For the future is gated, and there are tolls to be paid.
Oh, what a wondrous sentence. I tripped over it at the terminus of the short fiction, We Show What We Have Learned. Although the metaphorical story (written by Clare Beams) was deftly crafted, it was her insightfully essomenic bumper-post sentence which brought me pause.
I paid my first toll exactly thirty years ago. Up to that point I'd been clumsily sketching together a future which included a degree in art followed by a job which would utilize my creativity. I'd been tracing my future on the skein of selfish privilege in the ridiculous naΓ―vetΓ© of youth (qualities, both invisible in the mirror but soon to become extremely clear in my backlight). Inside the echo of a single conversation in February of '82, I permitted my future to be shanghaied and—subsequently—dropped out of college, joined the army, and became an infantryman.
Navigating through life's toll gates must be something of a forte; adapt or become trapped.
lex parsimoniae
Vachss Can No Longer Carry The Weight
Having read every Vachss book, beginning in the late 1980's, I believe he lost his drive and anger and clarity of voice about the time he killed Pansy (Dead and Gone, 2000). He's tried for the last dozen years to get it back the way many authors do...with new characters, new settings and even new genres...none of those books are in the same league or contain the grit, clarity, or surprising hooks as well as the dark, gut-wrenching emotions he was able to imbibe into those early Burke revenge-thrillers of his. The reason is, probably, what it was/is for many artists. He changed.
Success de-fangs many creative people (which I like to think of as the Morissette Principle) and so Andy the artist becomes Andrew the author becomes Mister Vachss the businessman. He is now only writing to pay for the toys he bought with the proceeds of his previous sweat and hard-won creativity. He is no longer devoting months of his time to the keyboard on re-writes because he no longer has a message he needs to get out. Or a story to tell. Or an impatient ghost uncomfortably residing in his spine. Add to that...he has a very lazy, publisher-owned editor who never, never, never will send his story back for re-tooling because that would slow down the money train.
It's a sad thing to see, when an author becomes ensconced in his tower of success where he slowly loses readers because he has stopped struggling to create a quality product and has resorted to writing from a template, writing for a paycheck, and writing poor-quality pap.
This will be my last Vachss. I may pick up a future book of his at a lending library just to see if he was able to Koontz his way out of this downward spiral (Dean Koontz pulled out of a quality-dive-and-impending-crash in the late 1990's with his Moonlight Bay and Odd Thomas Series and now writes so very much better than he ever did in the preceding two decades). The odds are that Mister Vachss is satisfied with his past successes, is not listening to critics, and is very happy to be Mister Vachss the businessman...isn't it ironic?
Confused by homosexual confusion
I generally find my religion pretty close to human nature, it looks very logical, quite practical but there is one thing that confuses me, totally stumps me: its stand on homosexuality. Not only my religion but all religions strongly condemn it, on the other hand homosexuals claim that it is the most natural thing for them.The preceding is the unaltered 16 January post written by Beenish Kahn, a Pakistani woman living in Toronto, Canada.
Now I am not taking any sides, I am sharing just my confusion,
1. Apart from humans, homosexuality is a common occurrence in many animals. So is nature trying to say that it is only for animals to follow such instincts or is it trying to say that it is but natural to have something different from normal?
2. If according to religion it is but unnatural then why do people claim to be so helpless against it? If it is like any other sin then why do homosexuals bear so many discriminations just to publicly state their sexual identity? From where do they get the courage of bearing all the bullying? In short, why would anyone deliberately choose a hard path if it is something unnatural?
3. When an octogenarian gay couple get married after 50 years of living together, doesn’t it show companionship more than any other emotion?
I do not want to judge anyone and least of all in the light of religion but I do want to know what exactly is religious logic behind it? Is it religious politics of many centuries, is it holy scriptures understood the wrong way or is it people not understanding the laws of nature?
Routinely, I read things which expand my knowledge. Other times I may contemplate and ponder over something I've read (but not retain the information). And, occasionally, my conversations are fueled by the ideas of others. Once in a blue moon I'm driven to respond with an entire post of my own. This is one of the latter.
Not all religions condemn homosexuality as is initially posited by Ms Kahn, (Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism don't address it or are neutral) but she is correct in regard to the big three (Christianity, Judaism, and Islam).
Then she poses a few statements followed by seven questions outlining 'her confusion'.
