The Politics of Fear

I've lived through quite a few election cycles now. I cannot recall a cycle in my lifetime that was as fearful as this one.

Many on the left are so terrified of Donald Trump that they will overlook and rationalize anything Hillary Clinton says.

Many on the right are so terrified of Hillary Clinton that they will overlook and rationalize anything Donald Trump says.

And many of them do so on a regular basis.

Both sides freak out at the idea anyone would vote third party. "A vote for [third party] is a vote for {Trump,Clinton}" (insert whichever one they are afraid of). And each side is utterly convinced. (Apparently if I vote third party they will both end up in office. That actually sounds like a deal to me, as they'd be too busy fighting to do much else.)

People are losing friends over this. Almost every day I see someone threaten to unfriend anyone who will vote for {Clinton,Trump}. Or see that they have done so. There's a lot of bad "theology" in Star Wars, but sometimes Yoda is right:

"Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

It's not guaranteed, but it often happens, and I see it running amok in the USA.

I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to be angry at any of you. I refuse to hate. I refuse to inflict suffering.

Whether you believe in the God of the Bible or not, I urge you to consider the following:

"There is no fear in love. Perfect love chases away fear." (my translation)

Choose to love those around you. Listen to what they are really saying. Talk with them instead of at them. Hold them. Hug them. Walk with them.

Fear will ultimately destroy you. It will steamroll everything and everyone you care about, if you feed it. Love will free you, and offer freedom to everyone around you. Which one sounds like the better deal?

I don't want Ms Clinton or Mr Trump as president. But I'm not going to unfriend anyone over their vote for either.

Don't Be That Guy

I just got back from coffee with a friend. She is the third young woman during the past week to say something that translates to "guys are jerks". None of them actually put it that way. None of them were being judgmental. They're simply fed up with guys treating them as something other than equals- whether as lesser people, objects, servants, fools, toys, diversions, or whatever.

I know that had I pressed them they would have agreed it's #notallmen . After all, they were entrusting their feelings to a guy. But the fact remains that a lot of the guys they interact with (in at least one case, a huge majority) treat them poorly. A common theme is that they don't feel it's safe to accept anything- even a frappuccino- from most men because they have learned there's a good chance that those men will expect sex.

Seriously? Guys, if you think she's just a cheap whore, what does that say about your sense of self-worth? While I'd like to believe that most of the guys I know would never do this, I know better. That's really sad- as much for the guys as for the women.

You're all worth so much more than that. Learn to love and respect yourself. And trust me; if you treat women (or men) this way, you don't really respect and/or love yourself, even if it's so deep inside you've buried or lost sight of it.

If you knew who you really were, if you could see the beauty in whose image you (and all those people around you) were made, you'd be so much happier. You'd make other people so much happier. God's crazy in love with you! Soak in that a while; life becomes a lot more fun.

You're awesome and loved. So is she (or he). Let's treat ourselves and each other better.

Escalator to Heaven

I haven't heard it via my ears in at least a week, but it's on repeat in my head. I've known this song by heart for years. I still love it. And no, I don't think "love" is too strong a word. Nor is "rapture". If I could go back in time to just one concert that I didn't make, the Led Zeppelin 1973 Atlanta concert would probably be it. It's definitely one of the top three.
I still remember where I was the first time I heard "Stairway to Heaven". It literally stopped me in my tracks, one of a select handful of songs to do so. Eventually I returned to Earth enough to find something to sit on while the song finished. Afterward, the DJ's babble and whatever music followed seemed profane. I turned the stereo off and tried to recreate what I'd heard. I couldn't hear the song enough.
I'd been a Zep fan since the first time I heard "Immigrant Song". I almost wrecked my bicycle when that came through my transistor radio. Yeah, music had a profound effect on me. It still does. And Zep did that to me several times.
I know a lot of people don't like Stairway because "it's been played to death on the radio!" I have a better solution; I quit listening to most music radio. Oh, I wander the "dial" now and then, but 99% of music on the radio is the dregs of a tiny subset of whatever the bean counters have decided America wants. Barf.
So I still love some of my old favorites, "Stairway to Heaven" included. There are times (like tonight) when it hits me like it did the first time, stopping me in my tracks, a transcendent, spiritual experience, effortlessly transporting me to an amazing place.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, if there's a band you really want to go see in their prime, go see them. Find a way. I don't run into many people who say, "Man, I wish I had never gone to see Zook Spliffer Ganesh when 'Reefling the Sterm Acht' was my favorite new album!" But I know a lot of Reefling fans who still rue the decision not to go.

