Cut to the Chase

First Car Assignment #1

2012-01-22T13:00:00.002-05:00

I am enrolled in a writing workshop and the first assignment was to write about your first car. I have not turned this in yet, but figured I would post it for fun. It was how I spent my morning at Panera.

There was absolutely no way I could possibly win the impromptu race in my Volkswagen Rabbit against the 1984 Buick Skylark that bore more horsepower than a Roman Calvary, but I was delusional and determined - two very wrong things to be simultaneously. The situation was highly precarious, and all caution had been duly left behind, sitting with a huge harrrummppph at the stoplight. The night was young, but we were younger. We were trying to soak up every experience before us without a moment’s pause to consider the potential consequences. It was two years before we would learn the words ‘Carpe Diem’ from that Robin Williams film. And yet, here we were already ahead of the game without a proper cliche, a marketable catchphrase and without the vaguest clue.

The Volkswagen was my mother’s vehicle ere I had turned sixteen. It was not immediately bequeathed to me on my birthday, but then neither was my full blown driver’s license issued on that anniversary. A birthday in December is not the best time to venture to the local Department of Motor Vehicles that is conveniently located on the same plat of land as a shopping mall. While everyone is stocking their cars full of holiday cheer, they see the DMV facility accompanied with the local tax collector office and suddenly remember to update their car registration, business registration, or whatever other service they can accomplish there. Needless to say, what was a tremendous convenience for some was a severe frustration for an antsy sixteen year old.

I admit, it truly was a convenience to be able to get your license on one side of the building and then venture to the queues next door to pay for your registration and tag. However, convenience is not a readily stocked commodity around the holiday season, unless you like arriving to the DMV when they open early in the morning. And, at age sixteen, getting up that early to wait in lines and take tests at a government run facility whilst battling for parking with the last minute holiday shoppers was not worth the license. I could still bum a ride when necessary.

Mid January and well into the start of my seventeenth year on the planet (at least this time around, depending on your religious preference), I was prepped for my written exam and ready to parallel park the car into a sardine can, if requested. A cool front had ascended over the weekend and I was playing hooky on a crisp Monday morning in order to get my license. There still lingered the uncertainty that I would have the vehicle all to myself at that time, but I had become familiar with the workings of that Volkswagen for the past two years. Since the age of fourteen, I was learning how to shift from first to fifth gear as my mother drove. In my learner’s permit phase I could blindly grab the gear shift and know exactly where the car was engaged.

The year that the car was in my possession was highly memorable and our time together was unfortunately cut short. At first, I admit, I lamented over the yellowish hue of the car. I was a male sixteen year old and driving a yellow Volkswagen Rabbit. Somewhere out there was a Macho Man Club for Men (and yes they are so Macho that they could easily ignore the redundancy) that would have stripped me of my status had they seen me in the car in my first few apprehensive months parking in the back of the high school parking lot and around the block from extra curricular activities. However, after the car and I eased into our arranged marriage, my comfort with the yellow increased and my associated identity with the car was a positive tidbit of knowledge amongst my peers. I had stumbled on the Macho Man Club for Men mantra purely by embracing the yellow of the car and making it mine and received a lifetime membership card, good for discounts and free cookies from any Fina gas station. Here is how that transpired:

Macho Man Club for Men
P.O. Box 128969
Nantucket, MA 02564
RE: Membership Revocation Status

Dear Sirs,

It is with great gusto and much testosterone that I implore you to reconsider the reactivation of my account. Admittedly, I was spotted by one of your field representatives driving a yellow Volkswagen Rabbit with great hesitation and cited for ducking down when in vastly public places.

I have not replaced the car with a Mustang or a Camero as was recommended by your agent, but rather I have embraced the essence of the yellow Volkeswagen Rabbit. I own it. If anyone inquires as to who drives that yellow car, I proudly aver that it is indeed my vehicle and what do they want to make of it?

And that, sirs, is exactly what I have to say unto you: what would you like to make of it? I drive the yellow Volkswagen Rabbit and chicks dig it.

Sincerely,

Cory Chase

They promptly replied with great ceremony and circumstance:

Mr. Cory Chase
Tampa, Florida

RE: Membership Revocation Status

Mr. Chase,

Welcome back.

Thank you,

Macho Man Club for Men Management

The day I lost Betty. Yes, I did name her Betty. She was Betty from the Archie’s comics. She was beautiful, down to Earth and always a charm. I wish she could have gone out with more dignity and a little more fanfare, or in something traumatic and spectacular, but alas, it was a simple accident that rendered her close to inoperable. The neighbor across the street from me was backing out just after I had finished backing out - the kind of perfect timing only practiced by acrobats in any of the Cirque De Soliel shows, lion tamers and video gamers manipulating Mario. His pick up track smashed into the back left wheel, shattered the axle and collapsed the gas tank, and all under 15 miles per hour. And that was that.

As I was previously reminiscing, from the peripheral of my right eye, I could see the Buick Skylark surpassing me. I could feel the adrenaline surging and was determined to not lose this silly and reckless race ironically being carried out by two high school sophomores. The real problem was that there was no real end point to the race. I highly doubted we would carry this out all the way to the end of Davis Island from south Bayshore, but it was never ruled out. You know, if only he could have been driving a Ford Taurus, I could have alluded to the Turtle and Hare parable - although, the only moral from this tale is more of a what not to do example.

And then I saw the answer looming in the distance. All I had to do was keep him Jordan from passing me. The curves were winding and the centripetal and centrifugal pulls were dangerous enough at the speed we were maintaining. I could keep up as long as the road continued to ebb and flow like it did, because once there was a straight path, I was done. But the lumbering Cadillac was a quarter mile ahead and I was not sure that my opponent had seen it yet. It was cruising slowly along the water and enjoying the tranquil evening. My strategy was to keep him in his lane, and keep him distracted until he had to hit the brakes. If he saw the impediment any sooner, he could slow, swing in behind me and get back into the game easily.

