It's been 40 weeks, and now I'm three days away from becoming a father. I can say this with relative certainty because this child of ours shares her father's distaste of being upside-down. With head up and butt down, good ol' fashioned labor is out of the question. We've given her as much time as possible to flip on her own, but since she seems quite content where she is, we're going to have to go in and get her. Tuesday, at 12:30pm, we have scheduled the c-section. Jo is of course quite nervous. Pregnancy and the upcoming birth obviously has--and will have--a much larger effect on her body and mind that it ever could on mine. I can understand and empathize with the fear and concern, but I don't feel any of it myself. I can honestly say I am completely and totally ready for this. Perhaps the best way I can describe it is to wrench the absolute most positive aspect of a terminal cancer patient who has completely given herself over to fate. I have done all I can do up to this point, and now all of the details are out of my hands. I have given my life over to this little girl. There is a kind of beauty and peace to this thought that I have never experienced before and can hardly describe. Unconditional love seems like an understatement. I have never even seen her face and I am already in thrall.
I am a skydiver in free-fall, a soldier in the onset of war.
I have no fear of the end of this life.
I see only heaven beyond.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
It's been a little over two years
And nary a post in sight. Life changes in new and exciting ways. I work more, but on work that is interesting and rewarding. I can spend a day in the office and wonder how the time flew by. That is, of course, excepting the days when time stops altogether. Every now and then you encounter a new problem or challenge that is so difficult that you don't know what to do other than stare at the computer screen like a proverbial deer in headlights. Then, inevitably, after a couple good nights' sleep, you awake to discover that you're retarded and it wasn't really that hard of a problem. Then after a couple hours of working on the solution you realize that, yes, in fact, it IS an incredibly hard problem and that the only constant through this whole ordeal is that you are an idiot. So you remind yourself that if things were easy, life would be boring. But if they were easy, they'd also be done by now so you could go do something more fun like playing Mario Kart. In this way, you can blow through two weeks without really getting a thing done, but somehow have felt like you were working--thus assuaging the guilt while depositing that paycheck on Friday morning. It's so satisfying, I feel like I need a cigarette.
Above and beyond the struggles of the proletariat, paternity looms on the horizon. Delicate strands of peptides have danced their way through the night like fairies of old. Intermingling with passion and beauty, but also with a cold, hard determinism--the chemical source of fate. And also like those fairies, will return in time with an infant made in my image. This must be what God feels (felt?) like. I can watch the clock mark every step closer to the new strange future that lies ahead. Each day like a second. Each week like a minute. Each month like an hour. Each second like a year. Life has become a series of snapshots. The change between each so rapid and encompassing that I stare into the image for the tiniest detail that might connect me again to that time, to rediscover what I was thinking. What I was feeling. Freeze-frame. The spent toothpaste swirls down the drain with the running water washing the basin clean as I struggle to express my joy over the phone to a wife who went to the doctor for antibiotics and came back with much, much more. Pause. Fast forward. Freeze-frame. The visceral thrill of that fetal heartbeat. 150 beats per minute. My heart surges to keep pace. I can't even manage a harmonic. Those tiny beats merge with my own to build a larger, longer, slower rhythm that flows underneath it all. Aural water, the giver of life. It ebbs and flows like the tide. If a medium for psychic thought could ever be found, it must be made of this. And in spite of the waves washing over me, I can't help but find it a little odd that human fetuses have a yolk sack. Pause. Fast-forward. I wait for the next frame.
Above and beyond the struggles of the proletariat, paternity looms on the horizon. Delicate strands of peptides have danced their way through the night like fairies of old. Intermingling with passion and beauty, but also with a cold, hard determinism--the chemical source of fate. And also like those fairies, will return in time with an infant made in my image. This must be what God feels (felt?) like. I can watch the clock mark every step closer to the new strange future that lies ahead. Each day like a second. Each week like a minute. Each month like an hour. Each second like a year. Life has become a series of snapshots. The change between each so rapid and encompassing that I stare into the image for the tiniest detail that might connect me again to that time, to rediscover what I was thinking. What I was feeling. Freeze-frame. The spent toothpaste swirls down the drain with the running water washing the basin clean as I struggle to express my joy over the phone to a wife who went to the doctor for antibiotics and came back with much, much more. Pause. Fast forward. Freeze-frame. The visceral thrill of that fetal heartbeat. 150 beats per minute. My heart surges to keep pace. I can't even manage a harmonic. Those tiny beats merge with my own to build a larger, longer, slower rhythm that flows underneath it all. Aural water, the giver of life. It ebbs and flows like the tide. If a medium for psychic thought could ever be found, it must be made of this. And in spite of the waves washing over me, I can't help but find it a little odd that human fetuses have a yolk sack. Pause. Fast-forward. I wait for the next frame.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Mini-black holes to the rescue...
