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| Making Much Ado About Time |
| 05.24.04 (2:38 pm) [edit] |
"To the virgins," my ass
Why should only they make much of time?
What about the rest of us?
Are not our moments precious as well?
Even if death's sonorous clock
Were not constantly tick, tick, ticking
Our moments would still be in jeopardy
From the constantly shifting sands of life
People are always on the move
Friendships grow and wane, are found and lost
Vast distances come between lovers and friends
Spring's sweet warmth is replaced by Winter's chill
So make much of time, my non-virginal friends!
Clasp the hand of gladness while it is near
Revel in the joy that today might bring
Seize the day! Seize the night as well
Leaving just enough to provide for tomorrow
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| Absence |
| 05.17.04 (2:39 pm) [edit] |
They say that absence
makes the heart grow fonder
Who the hell are "they"?
And what do "they" know anyway?
I say we run "them" out of town
And let "their" black hearts grow fonder
Instead of mindless "them"
Let the voice of one: Marlowe, ring clear
Who, renouncing absence, wisely prescribed
"Come live with me and be my love"
"And we will all the pleasures prove"
That tenderness, touch and talk can bring
Who cares what "they" think or say
Stay, sit close, and feel how fondness grows
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| The Other Donald Goes to Iraq |
| 05.16.04 (1:06 pm) [edit] |
Well, Donald Rumsfeld held his nose and flew off to Iraq. Somehow he managed to leave Iraq before he had to inhale again. Not a bad trick, Don. Of course he learned this from the President, who also managed to fly in and out without inhaling. This quickie fly-in was, of course, to show solidarity with the troops -- whose tours of duty were extended by Rummy once he got back to his cushy office. BushCo really loves this swell PR stuff. They seem to keep hoping Lincoln was wrong. Or at least that fooling enough people for a few months will actually win them an election.
Of course, the reason Unca Donald had to head off to Iraq was for some major damage control around this whole prisoner "abuse" scandal. "Abuse," "torture," call it what you will, but most of the media keeps sticking by their storyline. Unca Donald, of course, had his story straight before he even left for Iraq. It was all Huey, Dewey and Louie's fault and it had absolutely nothing to do with him. Leave those little scamps alone for a minute and next thing you know they are violating the Geneva Convention. There's no way that could reflect on Unca Donald. Or Uncle Screwup McDuck in the Oval office.
Yep, just a few bad egg soldiers running around inside a prison far from any actual combat, with no brass anywhere in sight. I guess the officers in charge of this operation had more important things to do than supervise the soldiers under their command. All the way up to Rummy, folks had more important things to do than to check out whether or not we were committing war crimes, inflaming the Muslim world or even comitting murder. Sergeants running around completely unsupervised -- apparently this is not your father's army.
So Unca Donald hot-tailed it right over to Iraq, just as soon as this became a PR problem. Unfortunately, he just sat in his office when he first heard what Huey, Dewey and Louie were up to. Actually, he did go over to meet with Uncle Screwup back in February, right there at the tax cut money vaults. We won't know exactly what happened at that meeting and what action was taken until Great-Uncle Dickey says it is OK to talk about it. Did you ever notice that no one in this administration takes any fatherhood responsibility?
When Uncle Screwup McDuck heard about this whole mess he attacked it with the kind of hard hitting action he took when he read the Daily Briefing entitled "al Queda determined to strike America." That is to say, he got a puzzled look on his face and asked "And what does this have to do with me?" Apparently Great-Uncle Dickey told him that it didn't have anything to do with him, so Uncle Screwup could just sit back and dream about throwing some more big tax cut moneybags to the boys at Enron. Seems no one has told Uncle Screwup that, pretty much, Enron no longer exists. Some people say that Bush's train of thought is a bit slow, but I pretty much picture two smashed and burning engines, just collided, with box cars scattered across the countryside.
Back in February when this thing was hush-hush, the only action that was deemed necessary was a do-nothing study. But then all those ugly pictures came back from Foto-Mat and somehow landed on the front page. Who knew that Huey, Dewey and Louie could afford digital cameras? As soon as word actually got out, Unca Donald sprung into action. Of course, the only kind of action BushCo really understands is a PR blitz. The PR smokescreen has consisted mostly of blaming HD&L and repeating ad nauseum the idea that these actions in no way represent America. Now, it may be that those little urchins did this all on their own, we'll see when the investigations and trials are over with. And while I believe that what happened does not represent what is good about America, I am not sure it does not represent the current Bush & Company America.