But, My Heart… by Cathleen Ferose

A friend found words that express my heart so well on this whole issue. Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, and so many others. Remember them, yes. But unless we do far more, there will be far more names to remember. Racism and hatred- especially the institutionalized sorts- have to go, and soon.

I waited, on the stairs inside my house, with my phone
With my son
For the verdict to go down
For the man who “stood his ground” and killed Trayvon Martin
He was acquitted, as you know
My son, pleaded with me why,
How could they do that?
And some weak joke about Florida justice wouldn’t cut it

This is my America
My country, tis of thee, sweet land of
Sweet land of
Sweet land of
I can’t sing

You see, my eyes might be blue,
and my hair some shade of blonde
But, my heart

When the elderly Mrs. Harn’s taught me in Sunday school class
When I was too young for school
“Jesus loves the little children, all of the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight”
My heart believed that
When my classmate Kimberly called the school janitor a nigger in first grade
I sat there, as if time stopped.
I saw his face, the tear that formed in his eye, as he turned his head away
I felt his pain.
When I turned back to my classmate
I did not look at her as the same little girl
In pretty dresses
And fixed hair
Because Kimberly didn’t see John as he picked up after us
Did chores while whistling
Or fix things around our school
She took offense at what
His creator gave him

That was taught to her

My parents
Forgot to do some things most do
They never identified a person by their race
 That I can remember.
So when I saw John, I saw him.
Oh, I knew he had that nice ebony skin,
The kind that didn’t burn, like mine,
But I saw him.
Might be the same reason that I was half way through a year of teaching my first period class
Before I noticed that whites were in the minority
There were all races sitting in my classroom
But they were my beloved students, not labels

Hashtag
Hands up, Don’t shoot
Hashtag
I can’t breathe
Hashtag
If they gunned me down
Hashtag
If I die in police custody

When I hear those words,
Those cries
The fear that my fellow citizens have
Living in the land of the ----
It becomes my fear and those cries belong to the faces of people I know

It’s the young man who is such a good friend to my son
It’s the young men that I will see dressed in suits in debate competition this weekend
My students sitting in my classroom
Those on the sports field and in the gym
It’s my friend’s nephews
That one who plays in the band at church
It’s a college student named Xavier at UT
Who is a son to me

It is not us and them It is not black and white
It is us, we, together
It is not Black History month, it is our collective history
When are we going to stop the madness?
Let us tell the truth.
We sing their songs. They are our songs
And watch them play sports on our teams
They are our neighbors, our co-workers, our friends, and perhaps family
We’ve read their books, our books
And admired their achievements in fields from science to politics
And consider that American progress

And yet
For them, their America, our America
Still isn’t a land of liberty

Until a person will be judged By the content of their character
And not the color of their skin
It. Will. Not. Be.
Martin knew what he was talking about

Sometimes I look around and think that I am in the minority
Feeling out of place
Knowing I’ll raise my voice anyways
And I will hold out my hand
My white hand
In their struggle
In our struggle to find the soul of this country
 America in 2015

You see, my eyes might be blue, And my hair some shade of blonde
But, my heart…

 

Of Football, Nuclear Physics, and Children

The US football season is almost here! Do y'all know how excited I am?

Here's a clue. Think of the distance between a proton and a neutron^[1] in a helium atom. That distance is much bigger than my excitement.