The first declarative statement she makes is factually bass-ackwards. It should read: Although male-on-male and female-on-female sexual acts have been documented in a large number of species in the animal kingdom, it's routinely interpreted as acts of dominance or sexual play. The exception are humans, who form long-lasting, intimate, emotional bonds with members of the same sex.
Her next seven sentences are all questions. Each different. But there is a similar tone in the confusion of each. As I see it, the crux of her problem is she is either unable to—or can't—see the situation logically, from a shoe-on-the-other-foot perspective.
Since puberty, humans of the female persuasion have caused my nervous system to react with an "attraction impulse." When I look at a man my brain registers the same response as when looking at an ostrich or a chair. Neutral. Non-erotic. This is not a conscious choice I make or have ever made and (most importantly) I'm incapable of making a different one. I don't choose.
However, there are millions of people on the planet who's nervous systems provide an attraction impulse for both genders, and some of these polysexual people—because of a desire to conform or not be shunned by their community—choose to have a sexual relationship only with members of the opposite sex (many of these people use religion to aid their choice by touting "sin dogma").
Also, there are hundreds of millions of people on the planet who's nervous systems provide an attraction impulse for only members of the same sex. They don't choose...no more than the billions who are only attracted to the opposite sex.
Until the last few centuries 'church' was synonymous with 'government' (in many countries, it still is) and, most of the time, government is run by wealthy dominant males. The leaders of all governments make and enforce rules in order to maintain their status quo. This could explain why religions support(ed), condone(ed) and didn't/don't consider a sin: owning chattel, burning witches, gender apartheid, racial segregation, etc.Ms Kahn...is your only confusion, really, the church's disapproval of buggery?
Also:
Epitaph to Live by
Beyond the universe there is nothing and within the universe the supernatural does not and cannot exist. Of all deceivers who have plagued mankind, none are so deeply ruinous to human happiness as those impostors who pretend to lead by a light above nature. Science has never killed or persecuted a single person for doubting or denying its teachings, and most of these teachings have been true; but religion has murdered millions for doubting or denying her dogmas, and most of these dogmas have been false.
I thank Davecat for stumbling upon Futility Closet, recognizing how 'far up my alley' the site was and steering me in its direction, and Greg Ross (at Futility Closet) for collecting ephemera for everyone's perusal.
New Exquisite Corpse
The Exquisite Corpse game was developed by the artists and writers associated with AndrΓ© Breton's surrealist group which included Max Ernst, Man Ray, Joan MirΓ³, and Yves Tanguy. The original game consisted of folded paper with a drawing (or a sentence) composed by several people, each ignorant of the previous creation(s); as an example: "the exquisite / corpse / will drink / the new / wine" — excerpt from the 1939 Abridged Dictionary of Surrealism, as copied off the wall at the Art Institute of Chicago.
The New Exquisite Corpse functions in much the same way as it's predecessor did almost ninety years ago...four players create a 'slice' 450 pixels wide by 200 pixels high (with the second, third, and fourth players receiving only the bottom 15 pixels of the one above theirs). The New Exquisite Corpse has been dormant for a few years. This week I received 15 pixels and created the bottom 200 pixels of this:
Anyone interested in joining should sign up and send a message to The Mortician informing him/her that you want to become a corpser.
The New Exquisite Corpse functions in much the same way as it's predecessor did almost ninety years ago...four players create a 'slice' 450 pixels wide by 200 pixels high (with the second, third, and fourth players receiving only the bottom 15 pixels of the one above theirs). The New Exquisite Corpse has been dormant for a few years. This week I received 15 pixels and created the bottom 200 pixels of this:
 | |
| Plastic man | Challenges and Adventures | Fire and Ice | brie factual lie fractal | sky wookie | madwise | veach |
Anyone interested in joining should sign up and send a message to The Mortician informing him/her that you want to become a corpser.
Also:
Measuring My Mettle
My first car accident doesn't really qualify as anything more than foreshadowing for this tale. Licensed less than six months, I attempted to carefully back the family's pristine white Ford Grenada into the garage so I could unload the trunk. Unconfident with the mirrors, I opened the driver's door, twisted my body around and looked behind me as I slowly eased the car in reverse...so slowly that when the top point of the driver's door came to rest on the side of the house I didn't immediately notice.The result was a few gouged inches in the house's siding and a very small dent on the edge of the car-door near the lower hinge. My sixteen year old self decided not to mention my mistake(s) to my mother or 2dad. For years, my eyes immediately focused on the scratch in the siding whenever I found myself in it's vicinity. Nobody ever commented on it or the door-dent (which I, also, could never stop staring at, whenever I was near the exterior of that car).
