It’s almost Halloween!
I haven’t been a big fan of Halloween for quite some time now. After I became a bit too old for trick or treating, the whole thing sort of lost its thrill. I’m not really a fan of dressing up in costumes either; costumes were never more than a way to extort candy from adults, and I always have trouble deciding on what to wear, because everything either seems boring or stupid.
Nor do I enjoy the beginning of fall. I always preferred summer and the beginning of fall signifies the start of school and the long, dark trudge through winter. I do enjoy the holiday season, but this is generally the time between Thanksgiving and New Years. Halloween hardly counts as part of the holiday season because it’s too early.
One part of Halloween that I continue to enjoy is pumpkin carving. It’s a small thing to enjoy, but it’s a fun tradition that allows me a small amount of creative outlet when I so often forgo creative expression.
Anyway, have a great Halloween and hope you indulge in whatever holiday tradition you enjoy!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Losing Something
This is something I wrote for the "Losing Something" assignment, one of our first of the class. I liked it when I wrote it, but now I'm not so sure how I feel about it. I'm not sure whether I accomplished the goal of including lots of detail, and I'm not sure about my style of describing the events that happened in the past from the point at the end. Finally, I don't like the conclusion a whole lot. Well, decide for yourselves.
Losing Something
“Dammit.” The word slipped out of me before I could stop it. A mother of two standing in line behind me looked at me reproachfully. I felt guilty but no less angry. How could I have lost my boarding pass inside the airport? I knew I had had it when I was checking my bag, and here at the gate I had lost it. Stupid! I stepped out of line and sat in one of the cramped leather chairs, trying to think. Where had I had it last?
I knew I still had it when I was checking my bags near the front of the airport, because the lady at the counter had asked to see it. Then I stuffed it somewhere—I suppose it must have been an insecure storage place—and it fell out on the way here.
Could I have lost it while walking from the counter to the security checkpoint? I thought back. I remembered seeing an old couple making their way down the long hallway as well. They were walking slowly, holding hands but not talking. When they got to the metal detectors, he got in line but she stayed back, waving to him across the crowd. I wondered what their story was; why was he going somewhere and she staying? No satisfactory explanation crossed my brain before I was jerked back to my task at hand. No, I thought. I know I had the ticket when I went into the metal detector, because I felt it in my pocket when I was rummaging through them, removing my change and my keys. Maybe it got put in the basket with the rest of my stuff and I forgot to put it back in?
Thinking back again, I remember the man that went through the metal detector before me. He was young, in his early twenties, with dark skin and a thick, curly dark beard. I remembered thinking—and hating myself for doing so—that he looked like photos of the 9/11 hijackers I had seen on the news. The security personnel seemed to be thinking along the same lines. His bag had to go through the x-ray twice, and when he set off the metal detector, they were extremely careful with the wand waving, making him turn out his pockets and the hem of his shirt before they determined it was his belt buckle that was setting off the alarm. The man was quiet and patient throughout the whole ordeal. I wondered how many times this had happened to him before, and how many times it would happen again. With another jolt, I recalled what I was supposed to be remembering—where had I lost my ticket? No, I told myself. I distinctly remembered putting the boarding pass back into my pocket after I was through the metal detector and had put my shoes back on.
Could it have been from my way to the metal detector to the terminal? On the way there, I observed a couple arguing while walking. She appeared to be close to tears, and his voice, already loud, was losing its grip on normality. I couldn’t catch exactly what the fight was about, but I got the idea. Following behind them, several paces back, were two children, no older than six, with their tiny little suitcases. Their faces looked down and their gait mirrored how they must have felt. I wondered where they were going, and what the cause of the argument was, and whether the kids were still excited about their vacation. No, the boarding pass was in my pocket when I sat down to wait for the plane. So I must have lost it between sitting down to wait and getting in line…
“Excuse me, sir.” It was a little girl, one of the children of the woman who had disapproved my language. She was holding a large ticket in her small hand. “I think you dropped this in line back there.”
Losing Something
“Dammit.” The word slipped out of me before I could stop it. A mother of two standing in line behind me looked at me reproachfully. I felt guilty but no less angry. How could I have lost my boarding pass inside the airport? I knew I had had it when I was checking my bag, and here at the gate I had lost it. Stupid! I stepped out of line and sat in one of the cramped leather chairs, trying to think. Where had I had it last?
I knew I still had it when I was checking my bags near the front of the airport, because the lady at the counter had asked to see it. Then I stuffed it somewhere—I suppose it must have been an insecure storage place—and it fell out on the way here.