 

NOTES
[1] This assumes a simplistic view of a proton and neutron as if they were, indeed, simple physical particles with fixed, measurable surfaces.^[2] The reality, of course, is that each of these is more like a three year old's birthday party, made up of an indeterminate number of children powered by fusion reactors and exhibiting random velocity Brownian motion, sometimes moving completely through walls as if said walls were not there, and into the neighbor's yard, the middle of the street, or the swimming pool two blocks away.
[2] Yes, you may assume that I generally find science (and children) infinitely more exciting than most team sports.

R.I.P., Scourge of the Net

Years ago, when the net was very young, before there was a world wide web, there was usenet.

Out at the far end of usenet, intended as a walled off ghetto, there was a rather bizarre hangout called, fittingly, talk.bizarre, or tDOTb. The people who set it up saw it as Obi Wan saw Mos Eisley- a wretched hive of scum and villainy. We simply saw it as home. We ranged from people who fit no mold, to people who broke molds (seldom on one another's heads), to people who smelled like mold, to people who ate mold.

It was fun. It was weird. It was brilliant. It was creative. It was stupid. It was a lifeline. And sometimes it was brutal.

Most of the brutality wasn't that brutal and was aimed at stupidity. But occasionally (as can happen anywhere) someone with serious problems showed up.

One college student (let's call him Kltpzyxm^[1]) in particular stood out. Kltpzyxm came off as a troll, but over time he managed to make a lot of other trolls look good. He could be brilliant and witty, but he could also be nasty. He loved to play games; he would start acting nice to you, maybe even email you and draw you in, then stab you in the eye with an ant-covered stick.

And not just in talk.bizarre. He did this in respectable groups as well, where people innocently discussed things that mattered to them.

Kltpzyxm apparently went on to have a successful life in the real world. He married and had kids. He dropped off the radar.

He recently drowned off the coast of Hawaii.

From what I hear third hand, he was probably a good husband and dad. I hope so. I hope his family has good memories.

How do the people of tDOTb remember Kltpzyxm? (These are the short versions, not the actual quotes.)

• "Kltpzyxm tried to get me banned from the systems I posted on [over something ridiculously innocuous -ed]"
• "Kltpzyxm tried to get me fired."
• "Kltpzyxm publicly attacked my family and me on my wedding day."
• "Kltpzyxm made false accusations to my department head and nearly ruined my academic career."

(There was also the endless, day to day nastiness that grates on the nerves.)

Yes, those quotes are truly representative of how he acted. People reached out, tried to help him. He played nice til they believed he was changing. Then he whipped out the ant-covered skewer. As NJ summed it up on the Facebook tDOTb page:

"My recollection of him is as a progenitor of the Internet troll, and his legacy in that regard is well-represented on 4chan and in Gamergate. I assume, or perhaps merely hope, that his family and friends experienced some brighter side of him than he chose to present in his youth, and that their memories of him are fonder than ours."

Life isn't about leaving a legacy, but we all leave one. Hopefully there is far more to him than this, but this is the part of his legacy I know first hand (I remember when the incidents referenced above were happening).

I don't wish death on anyone, much less for a family to go through this.

I'm sad- for him and for his family. But to be honest... I don't miss him. I hope the guy I knew died a long time ago and a much nicer guy emerged as Kltpzyxm. I hope he left a much better legacy than the one the tDOTb community knows.

 

1. Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference!

Could tonight get any worse?

Some of my friends and family tend toward the dramatic. Almost three years ago one of them posted on Facebook, "Could tonight get any worse?" While I realized their pain was real, I was able to look more at the forest than the saplings.

Yes. You could wake up in a tub of ice to find that your kidneys were intact but someone had tattooed "I am da BOMB" on your belly in highly reflective paint. You would be arrested any time you tried to fly.

Yes. You could wake up in a tub of ice to find that your kidneys were intact but someone had replaced your skeletal system with cheap, imitation Silly Putty[tm] (adding insult to injury).

Yes. You could wake up in a tub of ice to find that your kidneys were intact but someone had replaced your right foot with a second left foot, making dancing awkward.

