It’s the 24th day of February in the year 2011. It’s so funny in a way because I have a very distinct recollection from my childhood. I read somewhere, that the next transit of Venus was going to be in June of 2012. At the time, it was sometime in the early nineties and I remember thinking that I had absolutely NO concept of what my life would look like *SO* far in the future. I expected to be walking down the street and seeing cars flying around me. 2012 was as good as an infinite time in the future and now it seems just around the corner. I won’t say that the future disappointed us, but the future of our childhood was far, far from reality. No flying cars. No world peace. Just the same problems we’d grown used to. At least the cold war is over. The nuclear warhead bearing the hammer and sickle has been replaced by one in a suitcase or simply passed from our concern altogether. It really is a good time to be alive.
Next on the list of things on my mind is that of work. Now is a time of transition. Some days I’m utterly convinced that the people around me really “get it” and understand what the problems are in the microscopic neighborhood that is my work life. Other days I’m equally convinced that they have absolutely no clue. At this point, I think the wise decision for me is to simply retract to that place that I know best. I’ve found my way into a multitude of tasks within my company simply because I was the only reasonable candidate to do them at the time. I’d consider myself capable but I’m far from the optimal choice. The best course of action may be to simply step back and let those who know those jobs best take over. Can I tinker with the schedule for future releases? Certainly. Can I write documentation that describes the document in elegant and aching detail? Most certainly. Am I the best person to do those jobs? Hardly. Though it may sound like boasting, I can do any one of a thousand jobs. I am the all-purpose tool. I can tear an application apart and generate a hundred defect reports or I can painstakingly document it’s nuances. Ultimately though my strength is simply in getting shit done. I’ve often considered retooling my resume and sending it out with that as the header. You need a job done? I don’t care what it is. I don’t care what it involves. I’m the only person in the universe that will sit down and assiduously and single-mindedly do that job in such a way that it might very well obsolete my actual employment. I am, above all, a force of action. My own self-interest is secondary. The greatest compliment you could give me is to fire me because I did my job so well that I was no longer necessary. In retrospect, perhaps a bit self-destructive but you get the idea. I must do.
The other thing that sits on my mind is my dear Laura. As the weather closes in on us I am irked that it might come between me and the woman I love. It’s interesting to me that I’ve been asked at work twice now about Laura in the past couple of days. I’m not one to promulgate information of this type. Primarily that’s because I assume, perhaps rightly, that nobody really gives a shit. As I sit here on a Thursday night, the most pointed thing that occurs to me is that she’s not here. The distance between us is more than a bit unpleasant. I’d love nothing more than to be able to simply pop across the hall and see her. Unfortunately, the hour to Lafayette is non-trivial. That said, it makes our time together all the more precious. Not to be inappropriate, but after so long being fundamentally alone, it’s so easy to simply lose myself in her. I feel as if I could tell her anything and she’d roll it around in her head for a bit and give me her honest and unbiased opinion. There is no prickly side to her. I need never fear. Tomorrow makes seven months since we met and they’ve been the most amazing seven months I can recall. She constantly expands my horizons and allows me to expand hers in a way I never honestly thought possible.
At this point I am reminded of Fred Savage in The Princess Bride complaining against the inclusion of “mushy stuff” in the novel his grandfather reads to him. In observance of this unvoiced objection, I shall digress. It is often underestimated just how closely linked are the mind and the body. It’s been almost two weeks since I bought a Kinect for my xBox. I’ve contemplated for a while that if the video game industry could somehow break the ‘controller barrier’ that they’d really have something. Microsoft seems to have done that fairly well. I’m not one that can play a video game sitting on my butt for too terribly long without feeling as if I’m wasting my time. As time goes on a conflict builds in my mind between entertainment and guilt. With the Kinect system, the guilt is absolved by the exhaustion. After two weeks, I not only physically feel better than I have for a long time but also feel like the change is somewhat sustainable. In some strange way the Kinect marries my obsessive nature with the very real need to get myself moving even when it’s two degrees outside. I’m simultaneously entertained and exercised. Hours race by without any apparent notice. That said, the game library available for the Kinect is found to be more than a bit wanting. To date the titles are much more oriented to children than adults. One can tolerate that but it’s annoying to sit through redundant and excessive menus. It’s my hope that the market is strong enough to bring more games to the field that take advantage of the technology without being quite so puerile.
So far we’ve covered work, heart and body. What’s left out then is the mind. As I look back on my reading list, I find that I’ve heinously neglected my own intellect. Not only over the past few months but for the past couple of years. The practical side of me wants to focus on the analytical. I’d be a better programmer, my Left Brain says, if I devoted myself more assiduously to it. My mind spins with programming projects that I could undertake in my free time. Perhaps I should ponder number theory or analyze classical texts. Analyze, Analyze, Analyze, my brain screams!!! My Right Brain, however, simply lowers its eyebrows and thinks, “you’re already too fucking analytical. Piss off and hone your other skills. Be well rounded ya great bloody arse!”. While I question why my Right Brain has picked up a distinctly English usage pattern, I tend to agree with it. I need to set a schedule and stick to it. Ultimately it’ll all be for the best if I make a point to write and read and nurture the side of my intellect that doesn’t think in terms of equations and absolute outcomes.
Sadly, I realize I’ve said this all before. It’s time to defocus a bit. Step back and see the big picture. *sigh* Perhaps this time it’ll be different…
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Random Thoughts for 1/27/2011
Looking back, I have found that my thoughts are more and more random as time goes on. I don’t apologize for that, but merely note it so that “Rob of the future” will not look back on this time of his life and think that the situation was totally chaotic.
Work has progressed to the point that I don’t actually know what my job is any more. On any given day I could be tasked with anything from development to product support to more managerial functions. Quite honestly, I’d be happy with any of these. What is lacking is some sense of how I would measure my own success. Is success an empty queue of support tickets? Is success happy developers? Is success a reasonable business plan for my product? Frankly, any of these could be the case at any specific moment. It’s funny because I really like my job. I adore the people I work with. I take it very personally when things go amiss. I just wish that I could actually finish something and have some sense that I’m “done” with it.
Related to the work end of things, I’ve been told as of late that people view me as…. Well, it’s difficult to find a word. Abrasive? Caustic? Not quite the right adjective, but I come across to my co-workers as *insert negative thing here*. I hope at least that they do not see me as a person who cannot get things done, but it’s been pointed out to me that I’m seen as anything but effusively positive about things. Honestly, I understand completely where that comes from. I am utterly realistic. If I think that something is completely wrong, I’m likely to say, in terms difficult to confuse with their antithesis, that something’s wrong. Typically though, this is a rhetorical construct. If I say, with vehemence, that the sky is pink, then often my intent is not to state an irrefutable premise, but instead to instigate debate. I say without doubt of contradiction, that I am the person most likely in your acquaintance to accept logical defeat. I come forward with some utterly determined opinions. I will argue and debate and bicker and complain endlessly but I’m also the first one to admit that you’re right and I’m wrong. Above all, I love debate and discussion because I believe that it brings out the best in both parties.
This reminds me… the other day, one of my work cohorts told me that a new QA person was being hired to oversee our product staring Monday. Personally, I’m absolutely thrilled by the prospect. To date, the product I oversee has been amazingly dynamic but it would benefit from some outside influence. It’s a great change, in my opinion. The real point of this paragraph though is to point out how skillfully and how tactfully my workmate brought this to my attention. I do tend to be a bit overwhelming at times and he simultaneously informed me of the change and also very gently told me enough about the new QA person to hopefully assure that she will be an incredibly positive influence on the product despite my somewhat overbearing personality. In retrospect I was exceptionally impressed with Mr. Barker’s delivery and message. I work with some truly incredible people.
OK, so moving on from the professional… I’ve been sitting here all evening half watching Netflix rot (has anyone else noticed that nothing seems to be loading on instant watch?) and half watching the screensaver on my computer. It’s set to show photos from my picasa albums. I find myself watching the photos more than the television and in some strange way my life automatically organizes the photos in terms of other people. Each one is either “Oh! Laura was there!” or… well, something else of a less positive nature. It’s funny to me how we organize our lives in terms of other people. “Oh, that was the time I spent with Chris” or “That was Dan time”…. In a very real way it seems like the other people in our lives are the milestones, the most important and notable things we have to look back on.
TOTALLY unrelated, I’ve been trying to spread an absolute craze throughout the nation. I call it the “License Plate Game”…. When I was a kid, this was much less entertaining. I’d take the 4-digit number in the plate ‘12a5747’ and find the prime factorization. Even I’m less than impressed by that, frankly, and since 5747 is 7 times 821, it’s an example of just how terrible this game could be. Now though license plates are alphanumeric so there’s an amazingly fun game to be played (at least in Indiana). So if your plate is 574 AWY you can take the character part of that and make a word. The rules are simple. For whatever 3-letter combination is in the license plate, you have to find a word that uses those three letters in the same order they appear in the plate. So if you get AZJ then your obvious answer is katzenjammer. You must use the same letters in the same order in a single word but you get extra “points” if the letters are non-consecutive and if the word does not begin with the same letter as the three-letter combination. For example, if you have AWY, then ‘anyway’ is a valid response, but no bonus because the ‘A’ is both the first letter of the word and the first letter of the three letters you needed to use. However, AZJ – kAtZenJammer earns extra points because the A, the Z and the J are non-consecutive. Also, the resulting word does not being with A. The rest of the rules are to be determined, but you get the idea. I’ve also pondered the idea that shorter words should earn more points than longer words. Play the game for a few months and send me your scoring recommendations.