Three years later, as a college sophomore, I bought my deceased father2s car. Actually, "gave my mother2 a small fraction of what the off-white VW bug was worth in exchange for the title" is more accurate than "bought". I painted it a coppery brown (only later, after hearing it referred to as The Turd did I regret my choice). Backing out of a diagonal parking spot one night-school-night, I cut my turn too sharp and rubbed the driver's side rear fender along the fender of an adjacent car. I got out, noticed no dent on the other car (just shit-colored paint transfer) and left. Without leaving a note. Clearly, I was once "that fucker".
My third accident occurred six years later as I approached a stop sign at a T-intersection on a gravel, residential street. I was distracted (by a child running toward my piss-yellow VW rabbit) and failed to come to a complete stop. A pick-up truck with monster tires (taller than the child) appeared out of nowhere, clipped my front quarter panel/bumper, and spun me around a little in the gravel. Since he was going too fast and I'd failed to stop, we decided to fix our own damages (his was a scuffed sidewall).
Twenty years and well over a million accident-free miles later—after driving a relatively large number of military vehicles (Gama Goat, APC, Jeep, HMMWV, et.al.) as well as several different civilian cars and motorcycles—I had my first serious accident. The phrase: torrential hail will forevermore cause me to remember crashing into the earth in a bruise-blue Ford Explorer after it flipped end over end. In 2004, I began this s n a p p e r h e a d blog with an article about that accident in a post titled: Driving Anozira-style.
Almost exactly seven years later (a few months ago) I backed my silver 2008 Dodge Avenger into a travel trailer parked on the side of a street at 3am. It dented my trunk pretty bad (it still closes). I immediately rang their doorbell, woke them up, gave them a photo of my driver's license, name, address, phone number, and told them if they got an estimate I'd either pay it or turn it over to my insurance.They still have yet to contact me. I drive past that trailer every night and always glance at the little wrinkle I caused in the metal.
(And, since 3/5 of my accidents have one thing in common...I've decided not to drive in reverse anymore.)
Also:
Bunraku - (☆☆☆☆) film review
Bunraku is a smirking homage kaleidoscope. Colorful bits and shiny slices of spaghetti western's and campy kung fu's are mixed with big-screen graphic novels, actual bunraku (large paper puppet theater) and - beat - Hollywood musicals. The result is a humorous and unique treat.
This is definitely not a forgettable film. Although it has some obvious flaws I didn't let them ruin the overloaded thrill ride.
Kill _ill 1; A Fistf_l of Dollars; Si_ City; He_o; Zombiel_nd; _ill Bill 2; and The Seven Sama_ri.
If you choose to disregard all the other reviewers—you'll thank me.
Also:
4 the rest of us
My rationale for choosing to be blatant (by giving each customer a signed, home-made, holiday card bearing my name and business address) was that although many people provide a small regular electronic tip when they pay their e-bill, a significant portion of newspaper readers are older, don't use the internet, pay with a check, and prefer tangible gifts over money.
The results have been positive. Dozens of gifts...cookies, cash, checks, and gift cards on porches, taped inside tubes, and in the mail.
This is about one gift. Not the most expensive (by more than half) and not the most elaborate (hard to beat a huge spot-lit crinkle wrapped can of ginger snaps for that)...an unsigned gift card without a return address; only marked from "a customer".
An altruistic
I read in 2011:
The dearth (down almost 50% from last year) is not just because of less free time or that many of the tomes I did read were mega-massive, but mostly because my favored authors didn't publish this year.
2011 Charted
Fish by aBowman
It's been a long time since I've posted any good hypertext effluvium.
Thanks to: Sky at The Kaleidoscope Report (for this find); to Adam Bowman (for creating it) and to you (for clicking to feed the fish).
Thanks to: Sky at The Kaleidoscope Report (for this find); to Adam Bowman (for creating it) and to you (for clicking to feed the fish).