This is pretty sweet: http://arxiv.org/abs/hep-ph/0503178
Abstract:
We consider black hole production at the CERN Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in a generic scenario with many extra dimensions where the standard model fields are confined to a brane. With ~20 dimensions the hierarchy problem is shown to be naturally solved without the need for large compactification radii. We find that in such a scenario the properties of black holes can be used to determine the number of extra dimensions, n. In particular, we demonstrate that measurements of the decay distributions of such black holes at the LHC can determine if n is significantly larger than 6 or 7 with high confidence and thus can probe one of the critical properties of string theory compactifications.
Score 1 for science! While this doesn't provide a way to prove string theory, it does provide a way to prove if it is wrong altogether. Assuming the LHC can ram those protons together fast enough to produce the mini black holes we need.
Abstract:
We consider black hole production at the CERN Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in a generic scenario with many extra dimensions where the standard model fields are confined to a brane. With ~20 dimensions the hierarchy problem is shown to be naturally solved without the need for large compactification radii. We find that in such a scenario the properties of black holes can be used to determine the number of extra dimensions, n. In particular, we demonstrate that measurements of the decay distributions of such black holes at the LHC can determine if n is significantly larger than 6 or 7 with high confidence and thus can probe one of the critical properties of string theory compactifications.
Score 1 for science! While this doesn't provide a way to prove string theory, it does provide a way to prove if it is wrong altogether. Assuming the LHC can ram those protons together fast enough to produce the mini black holes we need.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Submitted for your approval...
The Adventures of Sir Spellsitrong and the Nites of the Sound Taybul
Installment #1 -- Funetics, by Doctor Elron Dullard
Sir Spellsitrong finally arrived at a meeting with the other Nites. He was over thirty minutes late, because he got lost in Corridor 3. Oh yes, THAT Corridor 3. The infamous Corridor 3. The corridor few dare to enter and fewer still escape unscathed, but I will not elaborate further. It is all too frightening, and my bowels are empty enough as it is. Suffice it to say, it requires a great deal of courage or stupidity to enter Corridor 3, and Sir Spellsitrong has an unhealthy dose of both.
As Spellsitrong walked into the Sound Taybul room, he saw the other Nites impatiently awaiting his arrival. There was a projection up on the wall that looked suspiciously like a piece of somebody's anatomy, which caused Sir Laffsalot to giggle uncontrollably.
"Where the hell have you been?!" bellowed King Author.
"I'm terribly sorry, King Author, I got lost down Corridor 3 and had to endure all sorts of horrible things!."
At the mention of "Corridor 3" an eerie hush fell over the other Nites. All except for Sir Laffsalot, who sniggered under his breath.
King Author raised one eye-brow in either disbelief or awe. Deciding that Sir Spellsitrong was telling the truth, however, he allowed the other eye-brow to join the first midway between his tired eyes and receding hairline--suggesting a certain level of permissiveness for the wayward Nite--and responded, "Well, see that it doesn't happen again. I have a kingdom to run, and I can't very well have my Secretary Nite gallivanting about with all manner of frightening things while the rest of us wait about for him."
"I'm sorry sir, you are correct. I shall be more careful next time."
"Thank you. Now I have called you all here for a reason. It seems a new threat has risen from the north. A giant by the name of Oxford has come to challenge us based on abuse of the English language. He has demanded that we send forth our bravest Nite to fight him--in a Spelling Bee TO THE DEATH!" The king paused for dramatic effect. He had spent all morning practicing this speech in front of his bathroom mirror, and was quite pleased with his delivery. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Now, I have already attempted to contact Webster, but it appears the former gubernat-..."
"Bwahahahahahaha! He said goober!" interjected Sir Laffsalot. Everyone else remained silent. The laughter subsided, and King Author continued:
"As I was saying, the former Californian gubernatorial candidate can't get any time off right now, and is unable to assist us."
"Umm, Webster was played by Emmanuel Lewis, not Gary Coleman," interjected Sir Joeyscameo.
"Shut up," retorted King Author. These interruptions were starting to frustrate him. "Anyway, I also checked with David, as he seems to have some experience with giants, but God said he needs him right now, and there is no arguing with that guy. So, it comes down to this: One of us must go to face this giant. The future of our kingdom depends on it. Now, I would go myself, but I am kind of a coward. I mean, I got this job by stealing a sword from some chick in a lake. How much guts does that take? So, I decided I would be better off staying here to protect my faithful Lady Guinivere." This brought another snigger out of Laffsalot. "She sure was 'keeping the faith' last night, if you catch my drift," he said, while elbowing his neighbor knowingly. Sir Dozentgetit, the victim of the vicious elbowing, just shook his head and furrowed his brow in confusion.
Laffsalot's attention was pulled back to the meeting as he heard Spellsitrong call out boisterously, "I will volunteer my services! I will slay this giant! As secretary of the land, it is my honor, duty, and privilege!"
At this, everybody in the room started laughing. Tears were flowing, sides were splitting. Only Sir Laffsalot said, "That's not funny," with a somber look on his face.