Uncas Donald and Screwup McDuck have certainly denounced what happened as unAmerican, but if you read between the lines there's still an ugly undercurrent. What they seem to be saying is that this torture is unAmerican. That the boys just went too far. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the "well, some torture is OK, when it is done to terrorists and all." Now Rummy and Bush haven't said this directly, but you can certainly hear it in the media echo chamber often enough. It is abundantly clear that BushCo has no problems with scooping up bunches of people, putting them in orange jumpsuits and, ummmm, pressuring them, yes that's the phrase, to talk. Even if there is no way the "detainees" could actually know anything. So some forms of torture, or near torture as they might say, actually are kinda American right now. So much for the better angels of our nature.
Personally, I agree with Rummy. Treating prisoners of war contrary to the Geneva Convetion is unAmerican. Committing war crimes is unAmerican. Setting up a system that appears to condone and even permit this kind of activity is unAmerican. Not doing something about it immediately is unAmerican. Waiting until you get caught is unAmerican. The person in charge when all this unAmerican activity was going on should go. Unca Donald oughta hit the pavement. Now. And in November, we Americans can tell Screwup McDuck to join him. The better angels of our nature demand no less.
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| River of Words |
| 05.13.04 (11:59 am) [edit] |
Some days it is a roar
A mighty Niagra, rushing mightily
Crashing, tumbling and surging
Shaping the rocks below
Other days it is a brook
Babbling and sparkling in the sun
Flowing peacefully through a glade
With barely a gurgle
Today I listen in vain for a trickle
The rocks are left dry
A sun-bleached vacant arroyo
Awaiting the next flood
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| Ghost in the Machine |
| 05.11.04 (12:30 pm) [edit] |
I love being a ghost
As a ghost, I can walk through walls,
Magically appearing when least expected
And vanishing on a whim
Sometimes being a ghost has great charms
My ghostly fingers can reach out and touch
With ghostly arms held out for comfort
A friendly ghost, I mean no harm
Though even a ghost can sometimes stumble
Sometimes being a ghost can be all too real
A ghost is not bound by his past
A ghost is free to create his present
A ghost can pretend he has a future
Sometimes a ghost can create a brand new world
I love being a ghost
Free from space and time
The only thing I fear is materializing
For that's when the troubles really begin
Sometimes a ghost is best just being a ghost
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| Surely You're Joking, Mr. Collins |
| 05.11.04 (8:37 am) [edit] |
Sometimes an observation, a thought or a theory can literally change the world. Some idea can change how you look at things, and when that happens the world is entirely different than before. Richard Feynman was a master at changing the world in just such a way.
Richard Feynman was a theoretical physicist. He won a Nobel prize for his work on "Feynman Diagrams", but it is generally conceded that he could have won several more Nobels, as he made many other important contributions in various areas of physics. He was briefly famous among the general public for his role in the investigation of the disaster of the space shuttle Challenger. When people were wondering where the modern day Einstein was, many in the physics community would have pointed to Feynman.
It can seem at times that the gap between a Feynman or an Einstein and the rest of us is huge. Sometimes it doesn't even seem like a gap, but rather that the genius among us is of another species. Some sort of space alien dropped among us, with superhuman powers of observation and a thought process that seems to come straight from God himself. Leave it to Feynman to shatter this worldview and create a new one.
I found this insight in an interesting book, Feynman's Rainbow, by Leonard Mlodinow. The book describes a time in Mlodinow's life when he was searching his way in the field of theoretical physics, and lands in an office just a few doors down from Feynman. Being professionally lost, Mlodinow seeks out Feynman, and many others, to try and get some idea of where to go next and how to survive in the rarified air of the field of theoretical physics.
One day he and Feynman are talking and Mlodinow expresses admiration for what he sees as the superhuman thought processes of an Einstein -- or a Feynman. But Feynman will have none of it. "I don't see that what we do is so different from other people," Feynman begins. "We just look at nature and try to extract the patterns that are there." He goes on to describe how anyone might figure out where Aunt Minnie might be if she is not home by knowing something about her schedule and habits. "Same thing," Feynman concluded.
As Feynman himself entitled his autobiography, you might be tempted to say, "Surely you're joking, Mr. Feynman." Mlodinow says almost as much in the conversation, continuing to insist that there must be a gulf between ordinary people and Feynman. But again, Feynman would have none of it. The only difference he could come up with was that he had the luxury (and let's be honest, the tenacity) to think about the same problem over and over again. Thinking about one problem for days, weeks or even years was all he did, according to Feynman. "It's really a form of insanity," Feynman concluded in a flourish of typical self-deprecation. And at that moment the light went on.