Work has progressed to the point that I don’t actually know what my job is any more. On any given day I could be tasked with anything from development to product support to more managerial functions. Quite honestly, I’d be happy with any of these. What is lacking is some sense of how I would measure my own success. Is success an empty queue of support tickets? Is success happy developers? Is success a reasonable business plan for my product? Frankly, any of these could be the case at any specific moment. It’s funny because I really like my job. I adore the people I work with. I take it very personally when things go amiss. I just wish that I could actually finish something and have some sense that I’m “done” with it.
Related to the work end of things, I’ve been told as of late that people view me as…. Well, it’s difficult to find a word. Abrasive? Caustic? Not quite the right adjective, but I come across to my co-workers as *insert negative thing here*. I hope at least that they do not see me as a person who cannot get things done, but it’s been pointed out to me that I’m seen as anything but effusively positive about things. Honestly, I understand completely where that comes from. I am utterly realistic. If I think that something is completely wrong, I’m likely to say, in terms difficult to confuse with their antithesis, that something’s wrong. Typically though, this is a rhetorical construct. If I say, with vehemence, that the sky is pink, then often my intent is not to state an irrefutable premise, but instead to instigate debate. I say without doubt of contradiction, that I am the person most likely in your acquaintance to accept logical defeat. I come forward with some utterly determined opinions. I will argue and debate and bicker and complain endlessly but I’m also the first one to admit that you’re right and I’m wrong. Above all, I love debate and discussion because I believe that it brings out the best in both parties.
This reminds me… the other day, one of my work cohorts told me that a new QA person was being hired to oversee our product staring Monday. Personally, I’m absolutely thrilled by the prospect. To date, the product I oversee has been amazingly dynamic but it would benefit from some outside influence. It’s a great change, in my opinion. The real point of this paragraph though is to point out how skillfully and how tactfully my workmate brought this to my attention. I do tend to be a bit overwhelming at times and he simultaneously informed me of the change and also very gently told me enough about the new QA person to hopefully assure that she will be an incredibly positive influence on the product despite my somewhat overbearing personality. In retrospect I was exceptionally impressed with Mr. Barker’s delivery and message. I work with some truly incredible people.
OK, so moving on from the professional… I’ve been sitting here all evening half watching Netflix rot (has anyone else noticed that nothing seems to be loading on instant watch?) and half watching the screensaver on my computer. It’s set to show photos from my picasa albums. I find myself watching the photos more than the television and in some strange way my life automatically organizes the photos in terms of other people. Each one is either “Oh! Laura was there!” or… well, something else of a less positive nature. It’s funny to me how we organize our lives in terms of other people. “Oh, that was the time I spent with Chris” or “That was Dan time”…. In a very real way it seems like the other people in our lives are the milestones, the most important and notable things we have to look back on.
TOTALLY unrelated, I’ve been trying to spread an absolute craze throughout the nation. I call it the “License Plate Game”…. When I was a kid, this was much less entertaining. I’d take the 4-digit number in the plate ‘12a5747’ and find the prime factorization. Even I’m less than impressed by that, frankly, and since 5747 is 7 times 821, it’s an example of just how terrible this game could be. Now though license plates are alphanumeric so there’s an amazingly fun game to be played (at least in Indiana). So if your plate is 574 AWY you can take the character part of that and make a word. The rules are simple. For whatever 3-letter combination is in the license plate, you have to find a word that uses those three letters in the same order they appear in the plate. So if you get AZJ then your obvious answer is katzenjammer. You must use the same letters in the same order in a single word but you get extra “points” if the letters are non-consecutive and if the word does not begin with the same letter as the three-letter combination. For example, if you have AWY, then ‘anyway’ is a valid response, but no bonus because the ‘A’ is both the first letter of the word and the first letter of the three letters you needed to use. However, AZJ – kAtZenJammer earns extra points because the A, the Z and the J are non-consecutive. Also, the resulting word does not being with A. The rest of the rules are to be determined, but you get the idea. I’ve also pondered the idea that shorter words should earn more points than longer words. Play the game for a few months and send me your scoring recommendations.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The story of the Weekend – 1/23/11
I’m not beyond admitting that this weekend was one rife with complexity. There were layers upon layers of occurrences and circumstances that were less than obvious to all but the most intimate participants in it. Lessons were learned, truths were revealed and ultimately I learned a few life lessons.
The simple facts of the weekend were many. Friday night Laura came down to see me and we enjoyed stir-fry recipe number…. 8? I’ve long since lost count, but I’m fairly deep into the cookbook. Friday’s dinner was chicken and cashews and steamed broccoli. I will not fail to admit that the cashews were a bit much for me. When Sunday afternoon came and my lovely lifemate made her way back home she did so with the chicken and cashews in tow. I hope that she and her delightful young son make good use of them. Saturday dawned, later than it seemed possible, with a schedule ahead of us which would have intimidated all but the most energetic participants.
Saturday started with brunch out. One of frequent lunch haunts also serves a decadent and varied breakfast menus on the weekends. We dined there within view of our next destination. Properly supped, we made our way to the matinee where we saw “The Fighter”. I intentionally refused any preview of the contents and was more than pleasantly surprised. At the movies moment of climax it was clear that a significant portion of the audience was actually brought to the point of tears. I posited to Laura that if more attendees had been in evidence the clapping which sporadically ensued might have been sustained into a standing ovation. The lookers-on seemed truly and sincerely moved.
After the movie, we made our way towards the IMA, but not before we stopped at the Goodwill Outlet store. Our stop was not with the intention of retail therapy, but instead just for the social experience. Anyone wishing perspective on the state of the world should betake themselves unto the outlet store on a Saturday. After that we made our way onward to the IMA and all it has to offer. The photos will speak for themselves. After dinner the Chatham Tap provided dinner and the evening entertainment was from Theatre on the Square. While the particular offering this evening was a bit much for both our tastes, it still inspired me to think once again of getting season tickets to TOTS. Even the worst of live theatre is more entertaining than the majority of cinema.
Thirteen hours later we finally made our way back to my place, well entertained and well fed. In terms of simple practicalities, the day was marvelous. In terms of the company, the day really was amazing. I never cease to wonder at Laura’s ability to just enjoy situation, the pure joy of the moment. Unfortunately, I let my thoughts wander; I analyzed far more than was necessary and I hurt those around me and ultimately caused myself pain.
In my job, my analytical skills are invaluable. I think, I ponder, I pursue, I passionately stretch myself to achieve a goal. I push and push and push and push until I arrive where I want to be. I’m assiduous and ceaseless, determined and dauntless. Many would say that I’m manic in my pursuits. Unfortunately, this is a terribly shitty way to conduct one’s personal life. I demand so much of myself but I can’t demand it of others. If I do so, I will truly lose everything I care for. Sometimes you do have to just relax and wait. Somebody taught me that once but I failed to remember. I can’t forget again. I wish I could wind back the clock and do it all differently.
The simple facts of the weekend were many. Friday night Laura came down to see me and we enjoyed stir-fry recipe number…. 8? I’ve long since lost count, but I’m fairly deep into the cookbook. Friday’s dinner was chicken and cashews and steamed broccoli. I will not fail to admit that the cashews were a bit much for me. When Sunday afternoon came and my lovely lifemate made her way back home she did so with the chicken and cashews in tow. I hope that she and her delightful young son make good use of them. Saturday dawned, later than it seemed possible, with a schedule ahead of us which would have intimidated all but the most energetic participants.
Saturday started with brunch out. One of frequent lunch haunts also serves a decadent and varied breakfast menus on the weekends. We dined there within view of our next destination. Properly supped, we made our way to the matinee where we saw “The Fighter”. I intentionally refused any preview of the contents and was more than pleasantly surprised. At the movies moment of climax it was clear that a significant portion of the audience was actually brought to the point of tears. I posited to Laura that if more attendees had been in evidence the clapping which sporadically ensued might have been sustained into a standing ovation. The lookers-on seemed truly and sincerely moved.
After the movie, we made our way towards the IMA, but not before we stopped at the Goodwill Outlet store. Our stop was not with the intention of retail therapy, but instead just for the social experience. Anyone wishing perspective on the state of the world should betake themselves unto the outlet store on a Saturday. After that we made our way onward to the IMA and all it has to offer. The photos will speak for themselves. After dinner the Chatham Tap provided dinner and the evening entertainment was from Theatre on the Square. While the particular offering this evening was a bit much for both our tastes, it still inspired me to think once again of getting season tickets to TOTS. Even the worst of live theatre is more entertaining than the majority of cinema.