King Author answered, "Sir Spellsitrong, I appreciate your enthusiasm, however I would not consider you the ideal candidate for this job. Your spelling is atrocious. In fact, the only reason that we fired that Merlin guy and made you secretary was to try to get you to practice. Well, that and I'm pretty sure that no-good wizard was stealing office supplies. Anyway, we thought that if you had to write things down all the time, then you might improve your skills a little bit. In fact, it's had quite the opposite effect. Your spelling is actually worse and we now have several years' worth of worthless notes and minutes from our meetings. I'd be surprised if any records survive more than a couple generations. People will end up making hackneyed action flicks and cheesy under-funded comedies, because all they'll know about us is the unintelligible drivel you call writing. I am sorry, but I do no think you should go."
"Please, your lordship, let me do this! I have been studying really hard! I took a "Hooked on Phonics" course, and am getting much better!"
"Well, seeing as how we have no other volunteers, I don't have much choice. The safety of the kingdom is in your hands. Do not fail us. You will have to journey to the hallowed spelling grounds. You shall leave in the morning with an array of my fastest horses and an entourage worthy of the greatest pop-stars."
Sir Spellsitrong bowed graciously and left the room. Like the man who choked to death on a banana, he had bitten off far more than he could chew. He walked away down the hall, and slowly resigned himself to his impending doom. The journey to the hallowed spelling grounds would take about three days. By the time he reached his chambers, his fretting had nearly worn a tooth-shaped hole through his lower lip. The sun had just barely set, casting an orange glow across the horizon, but he couldn't bear staying awake with only his thoughts as company, so he settled in for an uneasy night's sleep.
The morning came far too early for his taste. He got ready with the help of his chamberboy, and stumbled through the next three days in the mental haze of a death row inmate walking the green mile. Upon arrival to the hallowed Spelling Grounds on the morning of the third day, he was ready to accept his fate. Seeing the ground where so many others had died before him gave him a sort of clarity no mind altering drug could provide. He realized that no matter the outcome, he was serving a higher purpose. He went to his seat at the front of the grounds, and waited for the giant to arrive.
Shortly before noon, the giant was visible over the horizon. First his head popped up, then shoulders. By the time his waist appeared, his head had eclipsed the sun, casting an unnatural shadow across the assembly. Simultaneously, the entire crowd gasped as his full 75 foot stature was revealed to them. One guy swallowed a bug as he breathed in. This caused him to cough uncontrollably, sending forth an army of microscopic bacteria into battle. As if of one mind, the infinitesimal phalanx forged forward to the giant's vacuous proboscis. Finding the fortress virtually undefended, they set to work, festering in the sinuses of the unfortunate fiend.
Before we continue, I must explain how a spelling bee to the death works. One contestant provides a word for the other to spell. The second contestant then attempts to spell that word. If he fails to spell it correctly, the first contestant imparts one blow to the other contestant--anywhere on his body, with any weapon of his choosing. If, however, he does spell it correctly, then he in turn gets to provide a word for the first contestant to spell. Play continues in this manner until, via the wounds provided, one of the contestants dies. The punishment for those who choose to violate these rules is, of course, death. Given that the battle is between a massive giant and a puny human, I'll leave it to you do deduce how many mistakes each one gets to make before the match is over. This may seem unfair, but most battles are in fact fought this way. Nobody picks a fight unless they think they can win, and, understandably, most giants think they can win.
Sir Spellsitrong walked to the center of the Spelling Grounds next to the giant. Well, more specifically, the giant's baby toe. The Grounds is better described as a garden, really, so there wasn't room for the whole giant. This proved very unfortunate for the poor souls sitting at the far end of the field who found themselves crushed beneath his massive callous-encrusted heel. But, fortunately, romantic literature such as this cares little for the affairs of poor people, which spares me the uncomfortable task of describing the rather gruesome injuries they sustained and the tearful wailing of the loved ones left behind. Let's just say that this particular flood was the stuff legends are made of.
With both contestants in place, the Master of Ceremonies, a swarthy young man with a fair and empty head, waited for the fanfare of trumpets to subside before announcing, "Gentlemen! Start your engines!" An awkward silence followed as he realized that he grabbed the wrong cue cards on his way out the door that morning. A nervous bead of sweat glistened on his proud neatly trimmed moustache. Regaining his composure, he said, "Uhh. Do the spelling thing. Oxford the Giant, you are first. Proceed."
By this time, the germs in the giant's sinus cavities had grown to an alarming number. They stirred their witch's brew of mucus as the giant prepared to give his word for Sir Spellsitrong. The breath inward before opening his mouth to speak so tickled his nostrils that the giant let forth a cacophonous sneeze: "AAAAHHHCHOOOO!!!!!!" The wind and phlegm spewed forth, giving the women in the audience a series of elaborate up-dos, each more startling than the next.
Sir Spellsitrong spoke with the characteristic foolishness and confidence that belied his shattered nerves. "Ahchoo. Ay, Aych, See, Aych, Oh, Oh. Ahchoo."
The emcee announced, "Please wait while our judges deliberate this response." Tense seconds passed. He finally received the decision and said, "Since 'Ahchoo' is not technically a word in the English language, any purely phonetic spelling would be acceptable. The decision is in favor of Spellsitrong. Continue with your word for Mr. Giant, if you please."