So You Want to Deliver Newspapers
Although I can only address specifics of Portland's The Oregonian (where I've worked for many months) these practices and routines are clearly indicative of all the nation's print-news companies:
"Contractors". Like thousands of other companies trying to cut corners, all delivery personnel are considered self-employed contractors. Accordingly...no taxes, social security, or medicare/medicaid are deducted; there are also no unemployment, workers compensation, or health-care benefits; and no expenses are reimbursed (which especially includes no vehicle, gasoline, or mileage expenses). The 'contract employee' label is a legal loophole which has become newspaper industry standard regardless of the IRS definition.
No Days Off. 7 days a week, 365 days a year, no overtime, no holidays (in fact, holidays = extra work). If, for any reason, a delivery person fails to come to work and does not arrange for, or hire, an alternate delivery person, that person is terminated.
Pre-delivery Routine. Between 88-92% of the time (on average: 90 out of 100 days) there are one, two, or even three extra advertisements or additional sections (called inserts) which must be placed inside the newspaper at the station. Most papers then need to be folded/rolled and placed into a plastic bag (exceptions are papers going into tubes). Obviously, the amount of time it takes to accomplish these pre-delivery tasks varies greatly, and depends on the following variables:
- Number of route changes (called "stops and starts"—more on this later)
- Number of hands stuffing, folding, bagging, and loading the car (one assistant = 1/2 the time).
- Number of papers being delivered.
- Number of inserts to be inserted.
- Thickness/weight of the final paper with its inserts in respect to the size of the bag.
- Interior size of the car papers are going to being loaded into and delivered from.
- Wild card: Occasionally a free product sample must also be included.
Zombie Jigsaw Puzzle Routes. Every route is laid out (more or less) with specific instructions for every customer. For example:
Turn left on SE Custers Last Circle
5 tube 19430
9 porch 19904
17 20566
26 dbl bag! 21218
U-turn at SE 451st Avenue
1 tube&bag 23619
13 21217
20411
Pass Grocery Store
7 porch ONLY! 19601
Because every current delivery route has been fitted together from the shrinking corpses of yesteryear's large plump routes, the address instructions are patchy and filled with errors. The first weeks are spent fixing these errors and memorizing the route. And re-memorizing.
Stops and Starts. Every day the route changes. First, a daily list is provided which reflects the routes "stops" (customers who are going on vacation / moving out / died of old age / learned to use the internet) and "starts" (customers who are returning from vacation / moved in / are feeling much better / forgot how to use the internet). These changes must be made in pencil every night during the pre-delivery hours because they will be changing again very soon (some customers stop and re-start their paper every week or so). The second way the routes change is based on the different possible subscriptions and the different products which the paper publishes in order to market itself (...meeellttttiiiinng...).
Daily/Sunday = every day.
Weekenders = Friday, Saturday & Sunday only.
Sunday+Tuesday = the two days when the paper is mostly coupons.
Weekday = for businesses closed on weekends.
Bulk = vending boxes.
Community News = placed on selected porches on Saturday evenings or Sunday mornings in an attempt to lure these people to subscribe.
Food Day = a free product with coupons thrown every Monday night / Tuesday morning at every non-subscribing household on the route (unless they call and complain).
MIX Magazine = a monthly subscription-type magazine filled with articles about local locations and events (at least as many free ones are provided as are sold...the witch is always marketing itself).
TV Guides = additional subscription-only inserted on Saturdays.
Other Newspapers = Also want the bi-weekly newspaper from a nearby city? For a fee, it can be delivered to your door with The Oregonian. (...meeelting...)
What all this means. Although there isn't one, a "typical" route might look like:
Mon, Wed, Thr Tue Fri and Sat Sun and holidays MIX days
Number of papers: 200 225 250 275 +50 mags
Number of Cmty News: 75
Number of Food Days: 300
Number of hours a day: 3 7½ 3½ 10 3
Number of "starts": 2 3 1 2
Number of "stops": 3 2 2 1
Number of complaints: 2 0 1 3
Number of tips: 1 1 0 2
Number of miles driven: 20/day 40 20/day 25/day 20
Number of hours driving: 2/day 5 2½ 3/day
Payment is NOT per paper. Instead, it is determined by averaging the number of papers delivered (Daily and Sunday are separate) and multiplying by one's contracted amount of pay. In the above example—with a daily payment rate of $2.20, a Sunday payment rate of $0.45, and a standard rate for the other products:
Monthly hours: about 120 hours
Monthly pay: about $850.00
Monthly tips: about $40 (during the holidays this could/will be larger)
Monthly fees/fines: about $40 (works out nicely...that the company gets almost all your tips)
Monthly mileage: about 700 miles (a car that gets 30 miles/gal will see this reduced because of slow driving and idle-engine use = 30 gal of gas @ $4.00/gal = $120.00 month.