Thirteen hours later we finally made our way back to my place, well entertained and well fed. In terms of simple practicalities, the day was marvelous. In terms of the company, the day really was amazing. I never cease to wonder at Laura’s ability to just enjoy situation, the pure joy of the moment. Unfortunately, I let my thoughts wander; I analyzed far more than was necessary and I hurt those around me and ultimately caused myself pain.
In my job, my analytical skills are invaluable. I think, I ponder, I pursue, I passionately stretch myself to achieve a goal. I push and push and push and push until I arrive where I want to be. I’m assiduous and ceaseless, determined and dauntless. Many would say that I’m manic in my pursuits. Unfortunately, this is a terribly shitty way to conduct one’s personal life. I demand so much of myself but I can’t demand it of others. If I do so, I will truly lose everything I care for. Sometimes you do have to just relax and wait. Somebody taught me that once but I failed to remember. I can’t forget again. I wish I could wind back the clock and do it all differently.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Even More Random Thoughts for 1/17/11
Hard to believe that it’s been four long days since I wrote here last. I resolved that I would write more often this year and to my own credit, I have, but I still feel as if certain bits of my life area slipping through the cracks. Perhaps this is for the best though as I suspect most of you would be unamused if I vomited forth every detail of my life here. “Had sausage for the third breakfast in a row today. Thinking perhaps I should eat less processed pork” sort of rot. My banter is relatively mundane even without that, but I do imagine a line that is not to be crossed.
When last I wrote I was fairly disgruntled professionally. I suspect that in part that’s because I’m straddling the line… I’m trying to be far too many things at once. I’m trying to be technical and managerial all at the same time and the choice is clear. I can be a mediocre manager and technical person or I can be fairly good at one or the other. So either I can choose to throw away whatever technical acumen I have or I can abandon my desire to try to manage things at a higher level. The management above me is sadly unhelpful in making this decision, so I suspect that what makes sense is to focus on the technical. My geek quotient, as some might put it, could use some work. So as I sit here typing away my computer plods on in its own geeky work that it does at my bidding. It’s time to go back to my nerdy roots… square and otherwise.
I saw a short film today on Netflix that brought into question my entire ability to map out my past chronologically. I recall, I thought, with some distinctness the kids in elementary school talking about “Sling Blade”…. I remember them walking around going “Mmmm-hum” in a most disturbing manner. They were so young; far too young to be doing such things…. Then I looked at the date on the short film I was watching and realized... to my confusion…. That it was all impossible. I’m not nearly young enough for that to have been the case. It’s clear that I have no sense whatsoever of my own history. Whether it’s covered up by some ages-old psychological defense mechanism or a victim of human nature, it’s impossible for me to say, but suffice to say that my image of my own history is sadly warped. Everything that happened before college has been pushed into elementary school in a most unhelpful manner.
The weekend in general was quite a variety of amusements at once. After the girls on Friday Night/Saturday I raced up to West Lafayette for the 8pm performance of Mr. Heywood Banks. Laura and Eric and I made our way unto the venue to partake of Mr. Banks’ humor, of a somewhat higher order than one normally sees on the comedic scene. Relative to most gentlemen of his genre, his material was more cerebral than the majority of others. He’s no Tom Lehrer, to be sure, but no one else is, honestly. While he does not aspire to the lofty heights of Mr. Lehrer, he has many qualities that distinguish him quite nobly from his peers. His erudition, or at least his pretense to it, is unparalleled in modern comedy. I will say that part of me was more than a bit concerned at the impression Mr. Banks made on our young Mr. Eric. At nine years of age, he is intelligent almost to the point of disbelief but has not yet delved much into the well of adulthood. While Heywood does run a very clean show, many times I wondered what new questions might arise from our young companion after the performance. Whether through disinterest or simple good luck, it was a relief that he didn’t ask any questions with difficult answers.
After Mr. Banks on Saturday night, it was doubtful how Sunday would recommend itself to our positive commentary. As it turns out, it did wonderful on its own behalf. We arose from our slumbers late to finally traipse onto campus for some photography in the early afternoon. In retrospect there wasn’t a ton to photograph. The images of Purdue that I found most iconic and compelling were those that had some special meaning to me but I expected them to have little translation to the world at large. I found myself glad for my radiant company in the person of Ms. Laura, but unexcited about any of our photos from the trip. It was then that my esteemed and wonderful cohort suggested that we wander ourselves down unto the Celery Bog to see what the construction workers has wrought there. Apparently the road crossing the bog has undergone no end of undulation and so it had been closed recently to facilitate it’s total reconstruction. We arrived to find the locale absolutely rife with equipment of a most grand stature. While campus afforded us no grand views, the incomplete construction more than made up for it. As I, and the ever wise John Lennon, have always said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. Our planned photo outing was uneventful but our random stop was, dare I say, magical in its scope. After an hour or so we both returned to the illegally-parked vehicle happier for our efforts. As usual, we managed to organically focus on two different aspects of the occasion. My eye was to the grand, sweeping aspects of the scene while Laura captured the minute and delightful detail. Unsurprisingly, we’re in step and complimentary as always.
Monday morning found me restless and ready to move on, sadly. I came home around noon and sat down to program. I recalled with no small significance those days of my childhood, pounding out code on the Tandy Color Computer II. I can’t count how many hours equipment under my guidance pumped out prime numbers or perfect numbers or any number of random and already well-established tasks. I have little patience for iteration, so it’s luckily that computers excel at such things. In this case I devised to solve once and for all the License Plate Game mystery. Once the work of the afternoon finishes (in much less than seven and a half million years) I’ll post the total results as well as resolve the mystery of what exactly the License Plate Game is. Oh, speaking of Douglas Adams, I do have only one regret about the weekend. I’m just sad that despite having access to a bulldozer, neither one of us laid down in front of it to play Arthur Dent. Perhaps next time.
When last I wrote I was fairly disgruntled professionally. I suspect that in part that’s because I’m straddling the line… I’m trying to be far too many things at once. I’m trying to be technical and managerial all at the same time and the choice is clear. I can be a mediocre manager and technical person or I can be fairly good at one or the other. So either I can choose to throw away whatever technical acumen I have or I can abandon my desire to try to manage things at a higher level. The management above me is sadly unhelpful in making this decision, so I suspect that what makes sense is to focus on the technical. My geek quotient, as some might put it, could use some work. So as I sit here typing away my computer plods on in its own geeky work that it does at my bidding. It’s time to go back to my nerdy roots… square and otherwise.
I saw a short film today on Netflix that brought into question my entire ability to map out my past chronologically. I recall, I thought, with some distinctness the kids in elementary school talking about “Sling Blade”…. I remember them walking around going “Mmmm-hum” in a most disturbing manner. They were so young; far too young to be doing such things…. Then I looked at the date on the short film I was watching and realized... to my confusion…. That it was all impossible. I’m not nearly young enough for that to have been the case. It’s clear that I have no sense whatsoever of my own history. Whether it’s covered up by some ages-old psychological defense mechanism or a victim of human nature, it’s impossible for me to say, but suffice to say that my image of my own history is sadly warped. Everything that happened before college has been pushed into elementary school in a most unhelpful manner.
The weekend in general was quite a variety of amusements at once. After the girls on Friday Night/Saturday I raced up to West Lafayette for the 8pm performance of Mr. Heywood Banks. Laura and Eric and I made our way unto the venue to partake of Mr. Banks’ humor, of a somewhat higher order than one normally sees on the comedic scene. Relative to most gentlemen of his genre, his material was more cerebral than the majority of others. He’s no Tom Lehrer, to be sure, but no one else is, honestly. While he does not aspire to the lofty heights of Mr. Lehrer, he has many qualities that distinguish him quite nobly from his peers. His erudition, or at least his pretense to it, is unparalleled in modern comedy. I will say that part of me was more than a bit concerned at the impression Mr. Banks made on our young Mr. Eric. At nine years of age, he is intelligent almost to the point of disbelief but has not yet delved much into the well of adulthood. While Heywood does run a very clean show, many times I wondered what new questions might arise from our young companion after the performance. Whether through disinterest or simple good luck, it was a relief that he didn’t ask any questions with difficult answers.
After Mr. Banks on Saturday night, it was doubtful how Sunday would recommend itself to our positive commentary. As it turns out, it did wonderful on its own behalf. We arose from our slumbers late to finally traipse onto campus for some photography in the early afternoon. In retrospect there wasn’t a ton to photograph. The images of Purdue that I found most iconic and compelling were those that had some special meaning to me but I expected them to have little translation to the world at large. I found myself glad for my radiant company in the person of Ms. Laura, but unexcited about any of our photos from the trip. It was then that my esteemed and wonderful cohort suggested that we wander ourselves down unto the Celery Bog to see what the construction workers has wrought there. Apparently the road crossing the bog has undergone no end of undulation and so it had been closed recently to facilitate it’s total reconstruction. We arrived to find the locale absolutely rife with equipment of a most grand stature. While campus afforded us no grand views, the incomplete construction more than made up for it. As I, and the ever wise John Lennon, have always said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. Our planned photo outing was uneventful but our random stop was, dare I say, magical in its scope. After an hour or so we both returned to the illegally-parked vehicle happier for our efforts. As usual, we managed to organically focus on two different aspects of the occasion. My eye was to the grand, sweeping aspects of the scene while Laura captured the minute and delightful detail. Unsurprisingly, we’re in step and complimentary as always.
