stages of any number of terminal diseases. You should put your affairs in order just in case. See you next time, unless you’re dead.”

Sure, these consultations might be a bit of a shock at first. But imagine, after each illness recedes, how wonderful you’ll feel just to be alive. Until the last one, of course. Your doctor will eventually be right about the worst case scenario, which will give them that satisfying "I told you so" feeling. That'll be nice for them.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-04-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

Love is blind. This explains why it feels like it keeps whacking you with its cane.

Misery loves company. Especially this one company I used to work for.

Nature abhors a vacuum. So does my house.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-04-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

Time wounds all heels.

Forewarned is forearmed, but oblivious is elbowed in the gut.

If you can't beat them, join them to a chair with duct tape. Then beat them.

Money is the root of all evil. So money does grow on trees; you just have to dig for it.

Au Pair Programming

2011-04-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

In a former life, I wrote a piece called Crystal Methodology about several important programming methodologies. Time has passed and new practices have risen from the primordial programming soup. I'll discuss one of these newcomers today:

Au Pair Programming

Based on the popular Pair Programming technique, where two programmers work together, au pair programming also centers around a paired collaboration.

In the classic Pair Programming approach, both programmers assume different roles, with one writing the code (the Driver) and the other reviewing (the Observer or Navigator). In Au Pair Programming, there is only one person responsible for the actual engineering work (the Programmer). The other member of the team (the Au Pair) facilitates the work by taking on other activities that the Programmer has no time for, such as keeping the work area clean, fetching coffee, and taking care of the children (these may be actual children or, in the case of a management au pair, the employee minions of the manager). This even division of labor allows the Programmer to focus solely on the task at hand, enabling excellent productivity since they do not have to worry about superfluous tasks they don't enjoy anyway, like human interaction and showering.

The Au Pair may occasionally chime in with ideas of their own, in which case they are referred to as the Backseat Driver. These ideas are generally ignored and dismissed as the Programmer takes on their other role of the Jerk.

Ideal pairings are still being worked out in this new approach. Some Au Pairs have been French schoolgirls, although more successful pairings have used interns.

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-03-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

Blood is thicker than water. But give it a good scrub and the cops will never know.

Charity begins at home. Or so my kids told me when they begged 5 bucks off me.

Cleanliness is next to godliness. But it's even closer to annoyingliness.

The early bird catches the worm. So sleep in, unless you like worms for breakfast.

The Day of Rest: Remix

2011-03-21T10:00:00.000-07:00

A picture is worth a thousand words, so my cartoon last week on this subject only covered about half of what I had to say. Here's the complete story:

This story won
1st prize on
humorpress.com:

The Day of Rest

God came in to the office one day. He hadn’t been there in a very long time. Being omnipresent meant being everywhere at once, except at the office. He found it too stifling.

The place was deserted. He walked around the building for an hour, the only sound his sandals scraping the linoleum. Finally, as he rounded the corner toward reception, the front door open and Peter entered, in shorts and a t-shirt with the slogan “Soul Survivor.”

Peter stopped abruptly. He hadn’t seen the Boss in millennia. One of the attractions of his job was very little management oversight.

“G-good morning, Your Almightyness,” he said. “What, er, what brings you here on a Sunday?”

“WHERE IS EVERYONE!, ” God thundered.

It wasn’t that He was mad. It’s just the way He talked. It was awkward watching movies with Him because He always knew what was going to happen and insisted on telling you. And then nobody else in the theater could hear the show; He was just so loud.

“Well, sir, they’re all off today.”

“OFF?”

“Yes, sir. Day off. At home. Practicing the harp. Meditating. That kind of thing. I just came in to grab something from my office on my way out. Sheila from accounting is having another lawn-bowling party this afternoon.”

“WHY?”

“I don’t follow you, sir. Why the bowling? Well, it’s really the only thing to do up here, other than the harp. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that actually, sir. We’re having a bit of a morale-”

“NO, YOU NINNY. WHY ARE THEY TAKING THE DAY OFF WORK?”

“Well, because it’s Sunday, sir. We’re always off on Sunday. And Saturday, ever since that strike about the un-divine working conditions back in the 40’s.”

“WHAT DOES SUNDAY HAVE TO DO WITH IT?,” God bellowed.

“It’s the day of rest, sir. It’s in honor of you:
‘On the seventh day, God finished his work. And so he rested on the seventh day.’
I don’t think the repetition is quite necessary, although it’s still better than that section with all of the ‘begats’. Anyway, we take Sundays off because you did. It’s a day of rest.

“REST? REST?!!!! SUNDAY WASN’T A DAY OF REST FOR ME. YOU TAKE SIX DAYS TO CREATE EVERYTHING OUT OF NOTHING AND SEE HOW FAR YOU GET. DO YOU THINK YOU’D BE DONE WITH ALL OF IT IN JUST SIX DAYS?”

“But sir,” Peter asked, backing up slightly to put a little more space between himself and the Creator. “You’d done it all by then. The book says you’d created light. Which, by the way, is a pretty excellent feat, if I may say so. How did you even know what it was you wanted? A real visionary, sir. That’s what you are.”

“GET ON WITH IT!”

“Right. So on the second day, there was the firmament. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure what that word means. It’s like ‘irony’; I think nobody understands the word, though everyone seems to use it. Which I find ironic.”

“PETER!”

“Then there was the waters, and the lands, and the stars and moon. Then you went ahead and made all of the animals and then Adam and Eve.”

“STILL REGRETTING THAT DECISION. NO END OF BOTHER, MAN IS. AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ABOUT WOMEN. I’LL NEVER FIGURE THEM OUT.”