I sent him some clear hand signals to let him know that he was number one in my books. Moreover, with the windows down, I lobbed unmentionable and unintelligible insults into the wind in his general direction. Then the Cadillac was coming up and as my opponent decelerated to hop behind me, I slowed with him. I had perfectly trapped him down behind the Cadillac as another car came up behind me. And just as the car behind me approached, I jumped out and left the Buick pinned behind the Cadillac and beside the other car. Victory was mine for that one and only time.

My next car was a used Renault that I got for a song.

I voluntarily mailed in my Macho Man Club for Men membership card and revoked it myself.

A Matter of Mass

2011-12-09T22:49:00.001-05:00

Another writing exercise. Take the first line and run.

She hadn’t meant to take so long.
Jerry paced and paced and paced and paced and paced. This, of all times, was not the time to be running late.

“Laura,” Jerry called up the stairs, “the flight leaves in just over two hours and we still have security.”
“Just another minute,” Laura protested. “This is all too much to accept.”
Jerry nodded to himself. He understood, but he was antsy. The flight was the last flight out. Their children had been the first ones out two weeks ago when the prediction was confirmed.
“What about the pictures?” Laura yelled down.
“We have digital copies of just about everything.”
Laura emerged at the top of the stairs with a small bag in her arms and her face streaked with tears and make up.
“Darling,” Jerry said ascending the stairs to her, “the kids are safe. That is all that matters.”
“I know,” she replied with another sob and fell into Jerry’s arms, “but all that we built here, and all the good it has done. And you’re sure about the boys?”
“Yes,” he reassured her, “they are safely with friends. I spoke with them this morning from the mining facility during the final evacuation.
Laura looked around again at their home. She leaned back, squared her shoulders and nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Jerry led her down the stairs and to the portal door leading out to the walkway.
“Is there any chance that this...”
“No, darling, it will be complete destruction. You know that.”
Another tear streaked Laura’s cheek.
“Will anyone rebuild?”
“If it is habitable, our great-great grandchildren will be guaranteed a place. Reconstruction would not happen in our lifetime. You know that. For us, it looks like we’ll going back to the old country.”
“I know.”
They emerged from their home and onto the moving walkway to a beautiful red day.
“It is so beautiful here,” Laura beamed. “But, why is it colder today?”
“A lot of the generators have been dismantled already and loaded onto the cargo caravans. You know this, you watch the feeds, too.”

“I have tried to ignore them all and hoped that this was all just a bad dream.”

Jerry sighed. They were gliding along the walkway to the flight hanger in silence. They passed a lot of the maintenance technicians and workers that would be left behind to dismantle whatever they could salvage onto the last cargo freighters.

Jerry clasped Laura’s hand and they gazed at the large dome above them.

As the flight hanger approached they could hear shouting and a din of noise.

Laura looked up at Jerry, as he was straining his ears to hear the commotion.

“Are there people fighting for seats?”

Jerry shook his head. “No dear, all civilian and non-engineering staff were long evacuated. Everyone else is accounted for and has a seat. You know this.”

“The boys...”
“Darling, they are fine.”

“No, they are up there waving at us, Jerry!”

Jerry looked ahead and could not believe that his two sons were standing in the hanger in their maintenance uniforms. He stopped listening to the din of people shouting and arguing and focused on his two boys, Gerald and Winston.

“Sons,” Jerry said as the walkway neared the location where the boys awaited them.

“Greetings, father,” Gerald said.

“Hi mom,” Winston called and stepped over and hugged her and then his father.

“Why are you not on Phobos 12?” Jerry asked sternly.

“We were given orders to assist with the final evacuation,” Gerald said proudly. “Our unit is to see every last person leave.”

“What is all the commotion about,” Laura asked as she fell back beside Jerry,

“One of the physicists is shouting that everyone needs to leave immediately and that the numbers are all wrong.”

“Nonsense,” Jerry said. “I worked some of those calculations myself.”

“Dad,” Winston said, “he is arguing that Deimos will not reach its apogee and will thus cause a slingshot into the planet sooner. His calculations appear sound, but he has not displayed any of them, yet. The committee is telling him to stop causing a panic.”

Jerry studied his son for a moment and thought on what he had just heard. “Is that the committee I hear arguing now?”

“Yeah,” Gerald answered. “We will catch up with you two on Phobos 12 tomorrow. Right now, we have to get back on duty. Winston and I wanted to catch you before your flight.”

Laura hugged and kissed her sons as Jerry walked slowly towards the hanger where the committee had holographic displays glowing brightly in front of them and a small man standing before them arranging the two moons with the planet and the wayward asteroid within the display.

“Dean?”

The small man turned from his work and smiled as he recognized Jerry. “Finally!” He exclaimed, “someone that will listen to me!”

“What is going on here?” Jerry asked sternly of his old friend.

“The calculations are all wrong?”

“Excuse me?” Jerry asked.

“Jerry,” a member of the committee named Mary said with her hands on her hips, “we have been asking him to explain himself and stop this panic.”

Jerry looked at Dean closely. “Before you upset everyone left on the planet, why don’t you explain what is wrong with the committee’s calculations to me.”

Dean nodded and went back to moving the objects in the hologram around. “You see,” he said softly to Jerry, “the part no one took into consideration is the affect the asteroid will have on Deimos.”

“Its trajectory is to miss it by more than fifty thousand kilometers,” another committee member named Sam interjected.

“Precisely,” Dean said. “But has anyone considered the mass of the asteroid? It is a dense bastard.” He continued to place the objects and wrote in some equations and drew vectors around them. “It will affect Deimos and in return-”
“Deimos will affect it,” Jerry said somberly.

“We had the mass at 1.8 x 1012 kilograms.”

“That is what was projected when it was passing Jupiter. It is actually 1019. Almost the same as Pluto’s sister, Charon.”

“It cannot make that much of a difference!” Mary argued.

“Wait!” Jerry shouted. “Just everyone wait a second.”

Laura squeezed his shoulder and he turned and looked at her. She could see how pale he had become and knew that something was very amiss.

Jerry studied the numbers floating on the hologram before him and was nodding in agreement. Then he saw it.

“Dean,” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“You’re wrong, too.”

“Huh?”