Monday morning found me restless and ready to move on, sadly. I came home around noon and sat down to program. I recalled with no small significance those days of my childhood, pounding out code on the Tandy Color Computer II. I can’t count how many hours equipment under my guidance pumped out prime numbers or perfect numbers or any number of random and already well-established tasks. I have little patience for iteration, so it’s luckily that computers excel at such things. In this case I devised to solve once and for all the License Plate Game mystery. Once the work of the afternoon finishes (in much less than seven and a half million years) I’ll post the total results as well as resolve the mystery of what exactly the License Plate Game is. Oh, speaking of Douglas Adams, I do have only one regret about the weekend. I’m just sad that despite having access to a bulldozer, neither one of us laid down in front of it to play Arthur Dent. Perhaps next time.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
More Random Thoughts for 1/13/11
Work has sucked lately and it’s my fault. Today I threw up my hands and came home at 3:30. Somewhat ironically I came home to relax and decided it would be a good time to do my taxes (just to unwind, you understand). Unfortunately, the result of that simple exercise was exactly the opposite of what I expected. For the third year in a row I’ve somehow managed to allow the IRS to screw me. I’m not asking for a huge refund; I’d just like to not have to write a check with four digits in front of the decimal point. That’s all. I’m happy to pay my share but when I have to plan for how to pay my taxes months in advance, that’s just too much. Perhaps it’s time to just start claiming zero exemptions and be the hell done with it. Christ on a stick! Oh, work. This part is supposed to be about work. You know the problem? So the other developers have a tradition. They go for a walk once during the day. Just go and walk around the office building and “shoot the shit” as the saying goes. This seems to be a tradition centered around Mike, who is clearly a genius. I came in to work at 7:30 today, worked through lunch and went mildly insane by 3:30. I was honestly about to explode. Mike and his loyal followers come in, then take a break, then work some more. They’re not crazy idiotic and insane about it. They treat themselves like they’re humans and doubtless their work is a hell of a lot better than mine. I need to dial back the intensity and expect more of myself but in smaller packages. My insanity is self-induced. Along those lines, I find myself in the need to choose one job function and not fifteen. I remember a time when I used to do one or two things and do them absolutely immaculately. At heart, I’m a perfectionist. Lately though I’ve spread myself way too thin to the point where I disappoint not only myself but my co-workers. It’s time to pick one direction and push in it. This may mean that a lot of people have to pick up a lot of loose ends, but ultimately it’s the best answer not just for me but for all the people I work with. OK, enough about work.
So of all the shows on television I make a point to watch exactly one. All the others I have far too little concentration to focus on or to remember a time for. I can remember exactly one thing at a time and currently that one thing is Thursday nights at 8am, turn on CBS. End of list. Oddly though, my reaction to “The Big Bang Theory” is that I’m not nearly nerdy enough. I’m in the technology industry which in my mind has always been hopelessly blue-collar. Those of us in this business know that our work and interests in it are far too practical. We’re not detecting rare sub-atomic particles or calculating the Planck Constant… we’re doing mundane and uninteresting things that have real practical applications. Part of me yearns to be in an industry with no right answer. Long, long ago during my college days, I was a mathematics major. I loved math because it was concrete. When you completed an item of work, i.e. proved Fermat’s Last Theorem, you were fairly certain you had something. It was done. Concrete. Final. Done. There was a right answer and there was a wrong answer, and when compared with the other sciences, math was all about right and wrong answers. Pretty soon though there loomed a reality of being a math major. Well, a couple. The first was that the majority of people in your major went off to become teachers. Since I was poorly equipped to speak in front of one person let alone a few dozen, that terrified me. Related to that was the reality that math majors had to take COM 114, the class on public speaking. There was no way in HELL that I was going to make it through that, so I went on a quest for another major without such a heinous requirement. Soon I settled on Computer Science. All the certainty but none of the “talking in front of people.” Oddly though, I find the certainty of my profession insipid. I yearn for the parts of my job that aren’t black and white. Something complicated like geology would be wonderful. The binary “it works” or “it doesn’t work” has begun to grate on my nerves. Can’t there be an area of grey? I babble and digress and wander too close to the topic of work.
As I had my leftover olive pizza for dinner, I realized that my palate had grown tired of the sweetness of my cookbook-inspired menu. For 5 recipes in a row, it has called for dark soy sauce and hoisin sauce, and my brain rebels at the thought of another meal bathed in this eastern saccharine. I yearn for the salty goodness of light soy sauce.
My soul needs the springtime. Today after I came home I went for a walk in the freezing cold. I tried to get out and about to clear my mind, to expunge my soul, but after a brief period I was too concerned about my own impending death by frostbite to continue. If there truly are seasonally-specific disorders, not designed merely to spur the sale of pharmaceuticals, then I suffer from one. The winter is a long, dark and lonely season for me and I await with no small anticipation its end.
It has occurred to me that I need to do a better job of connecting with people outside the bounds of necessity. I remember a loooooong time ago I wrote an entry about friendship and I defined a friend as…. Well, something along the lines of, “someone you interact with outside the bounds of necessity or convenience.” Basically, a friend is someone that you do stuff with because you want to, not just because fate happens to throw you together. With the exception of Laura, I do a really poor job of making the effort to be a friend to the people in my life. What’s utterly insane about this is that invariably when I think about the people I know fairly well, I can point out very specific things about them that just astound me. Anyone wanting to be supremely embarrassed and flattered should ask me what I think of them. Despite my cynical demeanor, I have a marvelously positive opinion of just about everyone I know. That begs the question though why I don’t make more of an effort to build stronger bonds with the people in my life. For the most part, I suspect that it’s personal insecurity. Something along the lines of, “Why would this incredibly interesting person want to waste their time with me?” sort of thing. That’s shitty upbringing for you, I suppose. At any rate, the world should be aware that I admire it. With the exception of Hillary Duff and Paris Hilton. What a waste of skin. (For the record, I don’t know anything about Hillary or Paris, but it seemed only apropos to make some exception to the rule.)
So of all the shows on television I make a point to watch exactly one. All the others I have far too little concentration to focus on or to remember a time for. I can remember exactly one thing at a time and currently that one thing is Thursday nights at 8am, turn on CBS. End of list. Oddly though, my reaction to “The Big Bang Theory” is that I’m not nearly nerdy enough. I’m in the technology industry which in my mind has always been hopelessly blue-collar. Those of us in this business know that our work and interests in it are far too practical. We’re not detecting rare sub-atomic particles or calculating the Planck Constant… we’re doing mundane and uninteresting things that have real practical applications. Part of me yearns to be in an industry with no right answer. Long, long ago during my college days, I was a mathematics major. I loved math because it was concrete. When you completed an item of work, i.e. proved Fermat’s Last Theorem, you were fairly certain you had something. It was done. Concrete. Final. Done. There was a right answer and there was a wrong answer, and when compared with the other sciences, math was all about right and wrong answers. Pretty soon though there loomed a reality of being a math major. Well, a couple. The first was that the majority of people in your major went off to become teachers. Since I was poorly equipped to speak in front of one person let alone a few dozen, that terrified me. Related to that was the reality that math majors had to take COM 114, the class on public speaking. There was no way in HELL that I was going to make it through that, so I went on a quest for another major without such a heinous requirement. Soon I settled on Computer Science. All the certainty but none of the “talking in front of people.” Oddly though, I find the certainty of my profession insipid. I yearn for the parts of my job that aren’t black and white. Something complicated like geology would be wonderful. The binary “it works” or “it doesn’t work” has begun to grate on my nerves. Can’t there be an area of grey? I babble and digress and wander too close to the topic of work.
As I had my leftover olive pizza for dinner, I realized that my palate had grown tired of the sweetness of my cookbook-inspired menu. For 5 recipes in a row, it has called for dark soy sauce and hoisin sauce, and my brain rebels at the thought of another meal bathed in this eastern saccharine. I yearn for the salty goodness of light soy sauce.
My soul needs the springtime. Today after I came home I went for a walk in the freezing cold. I tried to get out and about to clear my mind, to expunge my soul, but after a brief period I was too concerned about my own impending death by frostbite to continue. If there truly are seasonally-specific disorders, not designed merely to spur the sale of pharmaceuticals, then I suffer from one. The winter is a long, dark and lonely season for me and I await with no small anticipation its end.