Could I have lost it while walking from the counter to the security checkpoint? I thought back. I remembered seeing an old couple making their way down the long hallway as well. They were walking slowly, holding hands but not talking. When they got to the metal detectors, he got in line but she stayed back, waving to him across the crowd. I wondered what their story was; why was he going somewhere and she staying? No satisfactory explanation crossed my brain before I was jerked back to my task at hand. No, I thought. I know I had the ticket when I went into the metal detector, because I felt it in my pocket when I was rummaging through them, removing my change and my keys. Maybe it got put in the basket with the rest of my stuff and I forgot to put it back in?
Thinking back again, I remember the man that went through the metal detector before me. He was young, in his early twenties, with dark skin and a thick, curly dark beard. I remembered thinking—and hating myself for doing so—that he looked like photos of the 9/11 hijackers I had seen on the news. The security personnel seemed to be thinking along the same lines. His bag had to go through the x-ray twice, and when he set off the metal detector, they were extremely careful with the wand waving, making him turn out his pockets and the hem of his shirt before they determined it was his belt buckle that was setting off the alarm. The man was quiet and patient throughout the whole ordeal. I wondered how many times this had happened to him before, and how many times it would happen again. With another jolt, I recalled what I was supposed to be remembering—where had I lost my ticket? No, I told myself. I distinctly remembered putting the boarding pass back into my pocket after I was through the metal detector and had put my shoes back on.
Could it have been from my way to the metal detector to the terminal? On the way there, I observed a couple arguing while walking. She appeared to be close to tears, and his voice, already loud, was losing its grip on normality. I couldn’t catch exactly what the fight was about, but I got the idea. Following behind them, several paces back, were two children, no older than six, with their tiny little suitcases. Their faces looked down and their gait mirrored how they must have felt. I wondered where they were going, and what the cause of the argument was, and whether the kids were still excited about their vacation. No, the boarding pass was in my pocket when I sat down to wait for the plane. So I must have lost it between sitting down to wait and getting in line…
“Excuse me, sir.” It was a little girl, one of the children of the woman who had disapproved my language. She was holding a large ticket in her small hand. “I think you dropped this in line back there.”
Calvin and Hobbes
Nothing reminds me of childhood like reading Calvin and Hobbes comics. Every so often I stumble across my old anthologies of all of the comics and I read through them all from beginning to end. It’s fun and amusing, but more than that it reminds me of a seemingly simpler and easier time.
Calvin is an interesting character. He’s smart but he hates school, he’s cool but he’s dorky, he has no friends but he’s best friends with Hobbes. In many ways he’s unpleasant, selfish, mean, and obtuse, but we love him all the same. He says many things that everyone thinks—whether he’s contemplating the meaning of life or reflecting on why people laugh or shouting “BORING!” during a class lecture (when he is sent to the principal’s office for this he says “Yeah, yeah, kill the messenger,”) and he always says it in a funny way. He is a constant troublemaker, and is always trying to hit the neighbor girl with a water balloon or a snowball, or locking his babysitter out of the house and watching cartoons all night. We don’t begrudge him his misbehavior, partly because it is so over-the-top as to be ludicrous, but also because we know that he is not bad at heart.
The other titular character is sometimes Calvin’s comic foil and sometimes his partner-in-crime, but most importantly he is a stuffed tiger named Hobbes. Or at least, that’s what he appears to be whenever someone besides Calvin is looking at him. When he is alone with Calvin, he becomes a real life tiger, complete with a penchant for sneaking up on people and pouncing on them. This duality is a major mystery of the comics. Is Hobbes a real tiger that no one else can see, or a stuffed one that Calvin imagines to be real? The answer seems obvious but the author leaves it ambiguous. In personality, Hobbes is more relaxed, less of a troublemaker, more philosophical, and at times pessimistic about the inner goodness of man, true to his namesake, the English philosopher Thomas Hobbes. But most importantly, Hobbes is Calvin’s friend and companion, without whom the story could not exist.
I encourage anybody who hasn’t read Calvin and Hobbes to read some. They’re at times hilarious, thought-provoking, and touching, and no matter how old I get they’ll always remind me of being a kid.
Calvin is an interesting character. He’s smart but he hates school, he’s cool but he’s dorky, he has no friends but he’s best friends with Hobbes. In many ways he’s unpleasant, selfish, mean, and obtuse, but we love him all the same. He says many things that everyone thinks—whether he’s contemplating the meaning of life or reflecting on why people laugh or shouting “BORING!” during a class lecture (when he is sent to the principal’s office for this he says “Yeah, yeah, kill the messenger,”) and he always says it in a funny way. He is a constant troublemaker, and is always trying to hit the neighbor girl with a water balloon or a snowball, or locking his babysitter out of the house and watching cartoons all night. We don’t begrudge him his misbehavior, partly because it is so over-the-top as to be ludicrous, but also because we know that he is not bad at heart.