“According to our original projection, the asteroid would enter into an orbit for four days, slowly gain more velocity, slip through the atmosphere and then impact the planet about hundred kilometers east from here.”

“According to my model I have that it hits in two days one thousand kilometers north from here instead.”

“Dean, you did not increase the velocity from the affect of Deimos.”

“Of course I -” he stopped and looked at the vectors and numbers again.

Jerry stood up and rubbed the numbers out of the air and applied the new numbers and sighed.

Dean frantically looked at what was before him in complete shock.

Jerry hugged his wife. “I’m sorry, darling. I missed it.”

He looked outside the hanger to see many people running back into the hanger, including his two sons that were supposed to already be hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from him.

Over the horizon they could see a large black spot grow larger at a very alarming rate.

One Over X... it really is that simple

2011-12-07T20:13:00.001-05:00

Feeling philosophical tonight....

"The goal is to soar along the lines, not slide on them."
"Excuse me?" Daryl replied from the bottom of his drink.
"I can see it in your eyes, I can read it in your posture, and I can hear it in your voice."
"Bite me, old man."
The old man shrugged and returned to the drink in front of him and gazed apathetically at the television mounted in the corner. It was a rerun of M*A*S*H that he was certain he had seem numerous times and would happily watch numerous more times in his life.
"What lines?" Daryl finally asked.
The old man smiled and took a napkin from the bar and a pen from within his jacket. He drew what looked to Daryl like two arrows starting in the same spot and forming a large "L".
"You a math man at all?"
"Not really."
"Do you at least recognize the X and Y plane?"
Daryl scrutinized it for a moment and then nodded in genuine recognition.
"The line going up and down is life and the line going side to side is death."
Daryl looked up with a confused look.
The old man smiled and wrote on the paper "Y=1/X"

"Okay?" Daryl said.
"Your life is inversely proportional to your troubles. X," he said pointing to the letter on the paper, "is the amount of perceived problems that you have in life."
"Yeah? And?"
"Well, the more troubles and complaints you have, the closer to death you get." He drew the curved line on the paper to show where it hovered above the Death axis without crossing.
Daryl squinted his eyes at him.
"The beauty is, your troubles cannot kill you. No matter how many troubles you stack upon yourself, you will never hit the Death Line."
"Uh huh..." Daryl mumbled.
"And the less troubles you have, the more life you have."
"But, you never hit that other line either."
The old man smiled, "you can never have enough life!"
"What if I plug in zero?"
"You cannot put the zero in there. It is against the rules. It is not an option for you. All you can do is decide if you want to shift to the left or slide down. It is harder to shift than it is to slide."
Daryl cracked a small half-hearted smile, "so no matter how bad things are, I cannot get to zero?"
The old man patted Daryl on the shoulder and smiled, "you just shifted me just a little bit more to the left." He rose, using Daryl's shoulder to stand himself up, smiled again at Daryl and walked out of the bar.
Daryl pushed his drink away, took the napkin and gently placed it in his shirt pocket where it has remained for many years.

Burning Impact

2011-12-06T23:13:00.001-05:00

Another first line exercise. The challenge is to make it short and sweet.

The site (http://writingexercises.co.uk/) gave me the first nine words.

The paramedic had never seen anything to compare with what was right before him and the rest of the crew. There was nothing they could do; nothing more that could be done; but, time stood still as everyone took in the significance of the remains before them. They tried to organize a triage, but no one was remotely qualified, and any attempt to do their respective jobs would be in vain. The teams stared at one another awaiting someone to give an explanation: offer something logical and meaningful before the insanity set as rapidly as quick cement.

One and one half hour prior, the urgent call had come in. It took an astounding thirty four minutes to calm the caller before they could begin to discern the emergency. The Caller ID had failed, and when they attempted to triangulate the call, it was surprisingly not happening. Maybe it was the active Aurora Borealis; maybe it was the odd frontal system form the northeast; maybe it was satellite interference with the local radio station; or maybe something was just completely and totally amiss beyond the ken of the average human. When it was finally understood that something had crashed on a local farm and there were numerous injuries, the entire squadron of emergency medical teams were dispatched.

The distance to the crash site took forty four minutes at top break-neck speeds. The blaze was visible from fifteen miles away and was spreading with the force of a tidal wave to the the southwest. The inferno was bright orange at the tips of the flames, and it burned crimson red at its core. It screamed away from its source and devoured the night, illuminating the vast landscape in its apocalyptic glow. The heat was felt when the crews were within three miles of the site and were forced to take the circuitous route to the northeast to make their approach in tandem with the frontal system.

The wreckage was tremendous and disastrous. The carnage was devastating. The scene was beyond the grasp of the imagination. The exasperated caller was awaiting them as far away from the flames as she could get, but she no longer lived. It was surmised that the fire stole the available oxygen from her: so without further examination, asphyxiation was assumed and the final mistake made as the rest of the crews stormed closer to the flames to search for survivors. All they found was the wreckage and the minimal remains of the people that the caller had told them had perished soon after the impact when they had gone to investigate.

The penny dropped for the paramedic almost too soon. In the massive wreckage, still hundreds of yards away, he could see the long, broken cylindrical objects emanating their own distinct light from within and spewing death into the night sky. He could barely see the writing within all the twisted metal, but two distinct pictures had fallen together and it was all he needed to solve the riddle. He had a pathology to the nature of his impending murder and the name of the mass murderer that had brutally killed those that first ventured to the fallen object, and that would soon eliminate everyone that had come out with him and many, many others to come in the near future.

When he turned around to the rest of the emergency team, he could see the looks in their eyes. They knew. Some were already pulling out their phones to try to warn loved ones and even attempt to make their final goodbyes. They had drawn the same conclusions from the same data he had. Everyone had all seen the yellow and black trefoil symbol alongside the stars and bars.

The Charismatic Man of Mystery

2011-12-05T23:15:00.001-05:00

I was sitting at Starbucks awaiting a friend for over an hour and Googled "First line writing exercises" and the first line came up. I took it and ran with this idea. I apologize now for any poor grammar and whatnot.

Besides, identity theft is always a current theme, especially when it is applicable.