"Hooked on Phonics werked for me," Spellsitrong thought somewhat ironically. A moment later, he decided upon his word. "Convenient."
The giant was now visibly ill. His nose was red and swollen. His eyes watered incessantly. His head was swimming and he could no longer think straight. His voice as nasal as a Frenchman's, he began, "Com-been-yen. See, Oh..." And suddenly, with less warning than before, an even larger sneeze resounded from within the deep recesses of his head. The wind was so strong that chickens turned into projectiles. The sound was so loud that four old ladies in Connecticut stopped playing bridge just long enough to ask, "What on Earth was that?" The mucus, green and viscous, was so plentiful that it drowned a kitten. (Don't worry too much about this last part, though. The kitten was very racist. As cute as it was, it likely would have been the first cat to commit large-scale genocide. Thank goodness for small miracles, eh?) The sneeze sufficiently rattled the giant's head that he lost track of where he was in the word, and he continued with a disastrous "Vee, Ee, En, Tee. Com-been-yen."
The emcee replied, "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. Spellsitrong, you may inflict a blow as you wish upon the giant, after which you may provide another word for him to spell."
Spellsitrong nodded in understanding. He removed his sword from its sheath and ran headlong toward the giant's foot, ululating the entire way. His sword pierced the giant's calloused toe, reaching the soft tissue underneath. The giant grunted loudly in discomfort, leaving him predictably disgruntled.
His jagged nerves catching up to his confident facade, Spellsitrong shouted his next word with a genuinely happy lilt in his voice. "Predictable!"
This time, the giant barely had time for the word to register before he let out his biggest and final sneeze--the force of which was so great that his head burst open. His hair floated into the sky to make the clouds. His eyes rose to become the stars. His tortured nose landed in the north of India to become the craggy peaks of the Himilayas. As the crumpled remains of the giant collapsed to the ground, so did Spellsitrong's jaw. He was in shock. He had beaten the brute. Sure, it wasn't by any particular strength in his spelling, but he won nonetheless. A satisfied grin spread across the face of the erstwhile champion. It was the smile of Lady Luck, who, for unknown reasons, saw fit to shine her light on this most incompetent of fools. Though they may kill us for their sport, the gods may also extend the game from time to time--even if for only one period more.
Installment #1 -- Funetics, by Doctor Elron Dullard
Sir Spellsitrong finally arrived at a meeting with the other Nites. He was over thirty minutes late, because he got lost in Corridor 3. Oh yes, THAT Corridor 3. The infamous Corridor 3. The corridor few dare to enter and fewer still escape unscathed, but I will not elaborate further. It is all too frightening, and my bowels are empty enough as it is. Suffice it to say, it requires a great deal of courage or stupidity to enter Corridor 3, and Sir Spellsitrong has an unhealthy dose of both.
As Spellsitrong walked into the Sound Taybul room, he saw the other Nites impatiently awaiting his arrival. There was a projection up on the wall that looked suspiciously like a piece of somebody's anatomy, which caused Sir Laffsalot to giggle uncontrollably.
"Where the hell have you been?!" bellowed King Author.
"I'm terribly sorry, King Author, I got lost down Corridor 3 and had to endure all sorts of horrible things!."
At the mention of "Corridor 3" an eerie hush fell over the other Nites. All except for Sir Laffsalot, who sniggered under his breath.
King Author raised one eye-brow in either disbelief or awe. Deciding that Sir Spellsitrong was telling the truth, however, he allowed the other eye-brow to join the first midway between his tired eyes and receding hairline--suggesting a certain level of permissiveness for the wayward Nite--and responded, "Well, see that it doesn't happen again. I have a kingdom to run, and I can't very well have my Secretary Nite gallivanting about with all manner of frightening things while the rest of us wait about for him."
"I'm sorry sir, you are correct. I shall be more careful next time."
"Thank you. Now I have called you all here for a reason. It seems a new threat has risen from the north. A giant by the name of Oxford has come to challenge us based on abuse of the English language. He has demanded that we send forth our bravest Nite to fight him--in a Spelling Bee TO THE DEATH!" The king paused for dramatic effect. He had spent all morning practicing this speech in front of his bathroom mirror, and was quite pleased with his delivery. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Now, I have already attempted to contact Webster, but it appears the former gubernat-..."
"Bwahahahahahaha! He said goober!" interjected Sir Laffsalot. Everyone else remained silent. The laughter subsided, and King Author continued:
"As I was saying, the former Californian gubernatorial candidate can't get any time off right now, and is unable to assist us."
"Umm, Webster was played by Emmanuel Lewis, not Gary Coleman," interjected Sir Joeyscameo.
"Shut up," retorted King Author. These interruptions were starting to frustrate him. "Anyway, I also checked with David, as he seems to have some experience with giants, but God said he needs him right now, and there is no arguing with that guy. So, it comes down to this: One of us must go to face this giant. The future of our kingdom depends on it. Now, I would go myself, but I am kind of a coward. I mean, I got this job by stealing a sword from some chick in a lake. How much guts does that take? So, I decided I would be better off staying here to protect my faithful Lady Guinivere." This brought another snigger out of Laffsalot. "She sure was 'keeping the faith' last night, if you catch my drift," he said, while elbowing his neighbor knowingly. Sir Dozentgetit, the victim of the vicious elbowing, just shook his head and furrowed his brow in confusion.