It has occurred to me that I need to do a better job of connecting with people outside the bounds of necessity. I remember a loooooong time ago I wrote an entry about friendship and I defined a friend as…. Well, something along the lines of, “someone you interact with outside the bounds of necessity or convenience.” Basically, a friend is someone that you do stuff with because you want to, not just because fate happens to throw you together. With the exception of Laura, I do a really poor job of making the effort to be a friend to the people in my life. What’s utterly insane about this is that invariably when I think about the people I know fairly well, I can point out very specific things about them that just astound me. Anyone wanting to be supremely embarrassed and flattered should ask me what I think of them. Despite my cynical demeanor, I have a marvelously positive opinion of just about everyone I know. That begs the question though why I don’t make more of an effort to build stronger bonds with the people in my life. For the most part, I suspect that it’s personal insecurity. Something along the lines of, “Why would this incredibly interesting person want to waste their time with me?” sort of thing. That’s shitty upbringing for you, I suppose. At any rate, the world should be aware that I admire it. With the exception of Hillary Duff and Paris Hilton. What a waste of skin. (For the record, I don’t know anything about Hillary or Paris, but it seemed only apropos to make some exception to the rule.)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Really Random thoughts for 1/11/11
Being of a fairly nerdy inclination, I can’t help but look with amusement on dates that are binary in representation. It makes me want to do something really significant on 10/11/11 or 11/11/11 or 10/10/11… etc
I look back upon this past weekend with incredible fondness. Laura and I hung around my place but in the grand scheme of things we didn’t really DO much of anything. No hilarious and uproarious parties. No amazing events. Not even any pictures. Yet I feel like we really had a lot of fun with each other just talking and connecting. All too often I think that people date one another and use the events that they share to judge their relationship. “I had a great time with John in the Rockies skiing!” or “We really enjoyed going to Linda’s birthday party!” they’ll say. All that is garbage. You can have a fantastic time with anyone if you’re in the right environment. Parties, vacations, events… those are the easy things. It’s the quiet times that count. Those times when you’re just sitting in a room together, the cable is out, there’s no outside input… those are the times that really determine if you are a good couple or just good friends. I remember a night not too long ago when we just sat and talked. We wiled away the hours and before we knew it, it was time for bed. On the other side, I remember driving through the deserts of Arizona, lost beyond all recognition, driving down roads not meant at all for the car we had rented, laughing at our own situation. This is what relationships are about. Smiling and loving and laughing whether the whole world beckons outside your door or whether it’s just the two of you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the bright lights of the social world, but ultimately, true happiness is derived from the mind and soul of the person you’re with.
The other night Netflix graced us with two movies that I’m fairly certain don’t apply to the female soul. “Watchmen” and “Ironman 2” arrived simultaneously in the mail and I politely excused Laura from the necessity of watching either of them. Surprisingly, Watchmen actually worked for me. I expected utter fluff but I was amused. Between the 1950s noir film references and the amusing historical context (this is the second reference I’ve seen to wartime lesbianism) I found it rather intriguing. I was amused. I returned “Ironman 2” unwatched.
I’ve become supremely conscious of the fact that people find me to be… “gruff”. This is doubtless the wrong word, but I was recently told that people perceive me as anything but friendly. On one hand I find this unsurprising. In many ways I cultivate this view. I do tend to be very … well…. Demanding of people… in a way. On a professional level, if you come to me with a need I’m likely to dissect you in twelve different ways. Not because I don’t value your opinion but because I want you to think things through and get the most out of your request. Truth be told though, I’ll do anything for anyone, even to my own detriment. I’m the guy who will do whatever you ask for once it’s established that it actually makes sense to do so. I am, as the old adage says, an old softy. In many ways, I’m paranoid of being taken advantage of, but realize that even if I knew that was to happen, I wouldn’t object because I would theorize that any loss to me would be more than compensated for by the gain made by other people. Ultimately, I believe it’s better to do harm to yourself as long as it benefits the greater good. Somewhat sad but true.
Lately I’ve become vastly obsessed with the idea of getting a tattoo. On one hand, I’m delighted at the prospect of expressing myself. On the other hand, I’m terrified at the idea of expressing myself. I know myself well enough to know that once I break through the barrier, it will become obsessive. I’m not the kind of person to get one tattoo, but instead the type that gets dozens. I am simultaneously terrified and excited at the prospect of showing people who I am. I yearn for the freedom that disclosure will bring and at the same time cower, terrified, of the potential for non-acceptance. The terror paralyzes me, as it has for most of my life, yet my soul yearns to break free. To push beyond my fear towards what I really want.
Perhaps it’s time to conclude. As I look back on my blog entries from the past several years, I see that they’re honest beyond all potential for sanity. Here I describe my darkest hours and my most brilliant moments. I have to wonder what quiet impression this makes on the people that know me. Perhaps they think me a psychopath. Perhaps they think me the most heart-wrenchingly honest person they know. I don’t pull any punches. In here I am exactly what I am whether I am in pain or I am in love. Who among you can say this? Who can say that they are so honest both with themselves and with the world at large? Perhaps it is a character flaw, but it is who I am. All I know is that I look forward to tomorrow. I hope to be a positive influence on the world around me in whatever small way I can. Until tomorrow…
I look back upon this past weekend with incredible fondness. Laura and I hung around my place but in the grand scheme of things we didn’t really DO much of anything. No hilarious and uproarious parties. No amazing events. Not even any pictures. Yet I feel like we really had a lot of fun with each other just talking and connecting. All too often I think that people date one another and use the events that they share to judge their relationship. “I had a great time with John in the Rockies skiing!” or “We really enjoyed going to Linda’s birthday party!” they’ll say. All that is garbage. You can have a fantastic time with anyone if you’re in the right environment. Parties, vacations, events… those are the easy things. It’s the quiet times that count. Those times when you’re just sitting in a room together, the cable is out, there’s no outside input… those are the times that really determine if you are a good couple or just good friends. I remember a night not too long ago when we just sat and talked. We wiled away the hours and before we knew it, it was time for bed. On the other side, I remember driving through the deserts of Arizona, lost beyond all recognition, driving down roads not meant at all for the car we had rented, laughing at our own situation. This is what relationships are about. Smiling and loving and laughing whether the whole world beckons outside your door or whether it’s just the two of you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the bright lights of the social world, but ultimately, true happiness is derived from the mind and soul of the person you’re with.
The other night Netflix graced us with two movies that I’m fairly certain don’t apply to the female soul. “Watchmen” and “Ironman 2” arrived simultaneously in the mail and I politely excused Laura from the necessity of watching either of them. Surprisingly, Watchmen actually worked for me. I expected utter fluff but I was amused. Between the 1950s noir film references and the amusing historical context (this is the second reference I’ve seen to wartime lesbianism) I found it rather intriguing. I was amused. I returned “Ironman 2” unwatched.
I’ve become supremely conscious of the fact that people find me to be… “gruff”. This is doubtless the wrong word, but I was recently told that people perceive me as anything but friendly. On one hand I find this unsurprising. In many ways I cultivate this view. I do tend to be very … well…. Demanding of people… in a way. On a professional level, if you come to me with a need I’m likely to dissect you in twelve different ways. Not because I don’t value your opinion but because I want you to think things through and get the most out of your request. Truth be told though, I’ll do anything for anyone, even to my own detriment. I’m the guy who will do whatever you ask for once it’s established that it actually makes sense to do so. I am, as the old adage says, an old softy. In many ways, I’m paranoid of being taken advantage of, but realize that even if I knew that was to happen, I wouldn’t object because I would theorize that any loss to me would be more than compensated for by the gain made by other people. Ultimately, I believe it’s better to do harm to yourself as long as it benefits the greater good. Somewhat sad but true.
Lately I’ve become vastly obsessed with the idea of getting a tattoo. On one hand, I’m delighted at the prospect of expressing myself. On the other hand, I’m terrified at the idea of expressing myself. I know myself well enough to know that once I break through the barrier, it will become obsessive. I’m not the kind of person to get one tattoo, but instead the type that gets dozens. I am simultaneously terrified and excited at the prospect of showing people who I am. I yearn for the freedom that disclosure will bring and at the same time cower, terrified, of the potential for non-acceptance. The terror paralyzes me, as it has for most of my life, yet my soul yearns to break free. To push beyond my fear towards what I really want.
Perhaps it’s time to conclude. As I look back on my blog entries from the past several years, I see that they’re honest beyond all potential for sanity. Here I describe my darkest hours and my most brilliant moments. I have to wonder what quiet impression this makes on the people that know me. Perhaps they think me a psychopath. Perhaps they think me the most heart-wrenchingly honest person they know. I don’t pull any punches. In here I am exactly what I am whether I am in pain or I am in love. Who among you can say this? Who can say that they are so honest both with themselves and with the world at large? Perhaps it is a character flaw, but it is who I am. All I know is that I look forward to tomorrow. I hope to be a positive influence on the world around me in whatever small way I can. Until tomorrow…
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Movies - Tron: Legacy
The past several days have been ones absolutely filled with cinematic inputs ranging from amazing to merely mediocre. The new Tron sequel was not among the amazing, but it did have some interesting points to make. I attribute these more probably to chance than intent (it is a Disney production, after all) but none the less, they merit some discussion. On the surface, yes, the movie was visually intriguing, standard cinematic pabulum. The story was formulaic: boy met girl, megalomaniac met his end after coming oh-so-close to ultimate rule and victory, father sacrificed for son, human endeavor comes back to threaten the world and we all got to smirk as the movie quietly poked fun at Microsoft and the characters used Unix commands. Despite its obvious warts, the new Tron has a fair amount to say about computing and how the average person views it (or at least the ability to make one think about such things outside the movie’s actual intent)
The over-anthropomorphism of the “programs” in Tron reflect the belief held by many of the uninitiated that software is a lot smarter than it really is. This effect was much more pronounced in the 80s when the original movie was released but there are still those among us who think that software should somehow intuit our desires and respond appropriately. People really do attribute human characteristics to software and in many cases they’re right. Software does have a personality of sorts, a part of the person who wrote it. The scene in which Kevin creates Clu resonates with me as a programmer. When one sits down to create a program for a specific task, in many ways that program is a reflection of its creator. If we’re sloppy and disorganized, so will be the program. If we’re attentive to every detail and nuance of the task, then so is our result. Personally, I tend to think in a very linear manner. Tell me A, then tell me B, then tell me C, then the result is D. This is reflected strongly in my designs, for better or worse. This is the case with all development, and more largely in all human endeavor. We cannot create anything which is not some reflection or some part of ourselves. Computers cannot change that, but merely act as another medium in which to work. Because of this relationship though, the creator often understands or has power over his creation that seems impossible or miraculous to others. In the movie Kevin simply “wills” things to happen in The Grid. Since The Grid is a reflection of his own psyche, his own way of thinking, he can intuitively do things with it that nobody else can. This is the creator/created relationship that exists with all the things we create as humans. The sculptor knows every crack, scratch and polished surface of his work. That relationship, that intimacy, can appear almost Godlike to others.