The other titular character is sometimes Calvin’s comic foil and sometimes his partner-in-crime, but most importantly he is a stuffed tiger named Hobbes. Or at least, that’s what he appears to be whenever someone besides Calvin is looking at him. When he is alone with Calvin, he becomes a real life tiger, complete with a penchant for sneaking up on people and pouncing on them. This duality is a major mystery of the comics. Is Hobbes a real tiger that no one else can see, or a stuffed one that Calvin imagines to be real? The answer seems obvious but the author leaves it ambiguous. In personality, Hobbes is more relaxed, less of a troublemaker, more philosophical, and at times pessimistic about the inner goodness of man, true to his namesake, the English philosopher Thomas Hobbes. But most importantly, Hobbes is Calvin’s friend and companion, without whom the story could not exist.
I encourage anybody who hasn’t read Calvin and Hobbes to read some. They’re at times hilarious, thought-provoking, and touching, and no matter how old I get they’ll always remind me of being a kid.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Conspiracy Theories
What is with conspiracy theories? Why do many people have such strong beliefs in ideas that are so continuously and irrefutably disproved? The list goes on and on… JFK, the moon landing, UFOs, Roswell, 9/11—in every case, there are large numbers of people around the country and around the world that believe that the generally accepted version of events, the one that is supported by the official facts and the clearly observable evidence, is completely false and that the “establishment” is attempting to hide the truth from people to serve their devious ends.
This is not to say that I don’t believe in skepticism. Of course one should be careful in what one believes, and to take a hard look at facts before agreeing with an official story. However, in conspiracy theories, facts take a back seat to the theory. In asserting that the accepted story of events is false, the theorists all but ignore fact in their attempt to refute it.
It’s an effect called “confirmation bias,” which is the tendency of people to favor and believe things more readily and with more gusto when they support previously held beliefs. People want themselves to be right, so they subconsciously see information that supports their beliefs as correct and persuasive, and information that refutes their beliefs as flawed or untrue. This is why two very intelligent people can have two contradictory beliefs, and defend these beliefs with extreme venom; each person sees new information that supports their previously-held belief while ignoring opposing information. Each debater can’t tell why the other is so blind to the obvious facts, when they themselves are just as blind.
I think we all need to keep Occam’s razor in the forefront of their brain: all things being equal, the simplest explanation is likely to be the correct one.
This is not to say that I don’t believe in skepticism. Of course one should be careful in what one believes, and to take a hard look at facts before agreeing with an official story. However, in conspiracy theories, facts take a back seat to the theory. In asserting that the accepted story of events is false, the theorists all but ignore fact in their attempt to refute it.
It’s an effect called “confirmation bias,” which is the tendency of people to favor and believe things more readily and with more gusto when they support previously held beliefs. People want themselves to be right, so they subconsciously see information that supports their beliefs as correct and persuasive, and information that refutes their beliefs as flawed or untrue. This is why two very intelligent people can have two contradictory beliefs, and defend these beliefs with extreme venom; each person sees new information that supports their previously-held belief while ignoring opposing information. Each debater can’t tell why the other is so blind to the obvious facts, when they themselves are just as blind.
I think we all need to keep Occam’s razor in the forefront of their brain: all things being equal, the simplest explanation is likely to be the correct one.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Assigned Blog Post # 5
Dog
Hear a stranger at the door, hear the Master returning home, hear food being poured in a dish, see a squirrel, see a cat, see a duck, see another dog, smell dinner being cooked, hear fireworks, smell a strange scent, jump on the couch, jump on the chair, jump into the car, lick somebody’s leg, this is how you greet somebody by jumping on them, this is how you growl at another dog, this is how you bark menacingly, this is how you bark an alert, this is how you bark a greeting, this is how you smell another dog, this is how you smell a human, this is how you eat garbage, this is how you eat grass to help your stomach, this is how you eat the cat’s food, this is how you apologize to Master, this is how you chase a ball, this is how you catch a ball, this is how you give the ball back to Master, this is how you swim in the pond, this is how you retrieve a stick, this is how you track mud into the house, this is how you gnaw on the furniture, this is how you hide from Master, this is how you put your tail between your legs, this is how you fight another dog, this is how you lick your wounds—what if I don’t want to fight? —are you really going to be the dog that turns away from a fight?
Hear a stranger at the door, hear the Master returning home, hear food being poured in a dish, see a squirrel, see a cat, see a duck, see another dog, smell dinner being cooked, hear fireworks, smell a strange scent, jump on the couch, jump on the chair, jump into the car, lick somebody’s leg, this is how you greet somebody by jumping on them, this is how you growl at another dog, this is how you bark menacingly, this is how you bark an alert, this is how you bark a greeting, this is how you smell another dog, this is how you smell a human, this is how you eat garbage, this is how you eat grass to help your stomach, this is how you eat the cat’s food, this is how you apologize to Master, this is how you chase a ball, this is how you catch a ball, this is how you give the ball back to Master, this is how you swim in the pond, this is how you retrieve a stick, this is how you track mud into the house, this is how you gnaw on the furniture, this is how you hide from Master, this is how you put your tail between your legs, this is how you fight another dog, this is how you lick your wounds—what if I don’t want to fight? —are you really going to be the dog that turns away from a fight?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Just A Job
This is my first Carrillon Point story. My character, Juno Jones, is a professional assassin who has gotten orders to kill a businessman in Carrillon Point.