“He was older than she thought.”

“So? By how much was she really off?” Sandra asked in her business like, nothing really surprises me, tone.

“More than twenty years.”

“That’s not really all that impossible with all the pills, the creams and the supplemental crap available.”

“Still,” Debra persisted for a shock, “when I met him I swore he was barely pushing his mid to late twenties. And he is really fifty four! Fifty four!!”

“He probably works out and eats right. Good for him. Besides, did Wendy just come right out and ask him?”

“Not exactly,” Debra mumbled as she nonchalantly stirred the celery stick in her Bloody Mary.

“Then how exactly did she discover his age?”

“She took a peek at his driver’s license, when he was getting a rental car last week.”

“Why were you getting sheepish about that?” Debra asked taking a quaff of her Cranberry and Vodka. “Wendy is pushing forty, what does she care? Or is she upset that she can no longer believe she is robbing the cradle.”

“It’s not just that,” Debra confessed, “we looked through the documents in his apartment.”

“Now why in the hell would you do that? How did she even get into his apartment?”

“When he travels, Wendy has a key to take care of his cat and checks his mail.”

“Still pretty stupid to go in there. But, why?”

“I suggested that maybe the license she saw was a fake and that maybe he was an identity thief.”

Sandra set her drink down and eyed Debra inquisitively for a moment. “What you did was dumb and dangerous. But, given what you have told me, I would have probably done the same thing.”

Debra sat still with a half smile on her face.

“What?”

“I actually asked myself, “what would Sandra think of this?” when Wendy told me about the driver’s license.”

Sandra let out a small chuckle: the extent of any laugh that Sandra was capable of having. “And?”

Debra pulled her purse from the back of her chair and set it on the table. She opened it up and handed Sandra a USB key.

“What is on here?”

“I took pictures of the paperwork that we found. They’re note great, since I took them with my phone, but you can make out the names on them.”

“So you believe he is an identity thief?”

“I am not sure. A lot of the licenses and birth certificates are all different dates in a wide range.”

“He is not assuming their identities to get into bars, honey. It’s for stealing. Why are you coming to me with this? Why not go straight to the police or state law enforcement?”

“There were a lot of passports.”

“Oh!” Sandra exclaimed with legitimate shock.

“You see why I came to you.”

“Darling,” Sandra said quietly as she put her hand on Debra’s hand and took the USB key, “this is more dangerous than I had thought.”

“That is what I figured,” Debra sighed, “he could be a spy or into some kind of espionage.”

“Oh my Debra,” Sandra beamed with a slight smile, “that is just all too Hollywood. I am thinking terrorist.”

“NO!!”

Sandra nodded and finished off her drink. “I am glad you came to me with this. I will hand deliver this to the right team at the NSA.”

“But, he cannot be a terrorist. He does not even look like one.”

Sandra shook her head and smiled condescendingly at her friend, “the greatest criminals of all time are the most charismatic people. They can charm you like a cobra in a wicker basket with their mellifluous words. And, if Wendy’s beau is what I think he is, he will be the most charming bastard you have ever met.”

“Not James Bond?”

“Not likely. But Debra, you and Wendy have to get as far away from this guy as possible. And... Wendy! Holy shit! Wendy!”

“What?”

“What is she doing next week?” Sandra asked rhetorically.

“What do you mean next...” Debra froze and turned ashen.

“Yeah,” Sandra stated.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

“We need to call her. Stat.” Sandra pulled out her phone and started to pull up Wendy’s number.

“Wendy did say that he is out of town until tomorrow.”

Sandra snapped her head up and stared coolly at Debra. As her next words were shaping in her mouth, she could hear the sound of Wendy’s phone ringing through the speaker of her phone.

“Wendy!”

“Sandra? Is everything okay? Have you talked to Debra, lately. She has something to ask you and probably show you and -”

“Wendy, stop,” Sandra said curtly.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I’m with Debra.”
“Oh good,” Wendy sighed, “you know.”

“Where are you?”

“At the spa downtown. Gary got me in today.”

“Gary?”

“That’s his name!” Debra piped up.

“Yes, my boyfriend that Debra thinks is some kind of spy or some-”

“Wendy!!”

“What?”

“Shut up and let me talk.”

“Sheeeeeeshh. Always so secretive with you.”

“Can we meet right now?”

“Well, I still have my pedicure and a mud -”

“Can we meet?”

Wendy sighed. “Is it that important?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Wendy paused and felt like hanging up the phone. “Where?”

“I’ll text you.”

“What?” Wendy replied in an agitated tone. “Why not just tell me right-”

Sandra hung up the phone and started to type her message.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Debra asked.

“You think that Wendy’s phone is safe?”

“Bugged?”

“Maybe,” Sandra said and sent her text to Wendy. “Can you drive?”

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“Gary’s place.”

“You said it was dangerous.”

“And you said he is out of town. If my guess is right, we can avert a major catastrophe in one short trip.”

“But I took photos of everything.”

“Everything? Did you get pictures of what is in the pantry? What is in the fridge? What he is reading? What is on his computer?”

“No.”

“Then we,” she stopped as her phone buzzed and the reply from Wendy popped up on her screen. “She’ll be there in ten minutes. How far is it from here.”

“Twenty minutes.”
“Let’s move.” Sandra dropped the necessary money and tip on the table and followed Debra to her car.

“Is this place always so dark?” Sandra asked as they walked into the apartment.

“Well, I think he has a service that comes through here and closes things up,” Wendy answered.

“Where’s the cat?” Sandra inquired looking around after not smelling any kitty litter or any other cat like scent.

“Hmmmm...” Wendy mused. “He came and greeted me at the door yesterday when I came to feed him.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday.”

“What time?”

“Last night after work. Maybe around nine.”

“Where’s the identity information?” Sandra said with a twitch in her voice. Something was amiss, and she was not ready to admit to her hubris just yet.

“It’s in here,” Wendy beckoned towards the back of the apartment.

“Can we turn on a light, maybe?” Debra asked, “It’s spooky in here.”

“Sure,” Wendy replied and reached for a switch and flipped it. “Odd?”