Laffsalot's attention was pulled back to the meeting as he heard Spellsitrong call out boisterously, "I will volunteer my services! I will slay this giant! As secretary of the land, it is my honor, duty, and privilege!"
At this, everybody in the room started laughing. Tears were flowing, sides were splitting. Only Sir Laffsalot said, "That's not funny," with a somber look on his face.
King Author answered, "Sir Spellsitrong, I appreciate your enthusiasm, however I would not consider you the ideal candidate for this job. Your spelling is atrocious. In fact, the only reason that we fired that Merlin guy and made you secretary was to try to get you to practice. Well, that and I'm pretty sure that no-good wizard was stealing office supplies. Anyway, we thought that if you had to write things down all the time, then you might improve your skills a little bit. In fact, it's had quite the opposite effect. Your spelling is actually worse and we now have several years' worth of worthless notes and minutes from our meetings. I'd be surprised if any records survive more than a couple generations. People will end up making hackneyed action flicks and cheesy under-funded comedies, because all they'll know about us is the unintelligible drivel you call writing. I am sorry, but I do no think you should go."
"Please, your lordship, let me do this! I have been studying really hard! I took a "Hooked on Phonics" course, and am getting much better!"
"Well, seeing as how we have no other volunteers, I don't have much choice. The safety of the kingdom is in your hands. Do not fail us. You will have to journey to the hallowed spelling grounds. You shall leave in the morning with an array of my fastest horses and an entourage worthy of the greatest pop-stars."
Sir Spellsitrong bowed graciously and left the room. Like the man who choked to death on a banana, he had bitten off far more than he could chew. He walked away down the hall, and slowly resigned himself to his impending doom. The journey to the hallowed spelling grounds would take about three days. By the time he reached his chambers, his fretting had nearly worn a tooth-shaped hole through his lower lip. The sun had just barely set, casting an orange glow across the horizon, but he couldn't bear staying awake with only his thoughts as company, so he settled in for an uneasy night's sleep.
The morning came far too early for his taste. He got ready with the help of his chamberboy, and stumbled through the next three days in the mental haze of a death row inmate walking the green mile. Upon arrival to the hallowed Spelling Grounds on the morning of the third day, he was ready to accept his fate. Seeing the ground where so many others had died before him gave him a sort of clarity no mind altering drug could provide. He realized that no matter the outcome, he was serving a higher purpose. He went to his seat at the front of the grounds, and waited for the giant to arrive.
Shortly before noon, the giant was visible over the horizon. First his head popped up, then shoulders. By the time his waist appeared, his head had eclipsed the sun, casting an unnatural shadow across the assembly. Simultaneously, the entire crowd gasped as his full 75 foot stature was revealed to them. One guy swallowed a bug as he breathed in. This caused him to cough uncontrollably, sending forth an army of microscopic bacteria into battle. As if of one mind, the infinitesimal phalanx forged forward to the giant's vacuous proboscis. Finding the fortress virtually undefended, they set to work, festering in the sinuses of the unfortunate fiend.
Before we continue, I must explain how a spelling bee to the death works. One contestant provides a word for the other to spell. The second contestant then attempts to spell that word. If he fails to spell it correctly, the first contestant imparts one blow to the other contestant--anywhere on his body, with any weapon of his choosing. If, however, he does spell it correctly, then he in turn gets to provide a word for the first contestant to spell. Play continues in this manner until, via the wounds provided, one of the contestants dies. The punishment for those who choose to violate these rules is, of course, death. Given that the battle is between a massive giant and a puny human, I'll leave it to you do deduce how many mistakes each one gets to make before the match is over. This may seem unfair, but most battles are in fact fought this way. Nobody picks a fight unless they think they can win, and, understandably, most giants think they can win.
Sir Spellsitrong walked to the center of the Spelling Grounds next to the giant. Well, more specifically, the giant's baby toe. The Grounds is better described as a garden, really, so there wasn't room for the whole giant. This proved very unfortunate for the poor souls sitting at the far end of the field who found themselves crushed beneath his massive callous-encrusted heel. But, fortunately, romantic literature such as this cares little for the affairs of poor people, which spares me the uncomfortable task of describing the rather gruesome injuries they sustained and the tearful wailing of the loved ones left behind. Let's just say that this particular flood was the stuff legends are made of.
With both contestants in place, the Master of Ceremonies, a swarthy young man with a fair and empty head, waited for the fanfare of trumpets to subside before announcing, "Gentlemen! Start your engines!" An awkward silence followed as he realized that he grabbed the wrong cue cards on his way out the door that morning. A nervous bead of sweat glistened on his proud neatly trimmed moustache. Regaining his composure, he said, "Uhh. Do the spelling thing. Oxford the Giant, you are first. Proceed."