More subtly and probably unintentionally, the movie reminds us that human behavior itself is programmatic. If you know enough about a person and their environmental conditions, you can predict with 100% accuracy their reactions to any given stimulus. My religious cohorts will nod and perhaps grin at this since it is one of the classic arguments used to demonstrate how the omniscience of God and free will can co-exist, but ultimately it’s true. Humans are simply “programs” of a highly sophisticated nature with manifold more inputs and more detailed programming. The movie revolves around this concept as it takes an entire human psyche and pushes it into a computational realm with no apparent loss of resolution. I will fail to complain about the obvious technical issues around this concept, but suffice to say that we have more in common with the software than we tend to realize or would like to admit. We often confuse complexity with divinity.
Lastly, and perhaps most mundanely, the movie is one of dozens of examples of the Frankenstein parable. Man creates something, with the best of intents, and that something goes on to destroy him. As with its predecessors, our protagonist is destroyed because of his own lack of wisdom. Clu, like any bit of software, simply does what he’s told with utter exactitude and duty, he is the personification of blind human intent. What was intended initially was atrociously ill defined: “Make a perfect world” and thus the GIGO [garbage in, garbage out] axiom rules the day. The only true perfection to be found would be that of the null resolution. Ultimately though it’s OK because the boy gets the girl, the villain is thwarted and the hero sacrifices himself so he won’t have to do any more sequels. All is right in the world. End of Line.
The over-anthropomorphism of the “programs” in Tron reflect the belief held by many of the uninitiated that software is a lot smarter than it really is. This effect was much more pronounced in the 80s when the original movie was released but there are still those among us who think that software should somehow intuit our desires and respond appropriately. People really do attribute human characteristics to software and in many cases they’re right. Software does have a personality of sorts, a part of the person who wrote it. The scene in which Kevin creates Clu resonates with me as a programmer. When one sits down to create a program for a specific task, in many ways that program is a reflection of its creator. If we’re sloppy and disorganized, so will be the program. If we’re attentive to every detail and nuance of the task, then so is our result. Personally, I tend to think in a very linear manner. Tell me A, then tell me B, then tell me C, then the result is D. This is reflected strongly in my designs, for better or worse. This is the case with all development, and more largely in all human endeavor. We cannot create anything which is not some reflection or some part of ourselves. Computers cannot change that, but merely act as another medium in which to work. Because of this relationship though, the creator often understands or has power over his creation that seems impossible or miraculous to others. In the movie Kevin simply “wills” things to happen in The Grid. Since The Grid is a reflection of his own psyche, his own way of thinking, he can intuitively do things with it that nobody else can. This is the creator/created relationship that exists with all the things we create as humans. The sculptor knows every crack, scratch and polished surface of his work. That relationship, that intimacy, can appear almost Godlike to others.
More subtly and probably unintentionally, the movie reminds us that human behavior itself is programmatic. If you know enough about a person and their environmental conditions, you can predict with 100% accuracy their reactions to any given stimulus. My religious cohorts will nod and perhaps grin at this since it is one of the classic arguments used to demonstrate how the omniscience of God and free will can co-exist, but ultimately it’s true. Humans are simply “programs” of a highly sophisticated nature with manifold more inputs and more detailed programming. The movie revolves around this concept as it takes an entire human psyche and pushes it into a computational realm with no apparent loss of resolution. I will fail to complain about the obvious technical issues around this concept, but suffice to say that we have more in common with the software than we tend to realize or would like to admit. We often confuse complexity with divinity.
Lastly, and perhaps most mundanely, the movie is one of dozens of examples of the Frankenstein parable. Man creates something, with the best of intents, and that something goes on to destroy him. As with its predecessors, our protagonist is destroyed because of his own lack of wisdom. Clu, like any bit of software, simply does what he’s told with utter exactitude and duty, he is the personification of blind human intent. What was intended initially was atrociously ill defined: “Make a perfect world” and thus the GIGO [garbage in, garbage out] axiom rules the day. The only true perfection to be found would be that of the null resolution. Ultimately though it’s OK because the boy gets the girl, the villain is thwarted and the hero sacrifices himself so he won’t have to do any more sequels. All is right in the world. End of Line.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Seafood Medley and Other Gastronomic Adventures
Friday night’s dinner, at least as intended, was to consist of a vegetarian black bean dish of Laura’s choosing and a nice quiet evening at home. Unfortunately, as the lid was lifted from the beans, which had percolated quite happily in the slow-cooker all day, the aroma which greeted us was more akin to despair than deliciousness. Having been the first to realize the situation, Laura looked at me with an expression that said, “Please feed me something else…” while I looked back with an equally fervent expression that said, “Please let me feed you something else…” Thus armed with a common resolution to feed the beans to the starlings, we sallied forth in search of other comestibles.
As is the case in all grand dances between two hungry people, after the question of “when” to eat is determined, the next and most difficult question is “where” to eat. As an omnipotent weapon against such inscrutable questions, I’ve taken up the firm view that we should eat everywhere once, in order of proximity to wherever we happen to be. And so we made our way down the street, blatantly ignoring the Menard’s snack bar that completely failed to tempt us. (When life has promised you black beans, hot dogs on rollers are far from a fair substitute.) The first untried establishment that met our eyes was a Korean restaurant that was just entering the 7th month of its ‘Grant Opening’. When we arrived, the establishment was utterly deserted, in exactly that terrifying way that a restaurant that is about to be closed by the health department is deserted. Not to be cowed by potential botulism, however, we pressed onward. The menu was diverse and largely inscrutable and the grill built into the table made us ponder if we would indeed find ourselves cooking our own dinner.
After an extended period of considering the options, Laura chose a beef dish of some sort while I settled on the ‘Spicy Seafood Medley’. As the words, “#41, please” passed my lips, the image of a panoply of fishy denizens of the sea floated passed through my giddy, and hungry, mind. I imagined delicate little shrimps, lovingly cradled from the ocean floor to their imminent deaths in my jaws. Perhaps some fish, so lithe and silvery brought to the surface sole-ly for my enjoyment. Maybe even, if I’m lucky, the luxuriant succulence of some unlucky crab whose exoskeleton gave up its contents just for me. The seconds ticked by. My anticipation grew. I chatted amicably with Laura about her day but inwardly the seconds plodded like they were mired in a tub of treacle because I knew that somewhere, not far away, my dinner was bubbling merrily away.
I should aside here for a moment to point out that as food goes, I am not a prudish man. In my mind, if others have survived it then surely I can as well. And in all honesty, part of my reaction is merely for the sake of drama, but part of me was a bit surprised when my medley turned out to be comprised primarily of tentacles of various shapes and sizes. On the whole, the meal was tasty, but unnerving. In many cases, the source of the tentacles was so small that rather than an appendage, a bite consisted of the entire animal. The variety of shapes, sizes and random seafood parts was more than I would have considered possible. It was as if the sea bottom had been dredged and anything of appropriate size simply flash frozen and shipped to Indiana. In all, I counted several random tentacles, a few small squid(?), a pair of lonely and tiny shrimp and the distributor cap from a ‘72 pinto. On first sitting, the whole presentation was edible and even exciting to begin, but as the meal wore on, my enthusiasm waned to the point where I was untempted to eat the leftovers that were brought home. Luckily, Laura’s meal was much more tame. I tried as much as possible to keep the exact nature of my meal hidden from her more discerning culinary eye.
Finally, after having fortified ourselves internally we made our way from the restaurant to the Korean market next door. Truth be told, the market was at least half of my motivation for wanting to choose this particular establishment for dinner in the first place. As we strolled in, I noted with some chagrin that the market shared several attributes with the restaurant. Most of the written text was inscrutable. The staff had limited fluency in English. And, like its neighbor, we were the only two people in the place not of obvious Asian descent. Being a raging xenophile, this was as near as possible to my image of heaven. After a short perusal, we found many amusing items from candies of completely unknown composition, a variety of flavored soy-milks for my lactose-annoyed girlfriend and even the frozen version of the deep-sea dredgings I enjoyed in my dinner.