“What?” Sandra asked.

“Not working.”

“Maybe I can help,” a deep voice came from the bedroom.

“GARY!” Wendy squealed. “Where’s Mr. Whiskers?”

“It is too late for that, my Wendy.”

Gary walked into the room and looked them all over. He looked at Sandra and after a moment he nodded.

“I understand. You think me a terrorist.”

“I? What?” stammered Sandra.

“It is humorous. Quite humorous.”

“What do you mean?” Wendy said.

“It is a shame, my lovely Wendy, but,” he gestured behind him and two other figures appeared from the bedroom.

“Who are they?” Wendy asked looking at the two people that walked in with quiet solemn faces that merely stared at Wendy and her friends.

“They are my children.”

“Children?” Wendy asked.

“Merely using poetic license, my love, for those that I have created.”
“What the hell is all of this?” Sandra shouted.

“It is dinner time, my dear. My children are very hungry and must feed. I must say that your timing is unfortunate, but quite impeccable.”

Dial 976 for an Afternoon Delight

2011-12-02T21:01:00.001-05:00

I try not to be too calloused and insensitive, but this struck me as too funny. What you see looks like a normal vending machine. Right? The snacks have associated numbers that are punched in after dumping in loose change or crumpled dollars into the system. The option of some inappropriate sweet and salty snack to help to get the blood flowing in either the morning or afternoon is chosen and the snack plummets to the bottom reception area. If our malnutritious delight gets stuck, we become neanderthals and shake the machine that would make the snack vendor scream at you with the disdain you would show towards someone shaking a baby.

Now that we have that covered, and we all agree the function and use of these delivery systems, I want you to gaze more closely at the number pad. Yes, I know the picture is a little fuzzy, it is a phone camera after all, it not a Rolleicord or anything that is remotely better than a Polaroid.

As a side note, the latest trend is that the cell phone camera has become the Polaroid of the 21st Century. Long ago, people took all their naughty pictures with Polaroid cameras and then attempted to hide their work in sock drawers or in shoe boxes under the bed. I remember a classmate in eighth or ninth grade bringing in pictures of his stepmother all bedecked in some silky undergarments long before we learned about the secret that Victoria was keeping. The point is that the cell phone camera has become the new Polaroid. There is no PhotoMat involved or someone at the CVS counter handing you your packages of pictures with the little smirk on their face. But now, you have the freedom to take all your naughty pictures on the same device you talk to your family on.

Anyway, back to my blurry picture. Take a closer look at the numbers on the pad. Maybe you can see the small markings, and maybe you cannot. The numbers have Braille on them.

Can someone please explain this to me?

A Pirate Writes at Forty

2011-12-01T20:34:00.001-05:00

A year ago I completed my first NaNoWriMo by writing 50,000 words in one month. It may only be 1,667 words per day, but when you fall behind, it becomes more an more of a challenge. It was a great experience and the novel that has been kicked around and marinating for the past seventeen to eighteen years was finally coming to fruition. And then life happens again.

I have plenty of ideas for blog posts, and then promptly forget to write them down. I have great ideas for the novel that will help me get to that finish line, and I forget to write those down as well. Granted, some of the times that the ideas hit are in the shower, and if I start leaving a marker in there to write on the walls I am going to send mix messages to my children about graffiti and profanity.

However, since the big four 'oh my hair' is approaching in eleven days (and yes, this blog goes to eleven), I have decided that I needed to have something profound waiting for me in the next age bracket. JT had his ukulele with his JT Ukes at 40 bit, and he really is great on that thing. Here is his site: http://nightgig.com/jt/ I think highly of him and the tenacity he had with his podcast. For the longest time he kept going and going, and it was very admirable the lengths he went through to post and record it. So, I tip my hat to a good friend.

Therefore, I needed my own bit. Not that I am trying to steal anyone's thunder. Sure, I could break out the pan flute, or become some insane adventurer that wrestles with gators, crosses deserts with only a case of beer, or does some dangerously sexy planking with rabid badgers. But, to paraphrase an overused cliche, I am too old for that shit! All I have left are the words on this page and many others that look like them lying around my house, my car, my place of work and sometimes crusted on the dance floor at the strip club down the street. I can find a way to string them together and attempt to entertain.

And there you have it: Cory Writes at Forty. I might change the blog name to reflect the change, since I currently have no name up there. What can you expect? No clue. Will it be good? Maybe. Will it be fun? Certainly. Will it offend? God, I hope so!!!

Cheers

Occupational Relocation

2011-11-17T22:55:00.000-05:00

I struggle with the occupation.

I am moved by the effort and outpouring of people that have participated and made their grievances (our grievances) heard. I am inspired by the tireless efforts of those that continue to stand their ground for what they believe. And I am touched by the passive and non-violent nature of this battle. This movement, this cause, this effort is best depicted as the one protester standing before the tank in Tienanmen Square.

And that inspirational illustration is where my struggle begins.

The ninety-nine percent of America is huge: it is boundless and it has a spirit that is often fragmented but never, ever broken. We collectively bear our Constitution proudly into the air, and even if we quarrel about the verbiage within, that scroll of parchment allows us to openly debate and air our opinions, and our grievances. It is a beauty that is beholden around the world and it is our duty to respect and protect its intent.

My issue is that the machine that is the one percent will persevere the occupation no matter how long it continues.

And yes, I say machine because Corporate America is thoughtless and void of emotion. It is not a human and yet it is a psychopath. As per Wikipedia, "psychopathy is a mental disorder characterized primarily by a lack of empathy and remorse, shallow emotions, egocentricity, and deceptiveness." A corporation is only going to do what it can to maintain its own well being, despite the lengths it goes through to achieve that.

A non-violent occupation does not faze Corporate America. The protests certainly inconvenience and annoy the automaton that continues to grind the ninety-nine percent down, but it has the resources and the stamina to outlast. The machine will continue to operate no matter what is done on the streets below.

