Going Hyperbolistic!

There is a war on the English language!

Just one attack herein lies:

"The setup is almost as identical as last week, maybe a touch farther south."

From this is a weatherperson at reliable source of a news. It driving me as crazy.

(I'm tired of poor writing from professionals, but I'm really fed up with everything being a "war on" something-- Christmas, women, etc. It's ok to disagree; it doesn't mean there's a war on! As a protest, don't be surprised to my see calling things every a war.)

I am declaring war on hyperbolic wars. Not on hyperbaric wars. At least not intentionally. Unless they are also hyperbolic wars.

Caterpillars From Hell

When I was a kid, we had two kinds of caterpillars:

1. really cute ones, some of which were fuzzy, that crawled on the ground or trees and you picked up and played with; you just knew they turned into the coolest butterflies, and
2. not so cute or pretty ones that apparently had mated with spiders and left evil webs everywhere. These clearly turned into vampire moths.

Now we have many more types:

3. fuzzy ones that burn you;
4. fuzzier ones that sting like a wasp and cause allergic reactions that can hospitalize you;
5. even fuzzier ones that will gouge your eyes out;
6. caterpillars so fuzzy and evil they cause zombies to run away screaming, ignoring brains as they flee.

Where did these all come from? Terrorists? The same people who brought you chem trails? Failed Monsanto GMOs? Alien invasion? Whatever the origins, where the heck are the Avengers?

Meanwhile, do not touch anything that even vaguely resembles a caterpillar. Annihilate it with as much force as you can muster. If you happen to take out a tree, a car, a home, or a neighborhood, well, superheroes have collateral damage, too. At least you helped save the planet... even if you destroyed it in the process.

SpaceX Splashdown - So What?

You probably have no idea how happy I am to hear of the SpaceX successes. I started thinking about this after the safe return of a Dragon capsule from the 4th successful SpaceX ISS trip.

I grew up in the space age. Some of my favorite childhood memories involved being glued to a radio or TV, counting down toward zero. "We have ignition... We have liftoff! We have liftoff! All systems still go!" There was an excitement in the voices from Mission Control you now mainly hear when the underdog wins the World Series or Superbowl. It was a Big Deal. And every kid with the least bit of interest in space, especially those of us who through science fiction the best breakfast food around, knew we would get there. We couldn't wait.

Some of my favorite memories of childhood involve Dad getting me up in the middle of the night to watch a liftoff, or a splashdown. He loved them, and he know how much I loved them. One of the first model kits I recall building (with hep from Dad as it wasn't simple) was a helicopter lifting a Mercury capsule out of the water. It came complete with a little John Glenn. It was my pride and joy.

I was too young to even take note of Sputnik, but the collective national US memory and resultant fear was a palpable thing through my early childhood. This carried on throughout much of the 1960s as we seemed always to be playing catch up with the Soviets, who were first with a satellite, first with an animal in space, first with a man in space, first to orbit the Earth, first with a woman in space... But we beat them to the Moon. It was 1969. Vietnam. Hippies. Chicago. Not a comfortable year but... we landed on the Moon!

But after a few more trips to Luna, we just kind of gave up. We had been so focused on the Moon we had no plan for beyond. With everything else going on, there was no energy for one, and no will to develop one- much less spend the money. Oh, we messed around almost pointlessly a few years, but that was it.

I'd known from four or five years old that I would go to space and visit the Moon, if not live there a while. I was determined to get at least to Mars, and hopefully the stars. There was really no limit. But by the mid 1970s, such dreams were nearly dead. It was easier to get lost into science fiction and fantasy; it was clear we weren't going anywhere.

I kept hearing rumors about a space shuttle program. But by then I refused to hope. I managed to ignore the takeoff and first mission, but found myself glued to a TV with my wife, Nick Pomponio, and other friends when it came time for the shuttle landing. For them, it was just cool. But I felt a breeze fanning flames of hope from what I'd thought were dead coals. The fire was rekindled.

But we still had no real direction and little national will to do much with space technology. Eventually we let the Russians and anyone else who wanted it have whatever glory was left. Sure, we flew to the ISS and back, left some people there, did some experiments. But that was it. It was science, and space flight, but hardly space exploration or bringing space flight to the masses. I gave up again.

And then...

And then SpaceX. Thank God for Elon Musk. To quote Wikipedia,

"Historic achievements by SpaceX, among others, include the first privately funded, liquid-fueled rocket (Falcon 1) to reach orbit (28 September 2008); the first privately funded company to successfully launch (by Falcon 9), orbit and recover a spacecraft (Dragon) (9 December 2010); the first private company to send a spacecraft (Dragon) to the International Space Station (25 May 2012); and the first private company to send a satellite into geosynchronous orbit (3 December 2013)."