Yes. You could wake up in a tub of ice.

It could pretty much always be worse.

But it almost never is.

Made in Japan in 1972 (in Texas (Today))

I'm not usually a music critic (though I played one in college for the Georgia Tech "Technique"). I would much rather find something I like and simply listen to it and ignore what I don't like. But every once in a while circumstances lead me to listen critically. Today you are blessed or cursed (depending on your viewpoint) with the results of such a confluence of events. (I have now met my quota of big words for this blog.)

Deep Purple's Made in Japan was released in the US a year after Machine Head provided them a breakthrough hit with the much played and much maligned "Smoke on the Water". By all accounts at the time the band was appalled that this song was their biggest hit. I always attributed Blackmore's less than stellar treatment of it on Made in Japan to this. Some sources now insist that Ritchie defended the song. I just know the guitar on this live version doesn't inspire me the way the album version does, and there are places he's much sloppier than anywhere else on this record. That said, I still love this version.

There are a couple of other things that keep this from being the perfect live album. The drum solo in "The Mule" goes on way too long. Gillan's vocals are a bit off in places on "Space Trucking" but the sheer energy helps make up for that.

Speaking of "Space Trucking" it's the longest song on an album drenched in ten minute songs, clocking in at just under twenty minutes, wandering between the roots of speed metal, thrash, and ... cello? I don't know how Blackmore got the cello sound, but it's brilliant.

I do have two more complaints. They're rather modern and absurd, but here they are:

• It should be longer (it was already a fairly long, double album).
• I really wish for video (apparently there isn't any).

As usual these guys play together as a phenomenal band, not just a bunch of great musicians. There are only a handful of bands I really kick myself for not seeing back in the day. These guys are at the top of the list for me, even ahead of Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, and the Rolling Stones.

I don't know that I could pick a favorite track here. I suppose "Child in Time" and "Lazy" might have a slight edge. I do know this is one of my top ten live album picks. I can't narrow it down much more than that because I really suck at lists. It's right up there near Blue Oyster Cult's On Your Feet or On Your Knees and the Allman Brothers' Live at Fillmore East. That means it's in my top twenty album picks overall (probably still in the top ten as I tend to favor live albums).

What is/are one/some of your favorite live albums, and why?

Riffing on the Past That Wasn't There

You're at a vow renewal where your spouse knows the bride, but you know no one other than a couple of people sitting on the bride's side. Well, and your spouse. At the reception a videographer asks if you have anything you'd like to say to the bride and groom.

Your spouse, knowing the bride and being a really great person, comes up with something sweet and adds a cool blessing. It's your turn.

The obvious thing- at least if you are me- is to just be honest:

"Hey, I don't know either one of you, but that was a great wedding. Thanks for inviting us, and thanks especially for the fajitas and cake!"

On the plus side it's honest. On the minus side it comes off rather cynically.

But if you're me then your creative side takes over; you riff and create a memory. After adding a little bit of a blessing, you gaze off into the painful, invented past, and you speak:

"I think my favorite memory of you two is the time we went zip lining. I fell and broke my leg. I waited and waited for you to come help but it was three days before anyone showed up; I almost died. Then I found out you two were so in love that you suddenly had to have a second honeymoon. I couldn't fault you for that. Y'all rock."

P.S. This is all true. Welcome to my life.

Conspiracy Theory #17: Ugly Cars and Stupid Names

It has been clear for years that the bean counters in the US auto industry successfully banished all the better stylists and brought in surplus Soviet designers who had been locked away in prison because their designs were marginally less boring and ugly than what the party leaders wanted.

While the bean counters did plenty of damage elsewhere, boring cars didn't help flagging sales at all. Some of these cars made me want to claw my eyeballs out. The recent spate of muscle cars shows at least a partial reversal of this trend.