Feynman had re-write disease. If something bothered him, he just couldn't leave it alone. Suddenly I saw Einstein, thinking over and over and over again about what would happen if his bike could travel at the speed of light. Like a dog gnawing on a bone, turning the problem over and over again, gnawing and chewing until finally it cracked. Feynman had done it: seeing a universal law that connected Einstein to the likes of me. We were all human after all. As usual, Mr. Feynman was not joking at all.
Now, don't get me wrong, I realize I am no Einstein. While Einstein and Feynman were working on the fundamental principles of the universe, I am working on how to apologize to my friend, why baseball is so darn interesting and how to make better spaghetti sauce. However, it is very comforting to think that my mind works according to the same fundamental principles as Einstein's. You, me, Einstein and Feynman, using facts and evidence, turning it over and over to explain and possibly improve our world. Dogs gnawing on a big ole bone.
So where does Billy Collins come into all of this? He is not a physicist, but a poet. Poets and physicists are supposed to be polar opposites in the academic world, but lately their worlds have eerily overlapped. That is not the connection, though. In the same way that Feynman made me feel, for just a moment, that anyone could be the next Einstein, Collins makes me feel that anyone can be a poet.
Now, I am no expert in poetry. I know nothing about it and almost never read it. Most poetry just makes me feel stupid, because I know the author must be trying to say something, but I have no earthly idea of what it might be. Most poetry bounces off my eyeballs as if it were written in ancient Greek. My bad (as they now say) I am sure, but still there is no communication happening. Then I picked up Billy Collins.
Now, Billy Collins might be a terrible poet. But he is published and he is the Poet Laureate of the United States. Hopefully it was Laura that had more to do with selecting him, rather than George. Anyway, someone thinks his writings are valuable and that they are in fact poetry. Reading Mr. Collins's work I had a startling revelation. Poems are just words. Whoa! Whoda thunk it? Poetry just words -- what a concept! Collins uses words to paint pictures, describe scenes and feelings. His images are earthy and of common experiences. Just words. But those words are beautiful, concise and at times achingly perfect. Words that were chosen, discarded, moved, erased, trashed, rearranged, buffed and shined, and then gently lowered into place. Sort of like a dog gnawing on a bone.
So you could be a poet. Or a physicist. Or damn near anything you want, if you just keep gnawing.
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| Cloud Chamber |
| 05.10.04 (9:47 am) [edit] |
You fear that I might see you as an onion
That each new discovery, each thought uncovered
Will peel back another layer
Until nothing remains but the paper dry skin
Though earthy and organic, versatile and tangy
The humble onion is not where my thoughts lie
It is the cloud chamber of science
Of particles like protons and quarks
That oddly springs to mind
In the cloud chamber bits of matter are whirled together
They collide and bounce and sometimes shatter
The chamber can discover unending patterns
And perhaps the mystery of the infinite might be revealed
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| Uncle Charlie is in the House |
| 05.10.04 (9:43 am) [edit] |
You know, right now the world is just too damn depressing to write anything even remotely amusing about world events. So I'll turn once again to the great American pastime, baseball.
Baseball is by far the hardest of the major professional sports. I am not going to belabor or argue the point. It just is. OK, one logical argument. Every year ESPN televises the basketball and football draft days. People hang on every word. Nobody cares about the baseball draft. This is because the chances of a rookie making an impact in their first year of professional ball is about nil. You have to learn baseball. Because it is so damn hard. If you want to boil it down, one thing makes baseball the hardest sport: the curveball. Yep, one lousy stinking pitch makes the whole game.
Baseball is a fascinating sport because of its balance. There is a balance between the pitcher and the batter. It is not a perfect balance, as the batter fails about 60 percent of the time. But the sucess rate is just enough make for a dramatic tension that rises and falls throughout each game. If pitchers are too successful, then games are boring. Zero to zero ties are not generally considered exciting. If batters are too successful, the tension goes out and games simply becomes an exercise to see if the last batter can score one more run to win. The curveball is a major factor in creating this balance. But how is it, you might ask, that the lowly curveball creates the dramatic tension that is baseball?
The first pitch of baseball was and is, the fastball. It is pretty much just a regular throw, but very, very hard. Major league fastballs are often over 90 mph. At that speed, the batter has less than a tenth of a second to decide whether or not to swing and where. Remarkably, however, major league batters can do just that. We are talking superhuman eye-hand coordination here. If the relatively straight fastball were the only pitch that could be thrown, no matter how fast, Major Leaguers would have a field day. Instead of failing 60 percent of the time, they would probably start succeeding at a 70 percent or higher rate. If they know or guess that a fastball is coming, any good hitter can knock that pitch a long, long way. We are talking fifteen or twenty home runs a game. Enter the curveball.