“You said it, sir. Anyway, that’s it. Then you rested.”

“THAT’S IT? I CREATE THE PLACE AND THE PEOPLE AND THEN I’M DONE?”

“Well, … yes. At least that’s what it seems like. And that’s what the book says. I mean, it’s not like you then needed to create aliens. So that pretty much wrapped it up, right?”

“NOT HARDLY! HOW FAR DO YOU THINK CIVILIZATION WOULD HAVE GOTTEN IF I’D STOPPED THERE? WHAT ABOUT ARCHITECTURE? ELECTRICITY? MACHINERY? LITERATURE? OR A REALLY GOOD BEARNAISE SAUCE?”

“I guess, sir, that I thought all of those things were all natural byproducts of mankind. Once you’d created them, they’d eventually come up with good ideas on their own.”

God looked at Peter. Peter withered, thinking of pillars of salt.

“IDEAS, YES. GOOD ONES? MANKIND INVENTED THE ELECTRIC PEPPER GRINDER. AND THE SPORT OF DRIVING IN CIRCLES FOR 500 MILES. YOU THINK THEY CAME UP WITH THE REALLY GOOD IDEAS?”

“No, I guess not. But what about the day of rest? The scripture is very clear on this.”

“IN ADDITION TO EVERYTHING ELSE I CREATED THAT WEEK, I APPARENTLY CREATED TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS. IT’S JUST PLAIN WRONG. ON THE SEVENTH DAY, I DID NOT ‘REST’. ON THE SEVENTH DAY ‘I DID THE REST’. I WAS VERY CLEAR ABOUT IT AT THE TIME.”

“Got it, sir.”

“GOOD. NOW GO TELL EVERYONE TO PUT AWAY THE HARPS AND GET BACK IN THE OFFICE. TELL THEM IT’S GOOD FOR THE SOUL.”

“Well, sir, it’s just that everyone sort of enjoys that extra day off. Gives you a chance to re-charge those wings, if you know what I mean.”

God looked at him.

“PETER.”

“Yes, sir?”

“DO YOU LIKE IT HERE PETER?”

“Uh, sure, sir. Although, now that you mention it, there are a few-”

“DO YOU LIKE IT UP HERE, PETER? BECAUSE I COULD CHANGE THAT FOR YOU.”

“Ah, yes. I see that sir. Yes, sir. I love it. It’s heavenly.”

“I THOUGHT SO. NOW GET BACK TO WORK.”

“Yes, sir. And might I say how very wonderful it’s been seeing you in the office again, sir. It has been such a-”

God looked at Peter. Peter withered again.

“Goodbye sir. I’ll just go round everyone up.”

“YES.”

Peter jogged back out the front door, which slammed shut behind him, leaving God alone in the foyer. In the distance, a water cooler kicked on.

God said, “I HATE MANAGEMENT. WHY DID I EVER CREATE MANAGEMENT?,” and went in search of the coffee machine.

When I am King: Brochure Thing

2011-03-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Medical pamphlets will be more fun to read.

“It’s terminal.” These are the most horrible two words that your doctor might say to you, handily beating the runner-up, “rectal bleeding.”

My doctor didn’t actually say either of these winning phrases, but he did hand me a brochure last week that talked about how my shoulder problem was typically an issue with older, postmenopausal women. The brochure showed pictures of several such sufferers in beds. Obviously, either their shoulder pain or their advanced age made it impossible for them to get out of bed and change out of their nightgown. But I suppose that they’d retired thirty years ago and had nothing to do all morning but think about how their children never called and what kind of soup they’d like for lunch.

It’s not that I mind having injuries. I figure it’s part of being alive, especially in the high-risk, body-thrashing programming career that I’ve pursued for my entire adult life. And I don’t mind getting older because it’s better than the alternative.

But I do mind being mistaken for being even older and of the opposite sex. For one thing, I’d look awful in those nightgowns the old women were sporting.

The problem is the brochures. Handing you a pamphlet on your disease is the doctor’s way of telling you, “So many people have this problem that we mass-published thousands of these to hand out. So quit your whining, you baby.” It’s also a way for them to get out of actually speaking to you.

And these little booklets do help. Just looking at the pictures convinces me that I’m not doing that badly because I feel a whole lot better than the people in the pictures look. But they don’t make me feel very good about whatever I’ve contracted; the pictures of body parts and the clinical descriptions of maladies go a long way toward making me feel like I’m actually sick, instead of just suffering a temporary setback.

When I am King, medical brochures will be more upbeat. They will teach about the problems and possible cures, but with a whimsical and positive tone that helps patients feel better, even as their bodies are falling apart, piece by piece. Introductory phrases like, “Everybody has spleen disorder!”, “Osteoporosis: today’s hot disease for hipsters of all ages!”, “If you can read this, you must be okay!”, and “Everybody dies!” will help the inspire the readers to read on. Pictures of happy, young people playing Frisbee from their walker, acting as King Lear while wheeling an IV stand, or putting attractive makeup on gangrenous patches will help the patients feel young, healthy, and optimistic, even as the nurse is reaching over to unplug their life support.

Life is a journey to a distant destination. We should do what we can to enjoy the journey itself, because from the way the old women looked in that brochure, the destination sucks.

Sunday Comics: The Day of Rest

2011-03-06T09:42:00.000-08:00

Things I Believe: Thoughts for Friday

2011-03-04T09:30:00.000-08:00

Discretion is the better part of valor. But it's the most critical part of cowardice.

Don't punch a gift horse in the mouth.

It takes one to know one. But it doesn't take anything to know nothing at all.