Since the early 1970s, the Mustang just got more and more boring. Someone screwed up in the early 1990s and made one that was almost cool looking, Ford sort of fumbled forward, gradually doing a better job, finally unveiling the current herd of really nice looking Mustangs. These in turn got a response from Chevy and Dodge, who brought out gorgeous Camaros, Chargers, and Challengers. The new Shelby Mustang (despite the fact that Carroll Shelby is dead) looks like it should be a thing of beauty, something car lovers might drool over.

Only time will tell whether this trend will spread throughout the industry.

In related news, who comes up with new car names? There are a lot of really bad or just silly car names out there, but the US Big Three aren't as bad as some of the other companies. The award for Worst Name of 2014 has to go to Hyundai for...

(drum roll, please!)

the IQ.

Seriously. I can only assume this is their take on the SMART Car (a dismal failure in these parts). All I can think of is Thor looking at someone trying to get him into this car.

"Your IQ. It's so... tiny."

And then Hulk accidentally stepped on it because it was so small he didn't see it.

"Look, brother!" Loki laughed. "Someone had a smaller IQ than the beast!"

Hulk stepped on Loki next but not by accident. "Puny god. Puny IQ."

Thanksgiving Letter for my Nuclear Family

I'm a family kinda guy. So every once in a while, I get all mushy and write a serious letter to my friends on the net about some sugary, Disneyesque kinda thang that happens at a family get together. This is one of those sentimental, nuclear family kinda thangs.

---

To my fiends (but not my enemas):

Just thought I'd share my Thanksgiving Day with you.

It started by me being hit by a quark just as I was getting out of bed. A large, very green, and not-too-theoretical one. No strings attached, as far as I could tell. It had to happen on a holiday, when I'm off work anyway, right?

It hit me right in the solar plexus, breaking several ribs and tearing some ligaments. So, instead of spending the day with my family, I was in the Emergency Room of the Georgia Tech Particle Physics Lab.

I was on the phone about noon with my brother Dave (# 381), who said that nearly everyone said to say hi. I should tell you we are the quintessential nuclear family. There were supposed to be 3 more people here this year than last year (235 by count), as we had 3 new additions to the family. I was the only one not making it.

As a PhD probed my chest cavity with a helium-filled sphere, and a masters-level co-ed stopped my bleeding, Dave described the scene. He said that the more people got there, the livelier things got. Everyone seemed to just glow. The place had gotten so hot with all the family there, that even with the windows open and the whole house fan on, sucking 35 degree air through, the walls were starting to discolor.

I heard a kid in the background scream, "Aunt Bertha's finally here!" Dave said, "Well, that's everyone but you..." I started to reply, when I heard Aunt Bertha's laugh drift through the phone. I could easily visualize the scene - all of them crammed in the giant basement we had finished as 1 big room just for this occasion, all my family, including surviving cousins, nephews, etc - anyone left from the old days in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Alamogordo - the Curies, the Raydons, the Pleughtohniums. The phone started to buzz, and I heard hollering and apparent pandemonium. The only phrase I could make out was Dad yelling something that sounded like "critical mass", when with a loud noise, the phone went dead.

Every light in the building went out. A couple of seconds later, the building felt like it was in an earthquake. Right after that, the sound of a terrific explosion shook us again. One of the attending EEs ran outside to look, and came running back in a moment later, describing a mushroom cloud off to the northwest. I alone knew the exact location.

Later I found out it was a small blast, taking out only 3 blocks, although a somewhat larger area still glows softly at night. I will visit there as soon as I am able, to leave some flowers, if they survive the hike in.

The co-ed with the tourniquet around my heart touched my face gently and asked, "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"Because I'll never get to taste the new pumpkin pie recipe Aunt Bertha was going to bring!", I sobbed.

I was wrong. Later, one of the profs brought me some glowing orange stuff he had found outside. It was delicious. Meanwhile, I have proposed to the co-ed (her name is Linda), and we will be married in a month.

I can hardly wait. In just a quarter of a century or so, there might be enough of us to start having these family reunions again.