Moreover, the machine has a tremendous influence with the media. With the precision of an assassin, they seek out the stories of the those that are freeloading in the protests, those that are littering, those that are defecating on the sidewalks, and those that are just there for a good time without a base understanding of why the others are there. Those are the stories that are glorified in the media. Those are the attacks that cripple the occupation. I agree they are small in comparison to those that are there for all the right reasons with all their heart and soul, but it is a battle the machine will win. As the occupation goes on, the public starts to waiver and to, unfortunately, lose interest.

In the interim, the machine will continue to show the people that have left their schools or their jobs as irresponsible drifters. I say take what has been learned and bring that passion home.

The message has been delivered. Even for those that do not "get it" or oppose it, got the message. So, now what?

Take the occupation home.
Take the occupation into the neighborhoods.
Take the occupation into the workplace.
Take the occupation back to school.
Take the occupation into the communities.

Share with family, neighbors, friends, coworkers and anyone else what it was like to be a part of the occupation. Explain what it really and truly meant.

And then go after the machine again.

Become active in local politics. I do not mean run for an office, but when there are town halls and opportunities to meet your representatives, grill them with questions. Make sure that their interests are those of the constituents within the community. Do not judge them by the letter that proceeds their name, be it (D) or (R), but make it clear that every vote has a value and that the voters are more active. Make it perfectly clear that their action or inaction in office will be duly noted, published and massively shared.

Discover where your current representatives interests reside. Do they support large corporations? Are they doing anything for the community? Or are they sitting in the capitol city or in Washington collecting a paycheck. Make them accountable.

Think of the second phase of the occupation as an educational process. And when speaking to someone else and a debate ensues, what comes out is no longer ignorant or self- appointed opinions: it is real data and facts that persuade better than "because I think so." The great thing here is that social media and the Internet make it easier to disseminate and share the data. Use the machine's own tools against itself.

Then and only then does the leverage begin to shift. It begins with the removal of the political powers that are supporting the machine. Then, as the cogs of government are replaced with true representatives of the people, the machine will slowly lose its footing.

I love that the occupation is non-violent and passive. But, now it is time to make it non-violent and active. Make it more intelligent. Standing in groups around the country and around the world sends a message; working together as a collective force sends a virus into the core of the machine.

Civic Duty to the Media

2011-10-26T22:44:00.000-04:00

I read a quick blurb this week that they are releasing the names of the jurors in the Casey Anthony trial. There was something of a 'public request' for the names, which just irritates me.

I have to wonder why? Has the media run so dry on current events that it is time to bring back this summer's biggest spectacle? Are they looking to release Casey Anthony on Trial, Part II: Twelve Useless Jurors. All I heard when that case ended (author's note: the only parts I saw of the case are what showed up on the evening news, and even those I often ignored) was how horrible those jurors were.

"How dare those twelve people let that woman walk free," people shouted to the television cameras hoisting their pitchforks and torches. "It was so obvious that she did it," they lamented on and on, "any fool could see that."

Well folks, we have something called due process. Not only that, Casey Anthony's lawyer was able to introduce reasonable doubt. I do not have an opinion on her innocence or guilt and I had the same aloofness for OJ back in the 90s. All I see is a public circus and at that point, all parties are guilty of showboating and trying to promote themselves. Hold onto that showboating thought.

My question still stands. Why? Already the jurors have been sought by the media to get their stories. To date, most them are not answering their doors or taking any calls - either they do not want the harassment, or are holding out for a book deal. My issue is that they should be left alone and left anonymous to the world. These people did not voluntarily sign up to be jurors. Certainly if there was a sign up sheet to be a juror on a high visibility case, everyone would want to grab their fifteen minutes of fame. However, that is not the case here. These people were performing their civic duty: which I also believe should make them ineligible for book deals and getting paid on the talk show circuits.

Moreover, the lawyers for the prosecution should not try to capitalize on the case either. And therein lies the true culprits of the case for those with their pitchforks and torches. Say what you will about the verdict and the jurors decision in the case, but the onus of the loss lies with the prosecution.

I fully believe that the prosecutors had their eyes on the prize after the trial. Their names were in the news, they were on television every day, and after their slam dunk win, it would be easy to pursue a political career. Remember the showboating comment, well dig it out of your pocket now. My theory is that the showboating that the prosecutors did was all for their own political gain. They focused so much on what they were going to do after the trial, that the defense attorney was able to present enough reasonable doubt to sway a jury. Is that the fault of a jury? Certainly not.

This is the kind of action that will turn people away from doing Jury Duty. They are setting a poor precedent with this case (maintaining our Flori-DUH! status) to allow potential jurors to justifiably deny being on a high profile case because of potential future harassment. And anyone that is begging to get on the case should not even be considered.

In conclusion, readers of my blathering, the prosecution is suffering from sour grapes. They have had to return all the bunting, bumper stickers, buttons and have some web guy cancel working on their snazzy homepage with the Casey Anthony conviction listed under their 'accomplishments' section. They want the public to hate those nasty jurors for ruining their future.

As I like to say, give credit where credit is due. So, for those out there wondering around with your pitchforks and torches, look up Linda Drane Burdick, Frank George and Jeff Ashton. Ashton, ironically enough, retired just after he lost this case. It appears that Plan A fell through. The other two have not had much news on them since the trial.

It would appear that the prosecution is resting below the radar after their loss.

The very least they could do is offer the same respect to the jurors that had to deal with their showboating.

And no... we are not entitled to know the names of the jurors.

The Commute

2011-10-11T21:52:00.003-04:00

The simplest of things make me happy. I get giddy when people remember to pull over for ambulances and stop for school buses? Why? You might ask.. because these occurrences are becoming endangered species. I constantly watch the "OH MY GOD I AM IN A HURRY" drivers change lanes in intersections and lay on their horn when the person in front of them has more than a car length between them and the next stopped car in front of them whilst sitting still in traffic.

The sad thing is, I see these drivers so often on the same commute every day that I have given them little pet names.

"I am always running late" Selma, is the woman in the Black, Ford Mustang that while sitting at stop lights, chain smokes and constantly looks at her watch. At some point I would have thought that Marge would leave her house sooner than usual.