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and the world laughs at you.

Double Time

2011-02-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

People have mentioned that I bear some resemblance to CNN's Anderson Cooper. I personally don't see it. Other than the fact that we both hang out in sport coats, live life on the edge, and are world-famous television personalities, I can't see the similarities. I had CNN send me a headshot of Mr. Cooper so that I could compare it to one that I had lying around (note: Mr. Cooper is on the left):

Besides the fact that he highlights his hair with gray to get that distinguished look I've been perfecting over the last several years (although he seems to have overdone it a bit), he clearly doesn't have the same intrepid reporter feel that I inherently exude. But he tries.

Nevertheless, it seemed worth pursuing the following possibility, since the public might see the pair of us differently:

I am hereby applying for the role of Anderson Cooper's Stunt Double. Celebrities have used stunt doubles ever since the demise of Isadora Duncan (which also resulted in a general trend away from long scarves and convertibles, whose popularity had previously run neck-and-neck). It is now quite common for famous people to use doubles for everything from movie stunts to charity appearances to tedious relationship conversations. The use of doubles has freed up these important people for more critical things in their lives, like sleeping in.

With Mr. Cooper's propensity to put himself in dangerous situations, from the protests of the Middle East to the stampeding cows of Wisconsin, it is clear that he would prefer not to give up the riskier side of his job. But he would surely like to be able to be in more places at one time, enabling him to be both in the newsroom and in the field. So I am applying to be his inverse stunt double. He can continue to do the stunt work required of his job, and I'll take on the awesome responsibility of all of the other stuff that he could do. Sitting in the newsroom, being interviewed for the Jon Stewart show, eating expensive meals at fancy restaurants: these are all of the things that he would surely like do more of, if only he wasn't so busy risking his life to report the news. With my help, he can do it all.

Why stop at Anderson Cooper 360, when he could have Anderson Cooper 720 instead? There's a revolution one could believe in.

I'm currently waiting to hear back from Mr. Cooper's people. This process would probably happen a lot faster if his people included an inverse stunt double to handle this kind of administrative detail for him. Meanwhile, I'm practicing the moves requisite for the position: smiling, shaking hands, eating expensive food, and adding more gray to my hair.

Things I Believe

2011-02-22T09:30:00.000-08:00

A person is known by the company he keeps. Especially the CEO.

A picture paints a thousand words. But they're really tiny and hard to read.

A rising tide lifts all boats. Then it smashes them on the rocks.

Crime doesn't pay. But the perks are awesome.

When I am King: Phoney Business

2011-02-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

Phones will be phones. Internets will be Internets.

A few months ago, after incessant marketing spam from AT&T, I ‘upgraded’ to UVerse. I had been a happy DSL customer for years. Without cable TV, or the desire to get it, didn’t see the reason to change my ISP service. I had a phone. I had the Internet. I was set.

Cold calls couldn’t dissuade me. Especially the one where the guy asked about my current TV plan:
“I don’t have TV.”
“Right, but how do you get TV now?”
“I don’t get TV.”
"But how do you get TV channels?"
"I don't."
[pause]
“Er, thank you sir. Good night.”

And they never called back. Obviously, a customer without TV coverage is not worth having. Maybe they detected my inherent inability to pick up on social trends, or my failure to see all of their UVerse ads on TV. Or maybe they figured a lack of cable implied a lack of income and I’d soon be living on the outside of my foreclosed house, anyway.

But I am, above all, a cheapwad. So when I finally saw an ad that convinced me I’d pay less for my phone+Internet through UVerse, I went for it. I had to wade through all of the online pages that tried to get me to buy TV coverage first, of course. It was like going to a department store for a pair of sneakers and having to wind through the aisles of jewelry and makeup and bedding along the way. “You don’t want th TV+Internet+phone package? Well, how the Internet+phone+TV package instead?”

Finally, I managed to get the service I want: UVerse for cheapwads. Phone + Internet. Period.

And it was cheaper, at least for now. And it basically works.

But today, I called home in the middle of the day. And I got the response, “The subscriber you are trying to reach is not currently in service.” Called again, same response. Which nearly rules out my wife having an affair, unless the guy is really good at sounding exactly the same every time he answers the phone.

Subscriber? You mean my house? I didn’t realize the house had subscribed to anything. I just thought it was a house. With a phone.

Then the reality of UVerse hit me: I now have a VOIP phone. That is, a phone on the network, instead of on a phone line.

This makes sense in general: phone traffic over the Internet. It enables all kinds of services that appeal to cheapwads like me. But somehow I find this particular use of it a tad ridiculous:
UVerse comes to my house through the phone line. It's basically DSL with branding. So I traded out my phone service so that they could put my phone on the Internet service that they provide through my phone line. And now my phone doesn’t work. The phone line still works fine. And if I still had regular phone service, the phone would be ringing. But since it’s connected through their hardware and software along the way, it’s masquerading as an out-of-area cell phone instead.

It really makes me want to try out their TV service for an extra $50/month.

When I am King, phone lines will be used to make phone calls. Phone lines can also be used for other purposes, like carrying network traffic and restraining children at the dinner table until their broccoli is finished. But if there’s a phone, by gum it’ll be plugged into the dang phone line.

And TV? I don’t care how you get that. I’ll still be too cheap to pay for it. I get my TV through the Internet.

A Belated Valentines Wish

2011-02-15T08:49:00.001-08:00

Happy Valentines Day.
To show you how much I care, I bought you a card for $4 written by a stranger, plus some candies that taste like chalk.
And some dead flowers.

Won't you be mine?