Hidden Fees: Oh yes. Of course there are hidden fees. Everyone is required to pay for their portion of the rental space, where the station is located and where they are required to work during the pre-delivery hours. Also, it is a requirement for everyone to purchase those flimsy bags which the news papers and other products are delivered in. And, even though you may have fantastic insurance of your own, there is a mandatory supplemental insurance.
Fines. Every time you deliver a paper to the wrong address, or someone steals it after you put it at the end of their driveway, or the wind blows it into the next yard . . . you are fined. If a customer complains about getting their paper late more than once? You are fined. If a person complains about getting a free paper they previously asked not to receive? Fined. If a customer fails to get his TV Guide on Saturday or her free Food Day on Tuesday? Yup, fined again. All of these costs are deducted from your paycheck.
Why? Would anyone deal with this incredibly bad and obviously unfair working environment?
Who would agree to continue to work for a place where—when the company provides the papers over an hour later than necessary and it's too foggy and the paper is larger than a phone book (so huge they won't all fit in your car and you have to take two trips) which causes some customers to get their papers late and a few of them call and complain—YOU are held accountable...and fined?
This is a complaint-based job. When someone makes a late complaint, deliver their paper first...from that day forward; if someone complains of a wet paper, tie the ends of a double bag on their paper...from that day forward. No extra compensation for the extra work—just extra fines if they complain again in the future.
Who would work here? This is a break-down of the people who work for the wicked witch:
- 25% - Dorothy's: People supplementing their income (like those on social security or with unexpected court-ordered child support payments). Every Dorothy—including myself—claims they are working here only until things get better. One "short termer" has been doing this for a decade. (...no place like home...no place like...)
- 20% - Toto's: Illegal immigrants (no one checks documents or social security numbers—even if they speak/understand no English). (...and your mangy little dog too...)
- 20% - Tin Men: People with a blot on their work history (not just parolees...but anyone who's been fired from a previous job or two; no one asks for a rΓ©sumΓ© or references—even if they're covered in prison tattoos). (...the tinsmith forgot to give me a heart...all hollow...)
- 15% - Munchkins: Younger adults attending college and/or needing an income which will never intrude on their 9-5 (many of these housewife's and househusband's days are devoted to childcare). (...follow the yellow brick road...)
- 10% - Flying Monkeys: These old timers have been delivering papers their entire life. They are wicked-fast, eerily complaint proof and receive amazing tips. They are the frogs who never jump out of the cook-pot because the temperature has been ever-so-slowly increased. (Every one of these monkeys who didn't start a 401k decades ago or payed into social security...can, obviously, never quit.) (...take care of those ruby slippers, I want those most of all...fly!..fly!..)
- 10—20% - Cowardly Lions: People with mild to severe OCD. Where else can one get paid to count and NEATLY fold, stack, and bag and count? Can't stop counting? It may be debilitating in any other job, it's an asset here! (...come to think of it, forty winks wouldn't be bad...)
- 10—20% - Scarecrows: Kids with no experience and very little ethics or values who come to work high and stay high (many of these 'kids' are biologically middle-aged...less tweekers, more stoners...which might only be because this is Portland). (...I could think of things I've never thought before...then I'd sit, and think some more...)
- 5% - Wizards: Those who stuck, carved out a niche, and eventually became salaried supervisors or station foremen. (...pay no attention to that man behind the curtain...)
Abstruse Building - Hillsboro, OR
No, no, no...is your interaural transfer function not working properly?...the research, conducted by the Integrated Testing Forum, indicates that for individuals to fully understand what it's to function as, it needs an integrated-title-facade with an appropriate name in an impressively titled font.
What? Yes, I've tried fedora's. Yes, I also have ironically tattooed forearms. Well...I text fast, and I think, friend, that's waaay better than typing full sentences.