Fortunately for pitchers, the curveball changes everything. Where the fastball is straight, the curveball, well, curves. Instead of coming straight in, the curve moves down and away from the batter. But this is not it's most devastating feature. When the pitcher throws a curve, he releases the ball in the exact spot where he would if he was throwing a fastball right at the batter's head. So, in that tenth of a second, the batter has decide if he is going to die by being hit in the head, or if it is a curveball. It really is like that. Next time you watch a baseball game on TV, watch when they show the batter from the pitcher's point of view, watch the batter's feet. When the curve comes, you can see lesser batters flinch. Sometimes they will even duck out of the way of a pitch that ends up in the dirt. The curve does change everything.
Armed with a curveball, the advantage swings dramatically back to the pitcher. Now that any pitch could be either a curve or a fastball keeps hitters off balance. Almost no amount of eye-hand coordination can make up for the fact that the batter now is thinking "what pitch will he throw now?" A curveball makes a fastball seem even faster, as the batter spends part of his precious tenth of a second identifying the pitch. Greg Maddux, master curveball pitcher, gave up half as many runs per game as Nolan Ryan, the hardest throwing pitcher in baseball history.
Fortunately for the balance of the game of baseball, the curveball contains the seeds of its own destruction. There are two levels where the curveball actually works against the pitcher, one during each at-bat and one that takes place over the course of the season.
The curveball is notoriously difficult to throw well. It often does not go exactly where it is supposed to. In the same way that the batter now wonders which pitch might be coming, most pitchers have to think about when to best employ the curveball. This task of deciding which pitch to throw is so difficult that the catcher helps the pitcher with the decision. I am not making this up. The difficulty in throwing a curve also leads to the phenomenon of the "hanging curveball." Essentially a "hanger" is a curveball that doesn't curve. Hangers often end up as homers. Nobody said this game was easy.
Because of the difficulties in throwing it well, the curve does not make pitchers invincible. Even worse, the curve also makes pitchers unavailable. Throwing a curveball requires an unnatural arm motion. Hold your hand out like you are shaking hands. Now make a throwing motion with your thumb on top, so you end up in the hand shake position. That's a curveball. And your arm probably hurts. Using that arm motion and throwing as hard as you can puts tremendous stress on the shoulder and elbow. That stress keeps pitchers from pitching every day. In fact, most pitchers need three or four days to recover from each game. So the curve creates a need for more pitchers who pitch less often. A great pitcher now wins 20 games in a season, but in the early days of baseball a great pitcher might win 40 or 50 games and pitch almost every inning of every one of those games. Because of the curve, a great pitcher can dominate a game, but not an entire season.
Therein lies the balance of baseball. The batter doesn't know which pitch to expect, leaving him slightly off balance. The pitcher has to carefully consider which pitch to throw, with the possibility that a slight error in execution will lead to disaster. And the pitcher who was unhittable today will be on the bench tomorrow. It may look like everyone on a baseball diamond is just chewing and spitting, but believe me, they are thinking all the time. Mostly about when the curve might be coming.
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| The Gift |
| 05.04.04 (11:34 am) [edit] |
I hate baseball. Guys are always trying to draw major life lessons from a boys game. Only a moron would do that. Baseball movies are even worse. Imagine wasting all that good celluloid to draw a major life lesson from a fictional depiction of a boys game. Bull Durham falls into this category. OK, OK, I know all my pop culture references are 20 years out of date, I've been in a cave, all right?
In Bull Durham noted block of wood Kevin Costner plays Crash Davis, a career minor league catcher who is brought in to shepard one "Nuke" LaLoosh, a hot prospect pitcher. Nuke is a bonus baby, with a million dollar arm, unfortunately accompanied by a "five cent brain." But Crash and everyone else, can recognize the truth, LaLoosh has a gift. Nuke didn't choose his gift, and maybe he doesn't even deserve it, but he has a gift. A gift that takes him to the Major Leagues -- "The Show" in baseball parlance.
My friend has a gift. A major league gift that has taken her to the show. It's a different show, as her gift is the opposite of Nuke's. She has a million dollar brain. She might also have a five cent arm, I don't know, never seen her throw. But the gift is obvious. If life were baseball, we could put the radar gun on her and see that she throws 95 mph fastballs. Or even more appropriately, add everything up and look at that .327 lifetime average in awe. Yes, she has a gift and it has taken her to the show.