When I am King: Gameskill

2011-02-07T09:30:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

Video games will train our children.

As a new owner of a fancy phone, I’ve been doing a lot of research into phone applications (I’ve been playing a lot of games). One of the games I’ve been losing my life to is Angry Birds, a game in which you launch birds at pigs.

Launch birds at pigs.

It struck me, when I first started playing the game, that game designers have simply given up on the whole “plot” thing. I could imagine the meeting when the company tried to define the vision of the game: “There are these pigs, right, and they take these, um, eggs. And, let’s see, the eggs must have come from some birds, right, and they birds would be pretty angry, and … Ah, screw it. Let's write some code.”

But as I’ve sunk more of my nonexistent spare time into the game, I realized that there is actually a deeper level on which the game operates. It’s not about plots, and stories, and characters, and all of the traditional elements of an engaging fantasy world. Instead, it’s about life skills.

Think about it: you learn to precisely target the birds at the enemy to destroy them and their defenses. You sow terror in the pig community in the hopes of getting the eggs back. You wreak havoc and revenge upon every pig you see, advancing levels only when you have killed every pig in sight. And you do all of this with minions that are happy to die for the cause.

Angry Birds is training the next generation of suicide bombers.

This might be too subtle to catch at first. Then you get to the level where you launch the bomb bird at the bus full of pig children.

And while this could be construed as disturbing on some level, the fact is that our children need to develop life and career skills. Gone are the days when responsible parents would send their children out to harvest the crops, milk the livestock, and slaughter the family pets. And children learning a manufacturing trade in sweatshops is a dying tradition. Even the coal industry, a natural for minors, is sealed to the little tykes. So where are kids supposed to pick up the crucial experience that can carry them into their brief adulthood and us into our retirement?

Meanwhile, most kids spend every possible waking hour playing video games. What better way to train tomorrow’s adults than by teaching them through this engaging and interactive medium?

When I am King, all video games will teach important life skills. We’re part of the way there today, with such educational opportunities as performing hits for the mob, massacring aliens with heavy firepower, and jumping over crates to collect coins. But we could go so much further with a little more focus on the critical elements that our society revolves around:

Investment bankers could be raised on games that teach how to bankrupt the economy while spending government bailout grants in performance bonuses.
Budding politicians could be taught important talents such as looking determined, promising undeliverable goals, and outright lying.
All kids could learn the fine art of begging, as a backup when the other alternatives don’t pan[handle] out.

The time that kids spend playing will make them more qualified for these and other critical roles in our society. When our children can learn a trade in their leisure time, it's time to cut funding for education, because that's what governments do.

Things I Believe

2011-01-28T09:30:00.000-08:00

He who hesitates is lost. You can tell because he's looking at a map.

It's no use crying over spilled milk. Acid, however, is worth a complete breakdown.

Let sleeping dogs lie. But torture the cats for the truth.

Many hands make light work. But electricity makes lights work.

When I am King: Fast-Forward Progress

2011-01-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

We will all have a fast-forward button for life.

Recently, a friend requested the ability to fast-forward through certain life events. It's possible that he was kidding, but since he was talking to the future monarch of our society, it seemed worth considering.

The problem with life is that it doesn't always not completely suck. There are some periods you go through, like grief, healing from injuries, and standing in line at the DMV, that simply take time and anguish. Wouldn't it be great if you could just mentally check out during these times and wake up later when they were all over?

Some lucky people don't have this problem; they clearly checked out years ago and won't be coming back anytime soon. But for the rest of us, why must we suffer these episodes?

Life offers its own fast-forward system already. It's called "getting old." This is the process by which everything seems to happen faster as you get old. A year in school to a kid feels like forever, but a year on the job thirty years later rockets by like a duck through a jet engine. This is a natural reaction to aging. Our body realizes that as we age there is simply more going wrong, so making everything seem faster will make it all better somehow. It's the same reason why punk and speed metal are set to fast tempos.

This current system works, so that the downer periods don't last as long as they might. But we still have to go through them. And since the acceleration applies both to awful events and to the few that aren't as bad, we don't benefit from being able to skip the ones that are worse and focus on the handful that are reasonable. It's a coarse approach, meant to get us to the finish line faster, not to make the journey there any more pleasant.

What we really need is a button that lets us select the periods to skip.

When I am King, we will all have a fast-forward button that allows us to skip past things that we don't like. Just hit the button and watch everything speed past until we want to wake up again. So many things in life will become more bearable: debilitating illnesses, workouts at the gym, tedious conversations, traffic, and most TV shows will breeze by, and we can slow down for the things that we really enjoy: sleeping and watching movies.

One of the difficulties that my scientists are still working on is the remote. When fumbling for the fast-forward button, it is all too common to hit the Stop or Eject button instead, and then the show's over.

CodeDependent: The Clothing Line for Geeks

2011-01-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

For no good reason at all, I decided that geeks need more T-shirts and that I need to provide them. Fortunately, I don't have to pit my sewing skills against such a high goal; I'll just let CafePress do it for me.

Here's the first such effort, "codedependent" (available in various colors/styles - see the site for the full array):

Things I Believe

2011-01-15T07:48:00.000-08:00

Time for more proverbs. Or at least semi-pro verbs:

A friend in need is a friend in debt.

A good man is hard to fine.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. So don't even start or you'll be walking for friggin' ever.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But not as dangerous as a little dynamite.

A penny saved is a penny earned, but if you're counting each cent, you're screwed.

Little Jokes for Sunday

2011-01-09T09:06:00.000-08:00

Sunday is, for many people, a day to ponder the great issues about life and mortality. Important questions come to mind, like Why are we here? Did I turn the burner off before I left the house? And of course, Should I have a sixth donut?