What's this have to do with selecting a name for the parking lot with a bus stop?
Nevermind. I've tentatively figured it out.
Lose Lose - a Metaphor?
This is a spoiler-laden plot critique of Thomas McCarthy's 2011 film Win Win (☆☆☆-)*. This is not a film review. If I were reviewing it, I'd do so quickly because I saw it two days ago and almost all the dialogue and images have already yellow-browned and fallen. Soon they'll all be gone—overwritten by stronger memories—like yesterday's lunch (turkey/swiss/onion/spinach/miracle whip on warmed buttermilk, with dill pickles & sourcream-n-onion chips on the side, and a glass of cold Pepsi). Yum.The plot centers around the main character. A schlub in every way save one. You should imagine Jimmy Stewart as the schlub (because the HUGE flaw in this story wouldn't exist if this were a 1949 black and white film). Jimmy is an incompetent lawyer who's going broke. He works in a small neighborhood office building, which he owns. It's falling into disrepair (in large part, due to his maintenance failures). He also owns a huge suburban home and is the father of two young children (the only thing he isn't bad at). His wife doesn't work (more befitting a 1949 setting) and Jimmy hides his financial situation from his wife (also an action from a bygone era).
NOTE: Jimmy is a metaphor for the United States. Not just the US government, but a distillation of every American. Of us all. The blame for the poor economy is borne by all of our inner Jimmies.
Jimmy's passion is wrestling. No, that's inaccurate...Jimmy has no passion. Decades ago, schlub-in-training-Jimmy wrestled in high school and didn't suck too much; now he's a terrible coach for a losing high school wrestling team.
NOTE: War metaphor. America likes its wars. Once upon a time it was better at them.
Jimmy has a receptionist. Red hair? check. Tight sweater? check. Snapping chewing gum? check. Smarmy? check. Files nails while talking? check. Constantly complains? check. Collects a paycheck (which is definitely more than $1,500.00/month...which is important) for doing little work? check. Delivers an important line of dialogue: "He's LOADED, just read his file."
Jimmy has a buddy. He's everything Jimmy is not. Buddy is rich, single, childless, and in good physical condition. Buddy's only failure is being a good husband. Jimmy never asks Buddy to lend him money (nor does Buddy offer anything more than vague ways to make money by investing).
NOTE: A banking and credit company metaphor, as well as a "don't tax the rich" metaphor.
Jimmy reads the file. An elderly client, with no locatable relatives and dementia, wants to continue to live in his own home. The old guy receives a monthly payment of $1,500.00 (in 1949 that might have been plenty to live on).
The state plans to move the old guy into an assisted-living home. Jimmy convinces the court to personally award him guardianship in order to "keep him in his home" and then, Jimmy lies to the old guy and moves him into an assisted-living home anyway. (All the additional fraud Jimmy would have had to commit is never hinted at...he'd have had to 'spend-down' and hide the old guy's assets, including the home and the monthly income, before medicare would pay for the assisted-living).
The first month's "stolen" $1,500.00 is used, by Jimmy, to pay his own family's late medical insurance.
NOTE: Health insurance crisis metaphor.
The second act introduces the run-away, high school aged, grandson of the old guy, who happens to be a great wrestler. Jimmy provides him room and board. The kid starts to wrestle and to turn around the entire wrestling team. They begin to win a few matches. Then the old guy's addict-daughter (wrestling-kid's mom) arrives and tries to get guardianship so she can have the much sought after $1,500.
In the third act (with his lies exposed and to prevent the court from learning about his fraud) Jimmy strikes a bargain with the greedy addict to send her the $1,500 every month, moves old guy back into his own home, and volunteers to continue to provide room and board for the kid until he graduates.
The story ends with Jimmy coming home from the office and then heading out to a second job. He is happy paying penance for the lies/fraud. He's now paying the living expenses of the old guy, taking on the kid, and sending 18K a year to the addict.
NOTE: Hammering home the metaphor. America is choc-full of addicts, elderly, and youth. Our collective past greed (and many other of the deadly seven sins) has turned the entire world into a less nice place. But, it's OK to forget about those improprieties...as long as we take care of those who can't take care of themselves (anymore or yet). And don't lay off the over-paid sloths. And don't ask for money from the wealthy. Just work more. Yuck.