Unfortunately, once you get to the show the gift isn't as obvious. Everyone else pretty much has it too. Even worse, it is just assumed that you have it. Every day, you got pitchers launching 95 mph fastballs at you, combined with exploding sliders and curveballs that look like they are coming right at your head before breaking in for a strike. It's brutal. Those curveballs sent alot of guys back to the clubhouse to write home for money. It gets even worse when the thrill of simply making the show wears off. It can wear you down when you realize that you have to be inch perfect every day, every inning, every at-bat to make your mark on the game. Sometimes it seems that every ball hit has eyes for you, trying to make you look bad in front of the home fans. Every pitcher cranks it up a notch just when you come to the plate. Might even make you wonder where your gift went.
Like Crash, I can see how it is. Like him, I was up in the show for a cup of coffee. A few days in the big leagues, a late season body to fill out the roster. Don't look for me in the Encyclopedia, I never got off the bench. But I saw, and I think I understand a bit. And like Crash, sometimes it is hard to deal with the fact that my gifts are minor league, that I will always be in the coaches' box, or even worse, the press box. But we don't get to choose our gifts, only to try and make the most of them.
You, my friend, have a gift. With hard work and yes, a little luck, you are going to make it. You'll be in the show a long time, and have career numbers anyone would envy. There is absolutely no doubt. The scouts saw it, the manager saw it, hell, even I can see it. It may not seem like it now, but soon you'll be standing at the plate and while staring down the pitcher you'll be saying the immortal words of Crash Davis in your head: "C'mon Meat, throw me that weak-ass shit. Bring me the deuce. Bring it." OK, your thoughts will certainly be more elegant, but it will be something along those lines. And when the curve comes, you'll knock the cover off the ball. You got the gift.
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| Writing Fool |
| 05.03.04 (12:56 pm) [edit] |
To the tune of "Dancing Fool"
With apologies to Frank Zappa.
Well, maybe not apologies exactly, after all, the original song was a parody of disco. So this is a parody of a parody, whatever that might be. Perhaps I could ask Al Yankovic (yeah right, like I hang around with Weird Al...) Well, perhaps this is actually more of a complete copyright violation. But hey, with only 150 people having ever looked at this blog, not much chance of anyone telling Frank. Well, no chance at all of course, he's dead.
Maybe I should call up Dweezil and Moon...yeah right like I have people like that in my Rolodex. Ummm...what was I saying here? Oh yeah, apologies to Frank. Sorry Frank. And now, without further ado, "Writin' Fool."
Actually, it really would help if you have heard the song. Recently would be nice. OK, it wasn't a Top 40 hit or anything, and it was recorded some 20 years or so ago. Damn. Well, you could run out and buy a copy of "Strictly Commercial" one of Frank's greatest hits albums. The three or four additional units that would be sold might make up for the copyright violation. I think Dweezil could live with that. So, here now, I present "Writin' Fool."
Well, since you now have the CD, after listening to it, maybe you could load "Dancing Fool on to your computer and use a program like Audacity or something to take out the vocals. Then you could sing the new words along with the music. It would really heighten the effect. Oh god, that would be so cool. No, it's OK, I've got time. Really, it will be worth it, I'll wait.
OK, now we're ready...
Writin' Fool
I don't know much about writin'
That's why I got this blog
None of my ideas make sense together
And I'm always goin' on too long
My word are always dyin'
And I just keep on tryin'
And I'll keep posting every night
Hopin' that soon I'll get it right
I'm a writin' foooooooooool, I am writin' fool!
Hear me bleat, it ain't so sweet and I can't complete!
I'm a writin' fooooooooooool!
If you think my writin's messed up,
You should see my mail.
Overwrought and full of shit,
my friend will need a pail.
When you see me comin'
Better run and hide
Or you'll get hit when I commit
My social suicide!
I'm a writin' Foooooooooool! I'm a writin' fool.
The words go on and I'm so wrrrrrrrrrong. The words go and I'm so wrong, the words go on and I'm so wrong.
I'll never get it together now
That's the way this business goes
My pages, the publisher's throwing them out
And the editor's door is closed
I am really sucking
That's what you'd probably say
So click your little mouse, and surf your little web
While I write the night away!
I'm a writin' Foooooooooool! I'm a writin' fool.
I may be totally wrong and, I may be totally wrong and I may be totally wrong and I am fooooooooool.
Meanwhile in the Disco Chat Lounge we see this on a lovely young lady's screen...
HG Hey, darlin' can I bother you for a chat?
HG Looking for a clever wordsmith? Here he is.
HG Wait a minute, I've got it, you're an intellectual.
HG Hunh? You're Canadian? Oh, love your rales.
HG You must be a looney.
HG Your ISP or mine?
Hehehehehehe......yesssssssssssssssssssssss ssss.
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