Happy Thanksgiving from me & the rest of the turkeys@Roadkills-R-Us

 

Copyright 1988, 1994, 2014 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

The Flu: All Types Including The Martian Death Flu

The flu (short for "influenza", not "thing that goes from fireplace to chimney", which is a "flue") is a type of virus that manages- despite vaccines, soap, hand sanitizer, TV news, and school lunches- to kill anywhere from 3,000 to almost 50,000 people in the USA every year. So we should take this at least as seriously as, say, the VA system.

The flu comes in several grades- A, B, and C. The highest grade, A, goes to the type of flu responsible for pandemics. One of the fun facts about this flu is that it can be worse or milder than other forms. It's pretty much a ninja flu and has been known to hitch rides with birds.

Type B is not responsible for pandemics, merely epidemics. It wants to grow up and be type A. Meanwhile, it's merely a mediocre flu pandering to the teachers to get attention.

Type C is mildest of all, kind of the Peter Parker of flues, only with no radioactive spider in sight. Like the grade C in school, it's just sort of there. Nobody really pays it any attention. It just hangs out and wishes it had the guts to do something to make headlines.

BUT... there is another entire set of flues, flues so insidious they spit on grades (and the grades die painful deaths). These are all variants of the Martian Death Flu. Some of you may have first heard about this in the 1980s from noted medical scientist Dave Barry, but I assume you that those of us with Martian DNA have known about it from before Dave's great, great, great, great grandfather was a gleam in the eye of an alchemist holding a test tube.

Variants you may remember hearing about include:

• Hong Kong Flu
• Swine Flew
• Bird Flu
• Gecko Flu
• Paperweight Flu
• Eastern Diamondback Flu
• Farm-raised Tilapia Flu
• H1B1 (a.k.a., "visa flu")

As the Martian Death Flu is named for its mortality rate of approximately 103 percent, there is always a panic when the latest variant is announced. Dour faced CDC spokespersons appear just before Hall-o-ween wearing bio-hazard suits and pointing flamethrowers at CNN and FOX news crews lest they get too close, utter warnings such as, "Stay indoors. Shut off your water. Try not to breathe or eat until spring." Some people die, and we all wonder how the rest of us survived.

The deaths are generally from Type A flu. Humans (even half humans like myself) are immune to the Martian Death Flu. No one knows why, and no one cares except the Martians, only they're dead.

The good news is that we now have Tamiflu[tm]. This wonder drug has, after taking 90% of the full regimen, done almost nothing to help me, as far as I can tell. But on the other side of the coin, my doctor no longer returns my phone calls so either she assumes it's my estate calling or she is home sick with Type A flu as well.

Either way, stay safe. Take basic precautions: wear a mask (preferably a full bio-hazard suit); don't kiss anyone; don't touch smooth surfaces with your skin (again, wear the suit!). This gives you a 75% chance of survival. If you want to bump that up to 100%, simply stop eating, breathing, and drinking until spring. And keep a flamethrower handy to enforce your personal space. If they would feel the heat, they're too close.

Supreme Temptations

Thinking about some of my favorite bands over the years, a couple of early Motown groups stand out- the Supremes and the Temptations.

The Supremes helped Motown revolutionize the musical landscape, appealing to both black and white audiences. Berry Gordy intentionally feminized and glamorized the ladies; it was brilliant and they changed the face of music. They had a series of hits, mainly love songs. Like many of my friends I knew every one of those hits by heart. (Roadkill Trivia: I could sing Diana Ross's parts note for note, no matter how high, until I was 20. But overnight I lost about an octave and a half of vocal range. I was devastated but I think a couple of my friends were relieved. They thought it was unnatural.

Embedded in some of the Supremes' love songs we find social insight. I loved "Love Child" long before I realized the depths there; as I understood more I loved it more.