It seems appropriate to provide, on this day of personal reflection, some zombie jokes.

Q: How can you tell the difference between a corpse and a zombie?
A: One is deceased, the other de-ceased.

Q: How can you tell when a zombie's embarrassed?
A: They soil themselves.

Q: Why can't you trust zombies?
A: They're always hatching a plot.

Q: What's a zombie's favorite kind of fruit?
A: Any kind of bury.

Q: How do the dead see?
A: Gravesite.

When I am King: Solving Resolving

2011-01-01T15:42:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

New Years resolutions will be more achievable.

I’ve written about this on multiple occasions. But since New Years keeps coming around like a bad hangover (in fact, exactly like a bad hangover), I resolved to make another pass at it.

Every New Years, people feel compelled to come up with resolutions: proposed behaviors that fly in the face of everything they’ve done so far in life. They’re going to go to the gym, even though they’ve belonged for a decade and never crossed the threshold after joining. They’re going to eat a better diet... right after their third Twinkie. They’re going to solve world hunger, even though their personal food consumption makes it physically impossible for everyone else to get enough.

These resolutions do nothing except make us feel guilty. How can one simple statement about eating right counter forty years of habit plus a couple hundred pounds of proof to the contrary? And do we really need to add this extra obligation and ensuing feeling of failure to our already tenuous and unhealthy lifestyle? Wouldn’t we do better to just accept who we are and be happy about it? Or at the very least, we could shoot for something more reasonable and be satisfied with achievable goals. Then we can get back to the dessert buffet.

Typical resolutions come in the form of vague and all-encompassing setups for failure, along these lines:

I resolve to help the needy
I resolve to be kind to my neighbor
I resolve to not get divorced
I resolve to spend more time with my children
I resolve to eat healthier
I resolve to lose weight
I resolve to exercise

When I am King, people will nail down the particulars of their resolutions better, in a more helpful and more achievable fashion. For example, the above resolutions could be better written as follows:

I resolve to help the needy, unless they haven’t gotten a job yet and are still panhandling.
I resolve to be kind to my neighbor, unless they don’t move that dead car off my curb.
I resolve to not get divorced, unless she uses my razor again.
I resolve to spend more time with my children, unless they become teenagers or I'm really busy.
I resolve to eat healthier, unless dessert looks really good.
I resolve to lose weight, unless dessert looks really good.
I resolve to exercise, unless it’s really inconvenient to get to the gym or it interferes with some TV show or I just don’t feel like it.

With these kinds of resolutions that everyone can achieve, or at least have a handy excuse for not doing so, we will become a more mentally fit and emotionally satisfied society. Then we can spend our energy on the things that really matter, like dessert.

Corporate Survival Guide: The Holiday Party

2010-12-30T11:32:00.000-08:00

On the battlefield, the importance of entertaining the troops is paramount; always keep the guys with the guns happy. Without this goal and the USO, how else could we have kept Bob Hope overseas and off of our television shows for as long as we did?

The corporate battlefield is no different; the soldiers of bureaucracy must occasionally be entertained by the company, to keep their spirits high, their attitude productive, and their guns at home.

Thus comes the annual holiday party at work. This affair can range widely in the particulars. At the low end, it might be a stilted and awkward gathering in a break room to have a carefully-rationed glass of the cheapest box wine available. On the high end, it can be a lavish, stilted and awkward orgy of booze and food that makes you wonder if you're in the right place. Either way works; as long as there's alcohol to help you forget your pathetic existence in the cube farms for an evening, it's better than crying yourself to sleep on the floor of your mother's kitchen. Again.

But the real question for the corporate warrior is: how can you use the situation to your advantage? The savvy soldier always looks for the opportunity to strike the killing blow, and having all of your peers and managers in festive spirits is the perfect time. Here are some strategic party tips:

Helpful Holiday Hints

1) Drink Far Too Much
First of all, realize that they are giving this food away, and a good solider always packs in the free stuff.

But more importantly for your career, it's critical that your management see you diving head-first into the walls of opportunity that they provide for their employees.
You could say, "Oh, I don't drink," which would appear socially responsible. But it would also come off as aloof and, frankly, tedious. Unless they asked you here to drive everyone else home, do you really think they want to hear about your abstention habit?

You could also simply have one drink to appear social. But that's not much better; they didn't provide all of this free booze just to see it politely consumed. They might as well have offered candy bars or breath mints; where's the fun in seeing everyone sip quietly?

No, the alcohol is provided for one purpose and one purpose only. Okay, two. One of the reasons is that they want to give the outward appearance of having provided something nice to the staff, so that you'll remember the $4 bottles of wine the next time they ask you to stay late off the clock. But the main reason is that they want a party. Alcohol, like jello, is a social lubricator, designed to loosen lips and break down stuffy barriers. If they'd wanted a polite conversation, they'd have offered crackers. No, they want an all-out rave. So give them one that everyone will remember, even if you don't.

So help them out; get completely schnockered.

2) Booze schmooze
Networking with your co-workers is best done when you're drunk. For one thing, they will see you as companionable, fun, and harmless, which is exactly how you want them to feel as you undermine their careers to further your own interests. Also, you probably won't remember these conversations the next day, so you don't have to clutter your mind or memory with them and can focus on the important things going forward: managing your career and curing that splitting headache.

3) Suck it up
As always, the most important thing for you to do is to find the nearest executive and suck up to them. Being drunk helps with this critical task, because it breaks down inhibitions and enables you to say things that you otherwise might not, like "Thank you [wipe tear away] for being such a great leader this year!", and "What a great Christmas sweater!," and possible "Sorry for throwing up on your great Christmas sweater!"