Then there is "my truck is really big cause my penis ain't" Dale Junior. And, I only call him Dale Junior because he has numerous bumper stickers all over his truck of the NASCAR driver that bears the number of 88. The Confederate Flag across the back window, the silhouette of the gun rack glistening off the morning sun through the flag, and the steel pair of balls dangling from the trailer hitch simply overstate the stereotype. I do not know what his stoplight habits are from my vantage point, and I admit that I am afraid to make eye contact in case he suddenly thinks I have a cute mouth. You see: stereotype. I went there.

The next morning cast member is "I have to be constantly social" Sandra, squashed into her lime green GEO Metro. As fascinated as I am that she is constantly clicking away on her phone at speeds court reporters would be awe of, I am more in awe of her size in proportion to the vehicle. She's not small. And, I do not mean she is merely overweight or slightly obese, I just see a small steering wheel surfacing from a mass of flesh around it. I wonder if she has a boyfriend or husband that uses a large shoehorn to get her into the car in the morning. Do not get me wrong, this is not a judgment call about her weight at all, it is just the physics that astound me. I often can see the car in distances well ahead of me or in my rear view by its obvious list to port and know it is Sandra.

Finally, and one of my personal favorites, is "Piss Off Angry" Dave in his Blue Nissan Altima - that I have since called the Altimidator. He has a cigarette hanging from his mouth, with a long ash stretched at the end, both hands fiercely gripped on the wheel and always looking straight ahead with a scowl. If people do not move when that light turns green, he lays on that horn and shouts colorful obscenities. The way he nudges closer to people's cars makes you think that he can mentally will them into driving pell mell into the person in front of them. He also has the windows rolled up tight, but you can clearly see his shouting through the smoky haze. The real magic of Dave is that the cigarette somehow stays attached to his bottom lip as he shouts.

I cannot make this shit up if I tried!

Who are the people in your neighborhood???

Disquieting Greetings from west of the Mississippi

2011-10-10T21:56:00.001-04:00

The hardest thing in the world for me is to keep my mouth shut. As I type these words I can imagine a gaggle of people roughly twenty hours away from my current location awaiting some Google alert to pop up in their email that I slipped. The image I conjure up is that of Wyle E. Coyote reading a Road Runner Cookbook and salivating all over himself.

You see, I signed my own gag order. It is rather reminiscent of the line from Bachelor Party: "I just bet my balls, and shook on it!" The money was right, and it is not like I have to be tacit for very long. Besides, as you read this the wheels are in motion, the changes are in full force and horrific predictions are coming to fruition.

Very recently, I finally understood why my department had to go first: because we would be able to see what was happening. For fun, let us say we have a debit column. We remove numbers from the debit column under some guise or nonsensical reason: it still makes people grumble, but the truth is dangerous because of the politics involved. And folks, we are not talking corporate politics: we are talking the big political shindig that is starting to vamp up and will soon begin to smother your television viewing. So we take numbers from the debit column and then the numbers magically reappear in the credit column. Thus, if my department was still there, we would see these balances and question the corporate ruse.

Can you hear the panting?? Somewhere in the farthest reaches of the continental US, someone is sitting at their laptop wondering how these very words could be used against me. Keep in mind, I have not mentioned any names, given any specific details or made any real statements.

This is merely confirmation that I might let the hounds loose in few more months! Or I might not.

Ambiguity is so much fun!

Tips for Consultants

2010-07-30T19:44:00.000-04:00

From the IT Department

"It's the dumpster for you!"

Dearest Consultants to Corporate America,

If you would like to not be bludgeoned by and tossed into the dumpster by the IT department of the company you wish to milk money from, there are few things you should know.

1) Try not to be a demanding prick. We get it that an executive has brought in to either assist with some double secret probation type project or possibly to launder money through you, but even the kids know when user their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’. You should really try it.

2) The IT department is not here to fix your laptop (note: if you are showing up without any kind of computer and need technical assistance, we will just arbitrarily beat you senseless and toss you in the dumpster). Do not think that you are going to come into our company, milk some executives with your technological buzzwords like “cloud computing, disk de-duplication, WAN Optimization or Fazaccki Card Enhancements” and be able to get some free technical support as well.

3) If you get a virus, spread a virus, get any kind of malware or spyware or introduce the common cold to anyone in our department, we will arbitrarily beat you senseless and toss you in the dumpster. Have yourself well protected. Look up AVG, they are free, you cheap bastard!

4) Do know that we are not going to give you an email address inside our corporate network just to make it easier for you to communicate with people in our company. If you really want an email address, go on over to Human Resources and fill out an application.

5) In reference to #4, if are going to communicate with people in our company, make sure you have a legitimate email account. That means do not give out your personal email address (yahoo, hotmail, google, or aol). It only proves that you are too cheap to spend $10 - $20 on a domain, and it further proves that you are milking our company with your buzzwords or assisting some executive to embezzle money. Additionally, your emails will consistently be caught in spam filters and your attachments quarantined since you are coming from personal address and not a business address. And no, we are not going to allow all email from hotmail to come through and if you lean on the executives to make us do it, we will arbitrarily beat you senseless and toss you in the dumpster.

6) Need a printer? Either bring a portable one with you, or do not bitch and moan about the HP DeskJet 500 we have provided for you! We did rig the parallel port to a USB for you. But, if you want to be that way, we will smack you around with the HP DeskJet 500 and then toss you in the dumpster. We will, however, save the DeskJet for the next buffoon and charge you for the damages.

The moral of the story is that you show some respect, some decorum and some professionalism when dealing with the local IT personnel.

Otherwise... well, by now I hope you know what we will do. That is just how we are.

Misconceptions of the IT Department

2010-07-29T08:58:00.003-04:00

There seems to be a few misunderstandings regarding the capabilities of the IT department.

First, let it be known, that we do not have the power of ESP (extrasensory perception) and we cannot foresee your immediate needs or know when you are hiring new employees. Believe us on this point, for if we had that capability, we would be picking Lotto numbers and your concerns would be the problem of someone else.