After the joy of finding food and cultural nirvana wore off, we both slowly started to realize that there was a chorus of cooking sounds emanating from one section of the market. A quick inspection revealed that the two were not only adjacent, but in fact attached. The kitchen for the restaurant hid itself quite nicely behind a temporary wooden wall constructed around a section of the market. I found this refreshing and convenient. I was even able to identify most of the seasonings and ingredients on the market shelves which comprised my meal from just minutes before. All this brings me back to some of my own recent culinary adventures at home and the reason for seeking out an Asian market in the first place.
From time immemorial, I’ve had a desire to “adopt-a-culture” for a period of time. The optimum length of time has yet to be determined but the point is simple: to live like a person of a different culture for a year, a month, a decade, whatever. So if I chose to be Russian, I’d eat like a Russian, drink like a Russian, learn to speak and write Russian, everything one needed to get the full experience of the culture. I realize, of course, that this is an arduous task, most especially the linguistic aspects of it, but it’s just the sort of obsessive-compulsive thing that I’m likely to undertake. So at the end of November I betook myself unto the kitchenware store, bought a wok and a stir-fry cookbook and sat down to the task of cooking every single recipe in the book to the exclusion of all else. For the most part, this has worked out fairly well, though I did have a brief breach of protocol with some quesadillas just before Christmas.
I’ve always said that the secret to cooking is not memorizing recipes, but rather mastering the ingredients. If you cook mushrooms like you would onions, you’re likely to not have much left, just as an example. So the stir-fry cookbook has introduced me to an amazing variety of new ingredients and methods that I would have found utterly perplexing the month before. During certain stages my refrigerator was an explosion of colors that put my previous mushrooms-olives-peppers-and-onions decor to an absolute shame. Even more interesting to me than the ingredients is the vast difference in preparation technique. Most of my previous cooking background is more Italian or simple “Middle-American” cooking. Throw some stuff into a pot (in the right order) and let it simmer for 4 hours. In the world of stir-fry, most things are done in 4 minutes. Cook it for 30 seconds longer and you would find it inedible. The technique also finds me in dire need of an apron, or a set of clothing specifically devoted to the explosive nature of this type of cooking.
All in all, I’d consider the experiment a vast success. With the exception of the tofu and mushrooms I made most recently, I’ve considered all the results on par with many of my old standards. My freezer, once full of red beans and rice and spaghetti sauce, now blooms with the remnants of a half-dozen new favorite dishes. I will enumerate the results in detail in some later post, but for now, rest assured the Slaven household (and the Zimmerman who sometimes comes to visit) eat well and diversely. (Though without the use of tentacles.)
As is the case in all grand dances between two hungry people, after the question of “when” to eat is determined, the next and most difficult question is “where” to eat. As an omnipotent weapon against such inscrutable questions, I’ve taken up the firm view that we should eat everywhere once, in order of proximity to wherever we happen to be. And so we made our way down the street, blatantly ignoring the Menard’s snack bar that completely failed to tempt us. (When life has promised you black beans, hot dogs on rollers are far from a fair substitute.) The first untried establishment that met our eyes was a Korean restaurant that was just entering the 7th month of its ‘Grant Opening’. When we arrived, the establishment was utterly deserted, in exactly that terrifying way that a restaurant that is about to be closed by the health department is deserted. Not to be cowed by potential botulism, however, we pressed onward. The menu was diverse and largely inscrutable and the grill built into the table made us ponder if we would indeed find ourselves cooking our own dinner.
After an extended period of considering the options, Laura chose a beef dish of some sort while I settled on the ‘Spicy Seafood Medley’. As the words, “#41, please” passed my lips, the image of a panoply of fishy denizens of the sea floated passed through my giddy, and hungry, mind. I imagined delicate little shrimps, lovingly cradled from the ocean floor to their imminent deaths in my jaws. Perhaps some fish, so lithe and silvery brought to the surface sole-ly for my enjoyment. Maybe even, if I’m lucky, the luxuriant succulence of some unlucky crab whose exoskeleton gave up its contents just for me. The seconds ticked by. My anticipation grew. I chatted amicably with Laura about her day but inwardly the seconds plodded like they were mired in a tub of treacle because I knew that somewhere, not far away, my dinner was bubbling merrily away.
I should aside here for a moment to point out that as food goes, I am not a prudish man. In my mind, if others have survived it then surely I can as well. And in all honesty, part of my reaction is merely for the sake of drama, but part of me was a bit surprised when my medley turned out to be comprised primarily of tentacles of various shapes and sizes. On the whole, the meal was tasty, but unnerving. In many cases, the source of the tentacles was so small that rather than an appendage, a bite consisted of the entire animal. The variety of shapes, sizes and random seafood parts was more than I would have considered possible. It was as if the sea bottom had been dredged and anything of appropriate size simply flash frozen and shipped to Indiana. In all, I counted several random tentacles, a few small squid(?), a pair of lonely and tiny shrimp and the distributor cap from a ‘72 pinto. On first sitting, the whole presentation was edible and even exciting to begin, but as the meal wore on, my enthusiasm waned to the point where I was untempted to eat the leftovers that were brought home. Luckily, Laura’s meal was much more tame. I tried as much as possible to keep the exact nature of my meal hidden from her more discerning culinary eye.
Finally, after having fortified ourselves internally we made our way from the restaurant to the Korean market next door. Truth be told, the market was at least half of my motivation for wanting to choose this particular establishment for dinner in the first place. As we strolled in, I noted with some chagrin that the market shared several attributes with the restaurant. Most of the written text was inscrutable. The staff had limited fluency in English. And, like its neighbor, we were the only two people in the place not of obvious Asian descent. Being a raging xenophile, this was as near as possible to my image of heaven. After a short perusal, we found many amusing items from candies of completely unknown composition, a variety of flavored soy-milks for my lactose-annoyed girlfriend and even the frozen version of the deep-sea dredgings I enjoyed in my dinner.
After the joy of finding food and cultural nirvana wore off, we both slowly started to realize that there was a chorus of cooking sounds emanating from one section of the market. A quick inspection revealed that the two were not only adjacent, but in fact attached. The kitchen for the restaurant hid itself quite nicely behind a temporary wooden wall constructed around a section of the market. I found this refreshing and convenient. I was even able to identify most of the seasonings and ingredients on the market shelves which comprised my meal from just minutes before. All this brings me back to some of my own recent culinary adventures at home and the reason for seeking out an Asian market in the first place.
From time immemorial, I’ve had a desire to “adopt-a-culture” for a period of time. The optimum length of time has yet to be determined but the point is simple: to live like a person of a different culture for a year, a month, a decade, whatever. So if I chose to be Russian, I’d eat like a Russian, drink like a Russian, learn to speak and write Russian, everything one needed to get the full experience of the culture. I realize, of course, that this is an arduous task, most especially the linguistic aspects of it, but it’s just the sort of obsessive-compulsive thing that I’m likely to undertake. So at the end of November I betook myself unto the kitchenware store, bought a wok and a stir-fry cookbook and sat down to the task of cooking every single recipe in the book to the exclusion of all else. For the most part, this has worked out fairly well, though I did have a brief breach of protocol with some quesadillas just before Christmas.
I’ve always said that the secret to cooking is not memorizing recipes, but rather mastering the ingredients. If you cook mushrooms like you would onions, you’re likely to not have much left, just as an example. So the stir-fry cookbook has introduced me to an amazing variety of new ingredients and methods that I would have found utterly perplexing the month before. During certain stages my refrigerator was an explosion of colors that put my previous mushrooms-olives-peppers-and-onions decor to an absolute shame. Even more interesting to me than the ingredients is the vast difference in preparation technique. Most of my previous cooking background is more Italian or simple “Middle-American” cooking. Throw some stuff into a pot (in the right order) and let it simmer for 4 hours. In the world of stir-fry, most things are done in 4 minutes. Cook it for 30 seconds longer and you would find it inedible. The technique also finds me in dire need of an apron, or a set of clothing specifically devoted to the explosive nature of this type of cooking.
All in all, I’d consider the experiment a vast success. With the exception of the tofu and mushrooms I made most recently, I’ve considered all the results on par with many of my old standards. My freezer, once full of red beans and rice and spaghetti sauce, now blooms with the remnants of a half-dozen new favorite dishes. I will enumerate the results in detail in some later post, but for now, rest assured the Slaven household (and the Zimmerman who sometimes comes to visit) eat well and diversely. (Though without the use of tentacles.)
Monday, December 20, 2010
Movies: “Precious” - 2009
The most terrifying thing about this movie is simply that I’ve heard it said, by people who would actually know, that it’s fairly faithful to the truth. Like a horror movie that weaves together just a few too many elements of verifiable and believable truth, “Precious” makes its impact because it’s not the story of one woman’s ascent above her circumstances, it’s the story of hundreds of women who deal with the same problems every single day.