If the opportunity arises, don't be afraid to get into a fight to defend the honor of an executive. Pretend that a co-worker says something offensive about the company and take a swing at the detractor before they know what's happening. Your managers will be impressed at your willingness to defend the corporation, even to the point of getting completely beaten up, as will surely happen in your drunken state.
It is important, as you suck up in your inebriated state, to remember to do this with the Right People. Don't waste your compliments on mere co-workers. Likewise for the hat stand, mistaken for your boss in the dim office lighting.

4) Pass out
Your management will know that you completely enjoyed and appreciated the party when you pass out in the guacamole dip. It will be clear that you not only had a great time, but that you prefer the socially acceptable result of sleeping it off at work instead of driving home drunk. Besides, you will get credit for sleeping at the office and pulling an all-nighter (be sure to submit the overtime request to Payroll).

Put this strategy to use as you navigate the treacherous waters of this year's holiday parties. I think you'll be amazed at what will happen to your career. At the very least, you can be happy that you maximized the free booze benefit. And if you did make a complete fool of yourself, at least the alcohol guarantees that you won't have to suffer memories of the debacle.

Little Joke for Sunday

2010-12-26T07:44:00.000-08:00

Do married women gain weight in their thighs, or are those just old wives’ tails?

Holiday Spirit

2010-12-18T12:49:00.000-08:00

Christmas is such a great time of year, not least of which because of the fantastic music you hear on every radio station, and in every store, and during every on-hold phone experience. I just wish they would start playing these charming ditties sooner, like in May instead of June.

Here's one of my favorites, faithfully transcribed for you from one of the most memorable California musicals:

Wet Christmas

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas,
Just like the one we had last year.
With the rain not stopping, the children sopping,
And more in the forecast, we hear.

I'm dreaming of a wet Christmas,
With every sniffle wiped away.
May your days be dismal and gray
And may rain drops fall on every day.

When I am King: Holiday Treedition

2010-12-13T10:00:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

All Christmas trees will be fake.

It's such a wonderful time of year, Christmas. Or Hanukkah, if you prefer. Or as some might call it, December.

In any case, it's a great month: a time full of family tradition. One of the best traditions must certainly be the decorating of the tree. You head out with the brood to the nearest old-growth forest, choose the best tree you can find that fits onto the roof of your Prius, and play the Merry Woodcutter to chop that baby down. You drive home, singing Christmas Carols (or Hanukkah Hymns, if you prefer). Once home, you bustle that tree into the corner, where it radiates with a fresh pine smell reminding everyone of the forest it called home until you killed it. Then you make hot chocolate, spiced cider, and mulled wine, get the boxes of ornaments down, and spend the evening in happy harmony, decorating, being together, and spending happy moments that will live in unviewed digital photographs on a hard drive for millennia to come.

Or:

You drive to one of the tree vendors in town, park in the overcrowded lot, wind your way through mobs of other shoppers around bundles of tree corpses that are trussed-up and toe-tagged with prices, and choose the tree that looks like the best combination of (1) fits under the ceiling, (2) not too many gaping holes and dead branches, (3) not too obviously desiccated, and (4) painfully expensive but not as much as some. You tie the tree on top of the car where it proceeds to scratch the paint in its death-throes, cart it home, drag it into the house (laying a carpet of dead needles along the way), muscle it into a tree stand, and prop it up in the corner where it begins to fall into disrepair immediately. Then begins the decorating, which starts with untangling the strings of lights and realizing that none of them light up due to dead bulbs. Meanwhile, the only smell from the tree remotely like pine is pee from your dog, who decided that an inside tree is still a tree.

The glorious tradition of felling a Christmas tree in nature, if it ever really existed, is gone like so many other past-times of yore, such as the hoop-and-stick game, or sitting by the wireless listening to the Billy and Edith Hour, Brought to You by Acme Soap.

And so we bought a fake tree.

For the past three years, our family tradition has consisted of finding the box, removing the tree from it, putting it together, and plugging it in. Done. A few minutes after that, the ornaments are on and there's actually time to have a glass of mulled wine or five.

When I am King, life will be more real by being more fake. Christmas trees are just the first step: Why stop there? If we replace the trees in our yards with replicas, we won't need to worry about leaves in the gutter. Fake plants in the garden will go a long way toward eliminating weeding. And artificial turf in place of our lawns will provide year-round green without all of that fuss. And all of these measures will ensure a more natural looking outdoors as global warming slowly kills off the real foliage.

Tradition will live on, of course. For example, we will watch the same Christmas shows every year. Just turn on the tube, and there they are. Next to the plugged-in tree. Instant tradition.

When I am King: DesigNation

2010-12-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

We will all have designated victims for the activities of our lives.

I was at a dinner recently with a group of friends, none of whom drink. The waitress set the bottle of wine down on the far end of the table, where it sat lonely and untouched until I got up and fetched it.

It turns out that I was the designated drinker for the evening. There were 6 people, out for a raucous night on the town, but they needed was someone to do the partying vicariously for them. I was happy to oblige.

In the olden days (a phrase which means a time before I can remember which, for me, means more than three weeks ago), princes of the realm would have their own whipping boy. When the prince was naughty, the punishment would fall on the whipping boy instead of the prince himself. Pretty sweet deal, at least for the prince.

Then there's the designated driver concept, where a group of friends want to be irresponsibly drunk without actually dying, so they choose a lesser friend to be the chauffeur for the evening. Note that this approach to partying is not quite as successful as my designated drinker strategy because the drink must be shared amongst the whole group.