The letter came as always, in a manila envelope with no return address and no postmark. Juno slit open the envelope with a practiced hand. Inside was the assignment; a brief description of the mark and his photograph, along with a plane ticket to the location. No mention of why the organization wanted him dead, of why Juno Jones was being paid to murder him.
NAME: Harold Robinson
DESCRIPTION: Height, 5’11”. Weight, 180lb. Hair, gray. Race, Caucasian. Photograph enclosed.
OCCUPATION: CEO and Co-Founder of C&R Shipping, Ltd.
ADDRESS: 511 East Shore Drive, Carrillon Point, MA
Juno read the sheet dispassionately, having read dozens like it before. He picked up the photo and studied it. Mr. Robinson was a portly man with gray hair, slightly old-fashioned spectacles with large lenses, and a wide, bristly mustache. The same, in short, as all of the other businessmen who had offended the wrong person and had their information mailed to a person like Juno.
Juno examined the plane ticket. It left at noon the following day, and the hit was to be completed by this time next week. Plenty of time to determine the easiest way to lure Mr. Robinson away from his routine, get him on his own, where no one could see what happened to him, and then… Juno was not a sadist, and he took no kind of sick pleasure in his job, but he still couldn’t resist the thrill of planning and executing an elegant kill.
A grim smile crossed Juno’s face. Soon the papers in the sleepy little town of Carrillon Point, MA would have something to talk about.
Just A Job
The letter came as always, in a manila envelope with no return address and no postmark. Juno slit open the envelope with a practiced hand. Inside was the assignment; a brief description of the mark and his photograph, along with a plane ticket to the location. No mention of why the organization wanted him dead, of why Juno Jones was being paid to murder him.
NAME: Harold Robinson
DESCRIPTION: Height, 5’11”. Weight, 180lb. Hair, gray. Race, Caucasian. Photograph enclosed.
OCCUPATION: CEO and Co-Founder of C&R Shipping, Ltd.
ADDRESS: 511 East Shore Drive, Carrillon Point, MA
Juno read the sheet dispassionately, having read dozens like it before. He picked up the photo and studied it. Mr. Robinson was a portly man with gray hair, slightly old-fashioned spectacles with large lenses, and a wide, bristly mustache. The same, in short, as all of the other businessmen who had offended the wrong person and had their information mailed to a person like Juno.
Juno examined the plane ticket. It left at noon the following day, and the hit was to be completed by this time next week. Plenty of time to determine the easiest way to lure Mr. Robinson away from his routine, get him on his own, where no one could see what happened to him, and then… Juno was not a sadist, and he took no kind of sick pleasure in his job, but he still couldn’t resist the thrill of planning and executing an elegant kill.
A grim smile crossed Juno’s face. Soon the papers in the sleepy little town of Carrillon Point, MA would have something to talk about.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction
Since I've been having some trouble coming up with enough interesting topics for blog posts, so I decided to use the blog to just post on whatever.
I have discovered a website that has plans for several dozen different Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction. For those unfamiliar, these are small, homemade implements made from common household objects and office supplies, designed for launching small projectiles such as paperclips, erasers, or pencils. They can be found here for those interested. I have already constructed the "#2 Catapult" and the "Pencil Slingshot" and have decided to make the "Maul Gun" and the "Bow-and-Arrow Pen." The object of this activity, clearly, is to see how many destructive objects and implements we can make out of the innocuous supplies in one's desk. The combination of creating useful objects and using those objects for (small-scale) destruction is very fun. Now if only I had some enemies on whom I could use these weapons of mass destruction....any volunteers?
I have discovered a website that has plans for several dozen different Mini Weapons of Mass Destruction. For those unfamiliar, these are small, homemade implements made from common household objects and office supplies, designed for launching small projectiles such as paperclips, erasers, or pencils. They can be found here for those interested. I have already constructed the "#2 Catapult" and the "Pencil Slingshot" and have decided to make the "Maul Gun" and the "Bow-and-Arrow Pen." The object of this activity, clearly, is to see how many destructive objects and implements we can make out of the innocuous supplies in one's desk. The combination of creating useful objects and using those objects for (small-scale) destruction is very fun. Now if only I had some enemies on whom I could use these weapons of mass destruction....any volunteers?
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