The Temptations had more revolutionary songs. While they had some love songs they also had brilliant social commentary ("Ball of Confusion"), songs about the human condition ("Smiling Faces", "Papa Was a Rolling Stone"), and celebrations of the times ("Psychedelic Shack"). They had some of the first songs to make use of sampling. While their radio hits were longer than some (four to six minutes), some of my favorite works are the longer album versions of the same songs; these stretched to twelve minutes or more. "Papa Was a Rolling Stone" is about as poignant as it gets; there are some excellent covers (such as that of Was (not Was)) but the original is still the best.

When I was 12 or 13 my parents bought a small house next door as an investment property. The former owners left behind thousands of books and records of all sizes and speeds (yes, speeds!). I claimed hundreds of Motown and related 45s as my own. There were dozens of artists represented. I played them all, but I wore out the Supremes and Temptations discs. I pretty much reduced them to prismatic Frisbee, incapable of producing anything like a high fidelity sounds- but by then I knew them so well I didn't need to play them to hear them.

A lot more music has wormed its way into my psyche since. An awful lot of that music- from Janis to Jimi, from Skynyrd to Bootsy, from Beck to NIN- would never have gotten a second listen if I hadn't heard the Supremes and Temptations. They blew all my musical walls down.

And they sound every bit as good today as they did then.

Baby, baby, where did our love go?

Nowhere, babe. It's right here. I love you as much as ever.

Requiem: Like so many artistic stories, there's pain here as well if you look into the lives of the artists. The worst? Jealousy and rejection drove Florence Ballard (a founding member of the Supremes) to heavy drinking and destructive behavior. She was kicked out of the Supremes. She was putting her life back together when she died at the age of 32.

 

AFTERWARD

As a teen I generally preferred the Supremes over the Temptations. Over the years I would still say that, but I came to the realization that I really preferred the Temptations. I see two obvious reasons.

1. The Supremes songs are generally formulaic; most of them sound very similar. The Temptations, as readily recognizable as the Supremes, were far more exploratory musically and stylistically diverse.
2. Most Supremes songs are all "love songs", which are really songs of romance, attraction, desire, or pain. All common feelings, but just that-- feelings. Arguably the Temptations (who did their share of classic love songs) sang about the more important types of love, love that was more than just emotion. "Papa Was a Rolling Stone", "Smiling Faces", "Runaway Child, Running Wild", even "Ball of Confusion" were all love songs in the deeper sense.

Son... Just Don't.

Remember that scene in The Avengers where they finally gel as a team, and Cap, Hawk, and Natasha walk onto a plane and the tech working on it tries to deny them?

Tech: "Sir, you're not authorized..."
Cap: "Son... Just don't."

(They walk right past him and take off.)

While the dialog was technically different this pretty much happened on the back porch this morning when a Dad (Gram) took a toddler (Evelyn) onto the back porch and then tried to keep her out of the rain.

Dad: "Ma'am, you're not authorized..."
Kid: "Dad... Just don't."

She knows what she wants and she's going for it!

Riviera Paradise: Hauntingly Beautiful

Atlanta somehow managed to mostly ignore Stevie. I had one friend who talked about him, but I only heard a couple of songs, and they didn't do that much for me at the time. Then I moved out to Austin.

The first time I heard "Riviera Paradise" I was driving home from work around midnight. Jay Trachtenberg or one of the other long term icons at KUT or KLRU introduced it by reminiscing that many times at Antone's after a show, when the crowd had mostly gone and only the last few hangers on were around, Stevie would come sit on the edge of the stage with the lights down low and play this. I could see it in my mind's eye, feel the room, smell and taste the air. I was totally there, caught up in the moment with Stevie and his most loyal fans. I have no recollection of the next ten miles of MoPac.

I fell in love with Stevie, hook, line, and sinker.

Years later I finally went to a concert at Antone's. I hung around after Alien Love Child was done just to drink the place in. The techs dimmed the lights and put this song through the sound system. That radio intro came back to mind. I nearly cried. I don't recall leaving or driving home; I just woke up when the alarm went off the next morning, thinking it had to be a dream.

Wish I could have seen Stevie play. Wish I'd known him.

One day.

(This song still sends shivers up my spine.)

[Studio version from In Step]

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."