So what's SpaceX's current big goal? According to Forbes, via Wikipedia,

"SpaceX Chief Executive Officer Musk stated in June 2013 that he intends to hold off any potential IPO of SpaceX shares on the stock market until after the "Mars Colonial Transporter is flying regularly."

I may get to go home yet.

Three Rounds of Golf

Growing up I was never very into golf. I could watch a few minute son TV, but that was it. I loved the golf bag, the clubs, the balls, the tees. I loved whacking golf balls around the yard. Putt Putt wormed its way into my heart pretty quickly. Golf? Not so much.

This became a real handicap (oops) after we moved to Augusta, the home of the Masters Golf Tournament. I doubt anyone takes golf more seriously than those involved with the Augusta National. Not caring about golf just re-enforced my permanent status as Freak of the Week.

My real introduction to golf came when one of my best friends- John Steiner- insisted I come play a round of golf with him at the local V.A> course. Since his Dad was a colonel (possibly retired, I can't recall) John felt it was OK to go. He then decided we should play just the back nine to avoid having to explain our legitimacy. Yes, we were the quintessential ninth graders.

John knew he'd never be a golf pro, but it was still one of his passions, and he pursued it. (He did get to caddie at the Masters a couple of years later, which meant he got to play the course the day after the tournament. He was content to die after that.) John was sure he would have me playing and loving golf in no time. To his credit, my score for the back nine was in the high 30s.

Sort of.

Technically we only played four holes and change. By them I had lost all the balls he had brought and the few we had found looking for some of those. I think he lost one and I lost the rest of two dozen or so. He'd at least been smart enough to bring only the older balls he had scavenged from the rough and water hazards. John was thoroughly embarrassed by my playing. Not only did he never invite me to play golf again; he never even mentioned that day other than once asking that I never mention it.

That was the day I moved from ambivalence toward golf to loathing.

 

Fast forward three decades. My manager at Vignette, Robin Wilson, decided we needed a team bonding event. He and a couple of his trusted lieutenants decided on golf. Most of the fifteen or so team members had never played. "Don't worry, we'll play best ball." This failed to reassure most of us; I assumed it meant I would lose more expensive balls than before. But no, Best Ball means that everyone on a team takes their best shot, and the whole team moves their balls to the best position where any team member's ball lies. The team's score is the best score possible out of all the balls they hit.

They chose teams of four, but Robin, Charles, and I ended up with a team of three. "This is strictly for fun, guys. No competition." And most of the team managed to go with that. But one guy was super competitive. We'll call him Fred. Fred ended up on a team of two mediocre players and Anne, possibly the only person on the course that day who was worse at golf than me. My absolute favorite memory is of her teeing off as hard as she could, and spinning around three times as a result. Fred was standing about ten feet behind her. He threw his hands up and was obviously pouring out lamentations to the sky.

Apparently Fred had insisted on a bet with Robin. Fred lost that bet rather handily, even despite Anne's hole in one later on. Fred was rattled and his game was off. Meanwhile, I had a couple of best balls, including one that got us an eagle. I moved from loathing to admitting that golf could actually be fun. Maybe once every three decades.

 

It's been nowhere near three decades, but I can see myself playing a third round of golf soon if they will allow me a few rule changes.

1. Forget clubs; the balls will be fired from high powered air cannons.
2. No scopes on the cannons; rifle sights will have to suffice.
3. The air cannons will be mounted on high speed golf carts, a la WWII jeeps with machine guns on the back (anyone remember The Rat Patrol?)
4. Balls can only be fired while the carts are moving.
5. The goal is to strike an opponent with a ball. A hit is a point. A knockdown is three points.
6. All players, caddies/drivers, and officials on the course must wear motocross armor.
7. Accidental hits on officials do not get points. Intentional hits get points just as for hitting another player but play stops while the officials throw the offending golfer into the nearest water hazard.
8. Water hazards may contain leeches and other vermin.
9. Stationary decoys are allowed. Hitting a decoy is a point for the player who placed the decoy.

This would make me one of golf's biggest proponents. I would even buy loud clothes to wear over the armor. I would even consider endorsing sponsors. Titleist? Perhaps. Winchester, Ruger, Remington, or Barrett? You know it.

Armadillo Job Reference

A friend asked me if she could use me as a reference for a job. I said, "Of course!"

She noted that she wanted someone who wasn't afraid to say she was a little weird (it's a very Austin employer). Here's what I came up with in case they contact me.

"We met at a Young Republicans convention trying to get Dick Nixon back for a third term. We hit it off immediately. The last few years I have only seen her at PTA meetings and PETA meetings. In both cases she was fighting for abstinence, either for kids or for animals. She had to go underground a month ago when PETA's Bunny Rabbit Procreation Expansion Drive showed up at her door with little rabbit pitchforks and torches in their little rabbit paws."