Precious, or Claireece Jones for those who prefer names less steeped in irony, is an illiterate teenager in the inner city. The movie’s opening finds her pregnant, for the second time, with her own father’s child. Her mother, driven by jealousy that her own boyfriend finds her daughter more attractive, goes to any length she can to abuse Precious as vengeance for the theft her of lover’s attentions.
The balance of the plot is left as an incentive to the reader, but what struck me most potently was the mother’s blatant addiction to her own depressed way of life. On multiple occasions, she admonishes her own child that she is a “fucking idiot” and that she should “give up on that fucking school and get herself down to the welfare office.” Not only is she uneducated, but she’s also violently opposed to the idea. She is so convinced of not only her child’s worthlessness, but also her own lack of value to society, that she has no outlet but to be the object of charity. Despite this negative self-image, she manages with great skill to maneuver through the system of government to ensure her own continued support, going so far as to bring in Precious’ first child as a prop when the welfare office comes to visit.
It is difficult for me to conceive, as someone so enamored with the idea of knowledge for its own sake, of someone who looks with such disdain on something so fundamental. It is a good reminder that there is much more variety to the human condition than that we see around us each day, or even on the news. There is, below the attention of the average person, a mass of the populous that lives in hopeless desperation. Not quite homeless, but most certainly hopeless.
The movie casts Precious herself as the hero, but really I don’t think that title belongs to her. The real heroes are the people who put her up there and let her actually succeed. From her teacher to her social worker, the movie is a strong reminder of the sad fact that you can’t save people from these situations without yourself sacrificing. It’s not just about handing out money. To really make a difference someone has to sit down and sacrifice part of their lives to make the lives of others better. There is no advantageous exchange rate when it comes to human suffering. You cannot buy your way out of misery. Someone has to spend their life helping the less fortunate, protecting those who cannot protect themselves and putting things right for those who would otherwise be hopeless victims. These are the true heroes. They gave their all so the smallest and weakest among us might triumph.
Precious, or Claireece Jones for those who prefer names less steeped in irony, is an illiterate teenager in the inner city. The movie’s opening finds her pregnant, for the second time, with her own father’s child. Her mother, driven by jealousy that her own boyfriend finds her daughter more attractive, goes to any length she can to abuse Precious as vengeance for the theft her of lover’s attentions.
The balance of the plot is left as an incentive to the reader, but what struck me most potently was the mother’s blatant addiction to her own depressed way of life. On multiple occasions, she admonishes her own child that she is a “fucking idiot” and that she should “give up on that fucking school and get herself down to the welfare office.” Not only is she uneducated, but she’s also violently opposed to the idea. She is so convinced of not only her child’s worthlessness, but also her own lack of value to society, that she has no outlet but to be the object of charity. Despite this negative self-image, she manages with great skill to maneuver through the system of government to ensure her own continued support, going so far as to bring in Precious’ first child as a prop when the welfare office comes to visit.
It is difficult for me to conceive, as someone so enamored with the idea of knowledge for its own sake, of someone who looks with such disdain on something so fundamental. It is a good reminder that there is much more variety to the human condition than that we see around us each day, or even on the news. There is, below the attention of the average person, a mass of the populous that lives in hopeless desperation. Not quite homeless, but most certainly hopeless.
The movie casts Precious herself as the hero, but really I don’t think that title belongs to her. The real heroes are the people who put her up there and let her actually succeed. From her teacher to her social worker, the movie is a strong reminder of the sad fact that you can’t save people from these situations without yourself sacrificing. It’s not just about handing out money. To really make a difference someone has to sit down and sacrifice part of their lives to make the lives of others better. There is no advantageous exchange rate when it comes to human suffering. You cannot buy your way out of misery. Someone has to spend their life helping the less fortunate, protecting those who cannot protect themselves and putting things right for those who would otherwise be hopeless victims. These are the true heroes. They gave their all so the smallest and weakest among us might triumph.
Words, Strung Together, in Hopefully Pleasing Strands
Today as I pondered what I was going to make of the year 2011 (In general, my vocation is far, far too unintellectual to consume my full thought processes, so I find myself forced to ponder many things at once) and enumerating said items, it occurred to me that the one most prominent and important thing I needed to do was to simply write.
While I do try from time to time to divert myself along less analytical lines, ultimately I find that I measure my successes and failures using tried and true metrics that are as qualitatively absurd as they are quantitatively irrelevant. How many books did I finish this year? How many blog posts did I manage to publish? How many places did I go and take photos? On balance, this year was an utter failure in the realm of literature but a vast success if you measure it terms of frozen light and shadow. I look back with derision on my posts from this year. For the most part, they constitute statements of duress and misery, sad testaments to a sad person. That said, what posts I did bother to generate do continue to resonate with me. As riddled with despair as I was, I was not forsaken by the ability to turn a simple phrase into one that requires repetition of perusal just to squeeze out its very fundamental meaning. In short, I retain always my talent for making the very simple into the unnecessarily complicated.
Looking back on the year, I regret that I didn’t draw out in minute detail the events that marked the passing of 2010. I recall with great vividness laying under a Catalpa tree with a newfound friend, the grin stretching provocatively and seemingly without end from one side of my face to the other. Because I didn’t record it, all I have is scattered images and the visceral feeling of jubilance. I can still call it up in my mind, and each time recalled, it improves, but I regret that I have no relic of the day, carved from giddy, bubbling words, to look back on.
Later in the year, I found myself out west. Hundreds of photographs capture the days spent in that dusty terrain. The visuals preserved forever for as long as pixels remain pixels, but as each day passes, the feelings, the gentle caress of the desert breeze, the growing anticipation of a reunion, the energy of rising pre-dawn to find whatever is to be found, the loneliness of a desert road at night… they all fade away because they were not recorded. Someday, they will be lost to me utterly, but today… today they remain.
This is the value of the written word. This is what I have thrown away these past two years by not taking the time to record, as best I can, those things that cannot be summed up in a mere photograph. Though the cliché says that a picture should be valued as a thousand words, those words are ill chosen. Those 1000 words are cast in stone and are words of another's choosing. To really capture a time, a place, a person, you must choose those words and choose wisely. It also helps if you spell enough of them correctly that you can read them later. So it is with this regret, with this sense of indelible loss, that I resolve that I must return to those halcyon days of yesteryear when I actually wrote down what was going on. I make no promises to anyone, save to myself, that anything I write will be of even the most minor interest. In fact, I would find it exceptionally surprising if anyone DID find anything I had to write even the least bit interesting. But none the less, I find that I must write. If for no other reason than to entertain and fulfill the promise to the me of the future, who will cast his mind backwards and wonder what it was, exactly, that went through my mind. I cannot repair the rent in the fabric of my history, but I can at least begin to weave the cloth once again.
While I do try from time to time to divert myself along less analytical lines, ultimately I find that I measure my successes and failures using tried and true metrics that are as qualitatively absurd as they are quantitatively irrelevant. How many books did I finish this year? How many blog posts did I manage to publish? How many places did I go and take photos? On balance, this year was an utter failure in the realm of literature but a vast success if you measure it terms of frozen light and shadow. I look back with derision on my posts from this year. For the most part, they constitute statements of duress and misery, sad testaments to a sad person. That said, what posts I did bother to generate do continue to resonate with me. As riddled with despair as I was, I was not forsaken by the ability to turn a simple phrase into one that requires repetition of perusal just to squeeze out its very fundamental meaning. In short, I retain always my talent for making the very simple into the unnecessarily complicated.
Looking back on the year, I regret that I didn’t draw out in minute detail the events that marked the passing of 2010. I recall with great vividness laying under a Catalpa tree with a newfound friend, the grin stretching provocatively and seemingly without end from one side of my face to the other. Because I didn’t record it, all I have is scattered images and the visceral feeling of jubilance. I can still call it up in my mind, and each time recalled, it improves, but I regret that I have no relic of the day, carved from giddy, bubbling words, to look back on.
Later in the year, I found myself out west. Hundreds of photographs capture the days spent in that dusty terrain. The visuals preserved forever for as long as pixels remain pixels, but as each day passes, the feelings, the gentle caress of the desert breeze, the growing anticipation of a reunion, the energy of rising pre-dawn to find whatever is to be found, the loneliness of a desert road at night… they all fade away because they were not recorded. Someday, they will be lost to me utterly, but today… today they remain.
This is the value of the written word. This is what I have thrown away these past two years by not taking the time to record, as best I can, those things that cannot be summed up in a mere photograph. Though the cliché says that a picture should be valued as a thousand words, those words are ill chosen. Those 1000 words are cast in stone and are words of another's choosing. To really capture a time, a place, a person, you must choose those words and choose wisely. It also helps if you spell enough of them correctly that you can read them later. So it is with this regret, with this sense of indelible loss, that I resolve that I must return to those halcyon days of yesteryear when I actually wrote down what was going on. I make no promises to anyone, save to myself, that anything I write will be of even the most minor interest. In fact, I would find it exceptionally surprising if anyone DID find anything I had to write even the least bit interesting. But none the less, I find that I must write. If for no other reason than to entertain and fulfill the promise to the me of the future, who will cast his mind backwards and wonder what it was, exactly, that went through my mind. I cannot repair the rent in the fabric of my history, but I can at least begin to weave the cloth once again.
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