When I am King, we will embrace and extend these means of delegation. For example, why reserve the whipping boy concept for princes (or Kings)? We should allow everyone to designate scapegoats for their failures.

We could use a similar approach for the information overload that we all experience. Think how wonderful it would be if we could designate others to receive our mail, read our email, pay our bills, and have meaningful dialogs with our partners about communication in our relationship. Meanwhile, we could be doing our part toward this effort, playing someone's designated drinker, or at least practicing for the role.

When I am King: Bringing Up Upbringing

2010-11-11T09:04:00.000-08:00

When I am King...

There will be no more parenting.

Today, I wanted to talk about the most important job of adults. No, not emailing YouTube links at work. I'm talking, of course, about parenting.

In our real jobs, the ones we get paid to do, we provide products or services or additional layers of unhelpful bureaucracy to our clients. But in parenting, we are imparting the rules of life itself not only to our children, but, indirectly, to everyone that they will interact with and every generation that they parent. So, in effect, as a parent you have a significant impact on the entire future of our planet.

At the same time, parenting is the job that we are the most unqualified to do.

For the job that pays the bills and provides the stress and adrenaline that keeps us going until retirement, when we'll simply expire from exhaustion and relief, we spend years getting ready and our entire working life perfecting the necessary skills. First there are the 12-ish years of primary education where we learn such important skills as hiding from bullies and sucking up to the teacher. Following that, we optionally head off to college, where we learn to drink heavily without dying. And we may even continue on in graduate studies, focusing in on particular areas of study, such as learning how to live below the poverty level for indefinite periods of time.

After this decade or two of education, we're finally ready to enter the job market. But we don't start out delivering finished products to users. Instead we train and act as part of a team, honing our skills over the years before we actually take on any semblance of responsibility or ownership in our field. So it can be many years more before we are trusted in our capabilities enough to unleash our output onto our users.

And in some fields, such as software, there is a high tolerance for failure. After all, if the 1.0 version is awful, there is always 2.0 next year, or 3.0 the year after that. Upgrades are a way of life.

But the job of parenting is given to us for the simple reason that we happen to be the oldest person in the group. That's like having the pilot of the airplane be the person seated closest to the cockpit. Or the designated driver be the one that's the least passed-out on the floor of the bar. Or the elected official be the one with the most money. No, scratch that last one; that is the way politics works.

I think the theory is that we're trained to be parents because we grew up. That's like saying that I'm a good fighter because I've been beaten up.

In parenting, the very tools that train you are themselves the products of your ineptness. You're not just screwing up a prototype; it's the product itself that suffers. That child holds every nuance of your failures in their very being, learning from your mistakes to grow up and make them all over again with their children, passing along the mistakes of their ancestors for generations to come.

If you have more than one child, you could think of the first one as the flawed first version, and the second child as a better 2.0 product, except that you aren't allowed to pull the 1.0 version off of the shelves. The second one isn't an upgrade from the first; they're both out in the market for life. Besides, are you really that confident of what you've learned with the first child that you think you'll nail it better with the second one? All you've learned is how you can make some things easier for yourself the second time around, like how long you can let that diaper go without causing too much of a rash or public health hazard. It's not clear that any of the mistakes you made the first time have taught you how to not make them next time around. In fact, you probably won't really understand the mistakes until the project is finished and you see the resulting adult that you helped create.

And we wonder why teenagers lack respect for their parents? That's just the age at which they realize the awful truth.

When I am King, we'll leave parenting up to the experts: nobody. There will be no more children, no more parenting, and, eventually, no more human race. Sure, it's an extreme solution, but think of the larger benefits: more free time and money to try fill that hollow emptiness in our lives, and the eventual recovery of the planet from our incessant existence.

Sunday Comics: Mirror Mirror

2010-11-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Electile Dysfunction

2010-11-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

In honor of, or despite, election day here in the US:

It's no coincidence that Halloween is so close to election day. They're almost the same:

Both are about the candy-dates
Both cause complete strangers to knock on your door and ask you for things
Both feature creepy monsters
Everyone's glad when they're over

On the whole, I find Halloween much easier to take. At least we only have to live with the mistakes of that night for the next day, until our digestion recovers. But election results are with us for years.

Sunday Comics: Happy Halloween

2010-10-31T12:25:00.000-07:00

Putting the Fun back in Funeral

2010-10-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

Just in time for Halloween...

Bob's Mortuary:

Putting the 'fun' back in funeral

Things I Believe

2010-10-19T21:12:00.000-07:00

That which does not kill us makes us whiny.

Better safe than sorry. Which is exactly what the safecracker told the judge.

All things must pass. Except that chicken bone, which you really shouldn't have swallowed in the first place.

Actions speak louder than words, unless you use a PA system.

Absynthe makes the hearth grow flounder.

A watched pot never boils, but a watched boil is gross.

Geek Jokes 0000 1010: Be of Good Cheer

2010-10-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

I figure the whole reason that geeks have avoided sports all these years is because we didn't have the right motivation.

That and we kept getting beat up.

I'm hoping that this rousing set of cheers will help, at least with the motivation part.

Two bits four bits, six bits, a byte.
C'mon team, let's write, write, write code!

1 byte, 2 bytes, 3 bytes, a word.
C'mon crowd, let's make ourselves extremely audible!

Megabyte, gigabyte, terabyte of RAM
As much memory as we can cram
into our servers.

Gimme an O!
Gimme an X!
Gimme an F!
Gimme another F!
What's that spell?
255!