By this time, the germs in the giant's sinus cavities had grown to an alarming number. They stirred their witch's brew of mucus as the giant prepared to give his word for Sir Spellsitrong. The breath inward before opening his mouth to speak so tickled his nostrils that the giant let forth a cacophonous sneeze: "AAAAHHHCHOOOO!!!!!!" The wind and phlegm spewed forth, giving the women in the audience a series of elaborate up-dos, each more startling than the next.
Sir Spellsitrong spoke with the characteristic foolishness and confidence that belied his shattered nerves. "Ahchoo. Ay, Aych, See, Aych, Oh, Oh. Ahchoo."
The emcee announced, "Please wait while our judges deliberate this response." Tense seconds passed. He finally received the decision and said, "Since 'Ahchoo' is not technically a word in the English language, any purely phonetic spelling would be acceptable. The decision is in favor of Spellsitrong. Continue with your word for Mr. Giant, if you please."
"Hooked on Phonics werked for me," Spellsitrong thought somewhat ironically. A moment later, he decided upon his word. "Convenient."
The giant was now visibly ill. His nose was red and swollen. His eyes watered incessantly. His head was swimming and he could no longer think straight. His voice as nasal as a Frenchman's, he began, "Com-been-yen. See, Oh..." And suddenly, with less warning than before, an even larger sneeze resounded from within the deep recesses of his head. The wind was so strong that chickens turned into projectiles. The sound was so loud that four old ladies in Connecticut stopped playing bridge just long enough to ask, "What on Earth was that?" The mucus, green and viscous, was so plentiful that it drowned a kitten. (Don't worry too much about this last part, though. The kitten was very racist. As cute as it was, it likely would have been the first cat to commit large-scale genocide. Thank goodness for small miracles, eh?) The sneeze sufficiently rattled the giant's head that he lost track of where he was in the word, and he continued with a disastrous "Vee, Ee, En, Tee. Com-been-yen."
The emcee replied, "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. Spellsitrong, you may inflict a blow as you wish upon the giant, after which you may provide another word for him to spell."
Spellsitrong nodded in understanding. He removed his sword from its sheath and ran headlong toward the giant's foot, ululating the entire way. His sword pierced the giant's calloused toe, reaching the soft tissue underneath. The giant grunted loudly in discomfort, leaving him predictably disgruntled.
His jagged nerves catching up to his confident facade, Spellsitrong shouted his next word with a genuinely happy lilt in his voice. "Predictable!"
This time, the giant barely had time for the word to register before he let out his biggest and final sneeze--the force of which was so great that his head burst open. His hair floated into the sky to make the clouds. His eyes rose to become the stars. His tortured nose landed in the north of India to become the craggy peaks of the Himilayas. As the crumpled remains of the giant collapsed to the ground, so did Spellsitrong's jaw. He was in shock. He had beaten the brute. Sure, it wasn't by any particular strength in his spelling, but he won nonetheless. A satisfied grin spread across the face of the erstwhile champion. It was the smile of Lady Luck, who, for unknown reasons, saw fit to shine her light on this most incompetent of fools. Though they may kill us for their sport, the gods may also extend the game from time to time--even if for only one period more.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Monday, May 02, 2005
Capitalism or Why the "Shift" Key Doesn't Matter
Making money is easy. All that is required is to convince other people to give you their money. If you want to be rich, you must figure out how to do this effectively. All ethical considerations aside (since this is capitalism, ethics must needs take a back seat to the power of the Almighty Dollar), your fundamental choice is to convince the other by persuasion or force. We will leave force aside, since this only applies to governments or criminals (NOTE: that is not an exclusive or. i.e., both can be true).
Methods of Persuasion:
1) The L. Ron Hubbard -- "God wants you to give me money."
Primarily the prerogative of organized religions, the argument works something like this:
a) You believe in God
b) I can convince others to believe in God.
c) Give me money so I can convince others to believe in God (and give me more money)
Note that this is no particular god, any god will do. Feel free to use a sufficiently mysterious concept like Dianetics or Medichlorians to substitute for a deity, if you wish.
2) The Sally Struthers Method -- "Give me money because of this thing that is cute, sad or sick."
The technique pulls at your heartstrings and may succeed in opening a wallet where many other attempts would fail. People feel ashamed for their own good fortune and will gladly assuage their guilt by giving some of that to the less fortunate--regardless of whether or not the afflicted will receive any benefit from the donation. We're only talking about warm-fuzzies here. No need for any actual good to be done.
3) Backsies -- "If you give me money, someone else will give you money."
This one is closely tied to the Sally Struthers Method. If the heart strings don't pull tight enough, the power of the phrase "tax write-off" may ring louder in their ears. "Warm Fuzzy" + "Screw You, Uncle Sam" = *ching ching*
A common variation is The Pyramid Scheme.
4) The Annie Oakley -- "Anything you can do, I can do better."
This method entails providing a service that the person could otherwise do themselves, if they weren't so lazy or irresponsible. i.e.,
"Give me money to change your oil."
"Can't I change my own oil?"
"It's easier if you just give me money."