Second, we do not have brand new equipment stored in a secret room or under the floor in the server room. Moreover, we do not have the Star Trek Replicator technology that could produce any new equipment within minutes for your urgent needs. Odds are that we could produce a brand new system from an orifice faster than we can from a manufacturer when working on last minute time tables.

Third, we are not friends with people outside of our department. Numerous times we are asked about assistance with personal equipment, personal networks, and some advice as to what someone should buy for their kids that have suddenly discovered YouTube and Facebook. Folks, you need to understand that the Internet is there for all your research needs, and the Geek Squad is there for your personal technical needs. Agreed, the Geek Squad does suck, and you will soon learn why they do not work on corporate networks, but you cannot get around not paying them. Furthermore, when you speak with us, please just let us know what is wrong with your system and not was is wrong with the rest of your life. We really do not care. Save that rhetoric for your therapist.

Last, everyone outside of the IT department is a user: and in our eyes, all are equal and expected to use the help desk. Many have tried to throw their title around and drop the names of executives that are expecting something from you, but it has always been in vain. IT personnel everywhere have been threatened for so many years by management and have had the same whiners call our senior management to complain. It has taken long enough, but the complaints and lamentations have reached the apex known as the "Little Boy Who Cried Wolf" status, and the words of dissatisfaction fall irrelevantly to the floor.

Bottom line, failure to communicate to IT through the proper channels and protocols will null and void any last minute needs and emergencies. And one last thing - a little IT secret here - if anyone ever stipulates that something is needed ASAP, there will be an additional amount of wait time assessed before that issue is addressed.

Very Interesting

2008-10-17T17:13:00.004-04:00

Take a look at this... this is something I threw together with some information I found online. According to this, our average cost of gas right now (oil closed at $72 today), we should be paying a little over $3 per gallon at the pump. Algebraically, it comes out closer to $2.80 a gallon.

Column 1 is the Date
Column 2 is the Average Cost per gallon
Column 3 is the Average Cost per barrel of oil

1982	$1.35	$31.55
1983	$1.34	$29.00
1984	$1.26	$27.50
1985	$1.24	$26.50
1986	$0.95	$14.64
1987	$1.05	$17.50
1988	$1.03	$14.87
1989	$1.09	$18.33
1990	$1.28	$23.19
1991	$1.23	$20.19
1992	$1.23	$19.25
1993	$1.22	$16.74
1994	$1.25	$15.66
1995	$1.32	$16.75
1996	$1.38	$20.46
1997	$1.35	$18.97
1998	$1.20	$11.91
1999	$1.33	$16.55
2000	$1.64	$27.40
2001	$1.56	$23.00
2002	$1.56	$22.81
2003	$1.70	$27.69
2004	$1.94	$37.41
2005	$2.49	$50.04
2006	$2.74	$58.30
2007	$2.99	$64.20
Jan-08	$3.21	$84.70
Feb-08	$3.28	$86.64
Mar-08	$3.55	$96.87
Apr-08	$3.73	$104.31
May-08	$4.05	$117.40
Jun-08	$4.25	$126.33
Jul-08	$4.40	$126.16
Aug-08	$3.91	$108.46

Caution: Explicit Materials

2005-11-30T12:23:00.001-05:00

And this, ladies and gentlemen is why you should never let your developers touch a production server. (Click on the picture for clearer details - and I did try to warn you with the title of my blog entry.)

It all starts as something innocuous as a developer approaching you with the following: "Hey, we need to do an update of the PHP code with the frag modified parameters to accentuate the baseline code that has a flaw on line 4509 that has a conflict with line 5326. We just need to get onto the server and correct this problem. Which, it really is not a problem, per se, we do not have problems, just little glitches. This is more like aesthetic maintenance to enhance the web experience for our clients."

The response, as usual, is for them to get a life and to document their changes - my apologies - their enhancements. In all fairness, the market for the word "enhancements" is something that plastic surgeons of the world own: and the word "penile" (there is a dispute with Pfizer and Eli Lilly over the use of the word "penile" with the plastic surgeons, but they settled out of court and allowed the two corporations to use the phrase "enhanced erectile performance" since it has a potential to get into the NASCAR market).

Needless to say, for those of us that work with arrogant developers that have serious god complexes (can you say omnipotence?? - unfortunately, developers cannot - polysyllabic words confuse them, as do complex sentences - read some code, you will understand), we have to yield to allow these holier-than-thou characters into the production servers more often than we really care to admit. And then there are those servers that they always have access to and swear that they are never making any undocumented or any un-appproved changes. (I think this further proves why they cannot get chicks - they are natural liars - and they are not good at it, either.)

The above picture depicts such a server that was made way too public thanks to our comrades over in the development department. And when I say public, I want you to think about the public toilets after a very large sporting event. For those of you technical folks, they cranked up FTP and pointed it to a directory where our clients could dump data. Sounds innocuous. But, what they did not do was secure it. Oh no, not at all. They allowed anonymous access and allowed everyone read and write permissions. This loosely translates to opening one large hole into your network and putting out large neon signs and a lot of colorful bunting to enhance the whole web experience.

The result: we were extremely violated and used for peer file sharing. And, as you can clearly see, we were now hosting porn and there was even a DVD rip of the new Batman movie. And, did I mention, that most of it is foreign porn - as if the plethora of American porn with all of our lousy scripts were not enough for us, we have to seek subtitled porn. I do actually wonder if anyone would actually read the subtitles. I think I would if the scene became repetitive and was focused on just one continuous motion. I think it would be kind of cool to be able to say, "Oh baby, oh please, right there, just like that, oh please, oh yeah!" in three or four different languages. It shows versatility. It shows panache.

But I have not shared the best part of all of this (and no I have not watched any of the foreign art films... yet). One of our developers was unmistakenly quoted as saying the following: "It must have a been a virus that did all of this."

I will give you a few moments to read that again and really think about that.

A virus that copies porn - sorry, foreign porn - to your system.

If that were true, I can name about six people I personally know that would love to contract that virus (two of which are related to me).

The moral: Do not let your developers touch your production servers; support and watch our own American porn; and, whatever you do, do not ask me about the ass drippers video: even I am afraid to know what that is.