For the other factor, getting beat up, I suggest curling up in a fetal position. It doesn't stop the beating, but it does help protect your laptop.

Halloweenies

2010-10-04T09:30:00.000-07:00

Squash is the only food which I was forced to eat in my childhood which I still cannot enjoy. Unless you count eggplant. And dirt.

So the fact that we spend a month of the year, leading up to Halloween, celebrating it makes me overjoyed, of course. The fact that it's actually a celebration of the effectively inedible, and generally uneaten, pumpkin variety makes it perfect. What better way to eradicate squash from our diet than by picking as many varieties as we can find and letting them sit around on our porches until they wither and die a horrible, moldy death? Or, more likely, until they get kicked in or thrown in the street on Halloween night (probably by kids who share my feelings toward them).

So it's a mystery how I found myself in a pumpkin farm this weekend. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with this fundamental fact of parenthood: what you enjoy has nothing to do with it.

Regardless, I thought I'd document some of the things I saw for posterity:

Teenager

Feeling out of place

Inverse pumpkin

Gourdgeous

No caption: I just like the picture

Haycorn squash

Hemorrhoids

Bone marrows

Humpkins

Pumpkin kin

Another corny caption

Finally, I couldn't help bringing this one back from several years ago in Russia, posted on a blog far, far away:

Waterfelons

Minor Jokes for Friday

2010-10-01T09:30:00.000-07:00

Every year in California, elementary school children study an important element in our history. In other places, students might study the history of their country or important elements of world history and how it relates to their lives. But here in California, our kids study the gold rush. That's right: money, greed, and the founding of a state by the hapless individuals who fell for that marketing trap.

And we wonder at the superficiality of Los Angeles?

In tribute to this annual reflection on our greedy past, I offer these minor miner jokes:

Q: What’s are the three rules of finding gold?
A: Mine, mine, mine.

Q: Why did the miner take a balloon ride in a thunderstorm?
A: He heard that every cloud has a silver lining.

Q: Why did the miner stay in California instead of moving north?
A: Because he didn’t like the sound of a place called “Ore-gone”

Q: Why are so many gold-diggers children?
A: Because it’s the only profession open to minors.

Q: What do you call the diggers with no clothes on?
A: Strip miners.

Q: Why does everyone love gold?
A: You can’t help but dig it.

Q: Why did the student pan for gold all night long?
A: His mother told him, “You’d better finish your homework, ore else!”

Q; Why was silver more popular than gold?
A: Everyone dug the silver, but panned the gold.

Q: Why couldn’t the miner ever find gold?
A: He looked and looked, but searched in vein.

Q: What did they call the miner that threw himself down his mine shaft?
A: A claim jumper.

When I am King: Thank You for Reading!

2010-09-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

When I am King...

Appreciation will be more automated.

I filled up my car at the gas station recently. When I finished the transaction at the pump, the machine asked me whether I wanted a receipt. When I hit the 'No' button, it told me to 'Please wait', and then a few seconds later it said 'Thank you!'

So not only did the machine feel grateful to me, but it wanted me to hang around waiting for it to get up the courage to say so. Why it took several seconds to get around to it, I don't know. Maybe it was shy, or spent time in some complicated algorithm to determine the appropriate parting sentence. Or maybe it considered cursing me instead, then felt better of it and left it at 'Thanks' instead.

In any case, it's clear that the machine appreciated my business with heartfelt digital joy.

Similarly, when I use the ATM, the computer is always happy to see me, using such statements as "How can I help you today?" and always signing off with "Thanks - we appreciate your business!"

I'm sure that we all enjoy this sort of camaraderie with computers and love hearing how they feel, especially when they feel good about us. How many of the humans that we interact with during the day say such pleasing and obsequious things?

Unfortunately, people are far more complicated and, frankly, depressing. A simple and rhetorical "How are you?" greeting may at any time end up in a discussion of that person's problems instead of just the simple "Hello" that you were hoping for. A transaction in a store could end up in a tedious conversation about the weather. And I don't know the last time I had the pleasure of an ATM transaction with a person; I challenge you to take money from someone and have them respond, "Thank you!" You'll be lucky if they don't call the cops.

When I am King, we will have more of these automated suck-up conversations, starting with the rest of the machines in our lives. Our cars, now equipped with useless information in the dashboard like average MPH, engine RPMs, and the fuel gauge, will instead display perky messages about how happy they are to take us places and how awesome we are in general. Traffic lights will display messages, like "Thank you for stopping!", "Thank you for going!", and, in the yellow light, "Thank you for speeding up!". ATMs will be joined by toilets in thanking us for making a deposit. And automated jail cells will thank us for staying there, wishing us a pleasant stay after another unsuccessful attempt to get some appreciation from a person by taking their wallet.

Words to Live By

2010-09-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

It's a Sunday afternoon. You're sitting around at home, wondering what to do. Should you scold the children for setting fire to their clothes hamper, or should you finally fix the leak in the bathroom that's causing septic seepage down the hallway?

Or should you, instead, fret about the state of the world? The world doesn't seem to be doing very well on its own, so it could probably stand to have some commiseration and ineffective pondering on the part of all people.

Floods, gas pipe explosions, incompetent politicians, celebrities with a blood-alcohol level higher than their IQ; these are the critical topics that occupy our thoughts until we finally turn on the TV to once again numb our mind into submission.

It's at times like this that the immortal words of Elton John come back to me:

And Jesus, he wants to go to Venus,
Leaving Levon far behind.
Take a balloon and go sailing,
While Levon, Levon slowly dies.

May we all find our own balloon. And go to Venus. Without Levon.