5) The Madonna -- "I'm living in a material world, and I am a material girl."
People always want stuff. People are always willing to pay you for stuff. If they don't need the stuff you're selling, convince them otherwise.
6) The Veruca Salt -- "I want it now."
This one is very clever. Relying on the impulsive behavior of most people, give them money now in exchange for them giving you more money in return later. You essentially sell money. Not bad work, if you can get it.
"I want a $100."
"Okay, that will cost you $150."
"Sounds good to me!"
Bonus points are given to store credit cards, since they provide the double whammy of The Madonna and The Veruca Salt.
You can combine variations of these to get new and novel concepts like "The Gift That Keeps on Giving." Combine any combination of The Madonna and The Annie Oakley and you have a surefire way to make money by getting people to give you money for something that costs them money to keep. Two Madonnas gives you the Gilette method--sell a razor for a small amount of money. Charge a lot for the blades. To make the initial purchase of the razor "worth it," people are willing to buy a lot of blades. TiVo uses a Madonna and an Annie Oakley to get their revenue--buy the box, then pay the subscription fee unless you want a very expensive paper weight. And of course all of these can be combined with a Veruca Salt to make more money still! Your earning potential is only limited by your creativity. And remember, at the poker table of life, if you can't spot the sucker in 5 minutes, you're the sucker.
If you liked today's content, feel free to send me money.
Methods of Persuasion:
1) The L. Ron Hubbard -- "God wants you to give me money."
Primarily the prerogative of organized religions, the argument works something like this:
a) You believe in God
b) I can convince others to believe in God.
c) Give me money so I can convince others to believe in God (and give me more money)
Note that this is no particular god, any god will do. Feel free to use a sufficiently mysterious concept like Dianetics or Medichlorians to substitute for a deity, if you wish.
2) The Sally Struthers Method -- "Give me money because of this thing that is cute, sad or sick."
The technique pulls at your heartstrings and may succeed in opening a wallet where many other attempts would fail. People feel ashamed for their own good fortune and will gladly assuage their guilt by giving some of that to the less fortunate--regardless of whether or not the afflicted will receive any benefit from the donation. We're only talking about warm-fuzzies here. No need for any actual good to be done.
3) Backsies -- "If you give me money, someone else will give you money."
This one is closely tied to the Sally Struthers Method. If the heart strings don't pull tight enough, the power of the phrase "tax write-off" may ring louder in their ears. "Warm Fuzzy" + "Screw You, Uncle Sam" = *ching ching*
A common variation is The Pyramid Scheme.
4) The Annie Oakley -- "Anything you can do, I can do better."
This method entails providing a service that the person could otherwise do themselves, if they weren't so lazy or irresponsible. i.e.,
"Give me money to change your oil."
"Can't I change my own oil?"
"It's easier if you just give me money."
5) The Madonna -- "I'm living in a material world, and I am a material girl."
People always want stuff. People are always willing to pay you for stuff. If they don't need the stuff you're selling, convince them otherwise.
6) The Veruca Salt -- "I want it now."
This one is very clever. Relying on the impulsive behavior of most people, give them money now in exchange for them giving you more money in return later. You essentially sell money. Not bad work, if you can get it.
"I want a $100."
"Okay, that will cost you $150."
"Sounds good to me!"
Bonus points are given to store credit cards, since they provide the double whammy of The Madonna and The Veruca Salt.
You can combine variations of these to get new and novel concepts like "The Gift That Keeps on Giving." Combine any combination of The Madonna and The Annie Oakley and you have a surefire way to make money by getting people to give you money for something that costs them money to keep. Two Madonnas gives you the Gilette method--sell a razor for a small amount of money. Charge a lot for the blades. To make the initial purchase of the razor "worth it," people are willing to buy a lot of blades. TiVo uses a Madonna and an Annie Oakley to get their revenue--buy the box, then pay the subscription fee unless you want a very expensive paper weight. And of course all of these can be combined with a Veruca Salt to make more money still! Your earning potential is only limited by your creativity. And remember, at the poker table of life, if you can't spot the sucker in 5 minutes, you're the sucker.
If you liked today's content, feel free to send me money.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Joey's Dream
This is in response to Joey's dream, as posted on his blog:
Okay. The important thing to remember is that the T-Rex was dead to begin with. Remember this, or nothing that follows will seem strange and wonderous. Come with me as we see how far down the rabbit hole goes. At first, I believed these to be three unrelated dreams, until I reached point "4". It is in this seemingly innocuous soporific statement that the truth is revealed. This was a cry for help waiting for the right person to hear. You may not have thought it would do any good, but you couldn't have been more wrong.
The key is to take all three dreams as part of a larger whole. The essence of each section is:
1) Jurassic Park
2) ASU
3) Harvey Korman
Go to Google and enter the following in the search box and click "I'm Feeling Lucky.":
"Harvey Korman" "Jurassic Park" ASU
It will take you to this site:
http://www.public.asu.edu/~msitome/top50movies.htm
On this page, you will find two Harvey Korman movies as well as Jurassic Park. The numbers on the list are 37, 32, and 21. 37 - 21 = 16 = 32 / 2. Adding together the digits we have:
3 + 7 = 10
3 + 2 = 5
2 + 1 = 3
Each sum is the previous number divided by 2, rounded to the nearest integer. 2 is clearly the magic number. Continuing the pattern, the next sum should be 2, meaning we are supposed to look at movie 11 or movie 2. Pulp Fiction or Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope.
Samuel L. Jackson was in both Jurassic Park and Pulp Fiction. This leaves us with two Harvey Korman movies and two Samuel L. Jackson movies. The question now becomes, what is Samuel L. Jackson trying to warn us about?
In Jackie Brown, SLJ says a line "Now, you should listen to this, 'cause it concerns you." He also had a small role in Kill Bill 2, and in this movie, the character Elle
Driver says the exact same line. In context, she is talking about the lethality of the bite of a black mamba. The full quote can be found here:
http://imdb.com/title/tt0378194/quotes
Now it is clear. The overall theme of your dream was lizards, tying back into the fear of the dinosaur in the first dream. From here (http://www.hyperdictionary.com/dictionary/lizard) we get a definition of what a dream about lizards means, which in the context of what you have posted recently, seems apropos. Now, you should listen to this, 'cause it concerns you.
"Seeing a lizard in your dream means your primal instincts and reactions toward sex, food, etc. and your anxieties toward these feelings. The lizard can also be representative of a person who you view as cold-blooded, fearful, or thick-skinned. On a more positive note, the lizard also symbolizes emerging creativity, renewal, and revitalization. It may also suggest that you are well-grounded."
Anxiety towards food: Meg being eaten by a dinosaur
Cold-blooded person & primal instincts toward sex: your fear of becoming that Cold-Hearted Snake in the situation described in your second dream.
Emerging creativity, renewal, revitalization: Your admiration for Harvey Korman's past work, and as he mentioned that his career is essentially over, so will yours rise from the ashes. Your recent good fortune in both your performance work and sound design puts you on the cusp of realizing your creative dreams.
If this seems far-fetched, you should try reading The DaVinci Code.
Okay. The important thing to remember is that the T-Rex was dead to begin with. Remember this, or nothing that follows will seem strange and wonderous. Come with me as we see how far down the rabbit hole goes. At first, I believed these to be three unrelated dreams, until I reached point "4". It is in this seemingly innocuous soporific statement that the truth is revealed. This was a cry for help waiting for the right person to hear. You may not have thought it would do any good, but you couldn't have been more wrong.
The key is to take all three dreams as part of a larger whole. The essence of each section is:
1) Jurassic Park
2) ASU
3) Harvey Korman
Go to Google and enter the following in the search box and click "I'm Feeling Lucky.":
"Harvey Korman" "Jurassic Park" ASU
It will take you to this site:
http://www.public.asu.edu/~msitome/top50movies.htm
On this page, you will find two Harvey Korman movies as well as Jurassic Park. The numbers on the list are 37, 32, and 21. 37 - 21 = 16 = 32 / 2. Adding together the digits we have:
3 + 7 = 10
3 + 2 = 5
2 + 1 = 3
Each sum is the previous number divided by 2, rounded to the nearest integer. 2 is clearly the magic number. Continuing the pattern, the next sum should be 2, meaning we are supposed to look at movie 11 or movie 2. Pulp Fiction or Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope.
Samuel L. Jackson was in both Jurassic Park and Pulp Fiction. This leaves us with two Harvey Korman movies and two Samuel L. Jackson movies. The question now becomes, what is Samuel L. Jackson trying to warn us about?
In Jackie Brown, SLJ says a line "Now, you should listen to this, 'cause it concerns you." He also had a small role in Kill Bill 2, and in this movie, the character Elle
Driver says the exact same line. In context, she is talking about the lethality of the bite of a black mamba. The full quote can be found here:
http://imdb.com/title/tt0378194/quotes
Now it is clear. The overall theme of your dream was lizards, tying back into the fear of the dinosaur in the first dream. From here (http://www.hyperdictionary.com/dictionary/lizard) we get a definition of what a dream about lizards means, which in the context of what you have posted recently, seems apropos. Now, you should listen to this, 'cause it concerns you.
"Seeing a lizard in your dream means your primal instincts and reactions toward sex, food, etc. and your anxieties toward these feelings. The lizard can also be representative of a person who you view as cold-blooded, fearful, or thick-skinned. On a more positive note, the lizard also symbolizes emerging creativity, renewal, and revitalization. It may also suggest that you are well-grounded."
Anxiety towards food: Meg being eaten by a dinosaur
Cold-blooded person & primal instincts toward sex: your fear of becoming that Cold-Hearted Snake in the situation described in your second dream.
Emerging creativity, renewal, revitalization: Your admiration for Harvey Korman's past work, and as he mentioned that his career is essentially over, so will yours rise from the ashes. Your recent good fortune in both your performance work and sound design puts you on the cusp of realizing your creative dreams.
If this seems far-fetched, you should try reading The DaVinci Code.
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