Optical Illusion Dragon
Download. Print. Cut out. Fold. Tape.
Close one eye. Stare at the dragon's eyes. Its head seems to bend and follow as you move left and right, up and down.
Watch the video to see it in action (as well as see how it works).
When someone else says exactly...
...what I'm thinking (only, their je ne sais quality, emphasis, and phrasing
could never be improved upon) I embed it:
(It's really a rant worth listening to.)
Dear Neighbor,
My boss said you want me to stop delivering the free "shopper" because:
[ ] You never read—always recycle—it, and want to reduce the waste of natural resources.
[ ] Are tired of having to walk to the end of your driveway to pick up "trash".
[ ] Get tongue-tied trying to pronounce, "deseche el comprador periΓ³dico" to your maid or gardener.
[ ] Hate hearing the grind-graction of tires/engine at wrong-side-of-the-road-speeds (and/or the thwack-sliizz of plastic wrapped paper on pavement at zero-dark-thirty).
[ ] Think what I'm doing is the equivalent of intentionally littering on your property.
[ ] All of the above and a bag of condescension.
Please permit me to rebut thusly:
I am a 20-year retired Army veteran (Yuup....the patriot card comes off the top of the deck). Two months ago my fiancee lost her job at almost the same moment as her investment income disappeared; in one month my household wages were reduced by half...she's looking, but hasn't found a new job. So. I got a job delivering newspapers and "shoppers". I have too much pride to be:
At this point I need an all-seriousness-aside bit, because this is getting too. Way too.
(1) The combo-'refuserefuserefuse' makes me think about the first time I read the word 'orangered' and I thought, "Oranger-ed...as in a past tense state of more orange? Why have I never heard that word before?"
(2) When I wrote the word physically in the paragraph above, I wanted to spell it fisically...but that's not right. Right? But it's not far off.
Stop—dear neighbor. Just stop. Illuminating your faΓ§ade with concern-colored spotlights draws attention to your garishly gargantuan footprint. This is the point where the world that's off the hook on the other side of your television screen/computer monitor intrudes on your real day-to-day.
Because I need that 8¢.
Please. Just take pride in the charity and throw away the evil plastic-wrapped (but still sopping wet) bundle of consumeconsumeconsumecoupons I'm paid to throw at the bottom of your driveway every week (or you could, maybe, learn to ask the help to do it).
—newspaperdudeveach (which, when you say fast, kinda sounds like nudebeach).
PS - If your 'stop delivery' rationale is natural resource based, please take a moment to pause and look at your residence from my vantage point. Is stopping delivery of the "shopper" at the foot of your driveway the first place to start saving the planet?
PSS - I don't mind thoughtless condescension, I'm only asking that you don't stop the grocery/clothing/drug stores from paying me $3.84 a year to litter once a week on your property.
How to Train Your Cat to Come When You Call Its Name
This new information is not new. But—if your brain does not already possess this possibly-useful knowledge—you'll immediately grasp its common sense basis, as you palm-slap your forehead and say, "Where's this simple information been all my life?"Dogs come when they are called because their brains easily translate human-speak (no matter the language we use); I posit that German is the best human-language dogs can translate. I say this, not because I lived in Germany for four years and witnessed it, but because many of the best dog training schools teach humans to speak to their dogs using German-language commands.
The reason is simple once you know it. All dogs bark in a staccato manner; their brains are conditioned to hear other-dog communication this way: noise. silence. noise. silence. Since German words are barked (even by the most smooth-voiced German orators) teaching non-German speaking humans to use German words when communicating with their dog insures the animal hears sharp, distinct, clipped commands. There's not much difference between "stop" and "halt"; "come" and "komm"; or "stay" and "bleiben"; but training with German words prevents the human from slipping from "Skipper— pause —come!" to "cummereSkipperboyURschagoodboyThatzrightcummere".
Cats meow in a tonally escalating-to-descending manner; their brains are conditioned to hear other-cat communication this way:
NoooOoiiiIise
nnNoiseee. So when you want your cat to come when you call...you need to sing his or her name. It doesn't matter what words you use in the song as long as it includes the cat's name. Just yowl in as plaintive a manner as possible. If your cat knows its name, it'll come to you. Probably not the first time you sing it, but if you practice sing-calling every day, several times a day, and stroking and praising it when it comes, "My cat never comes when it is called." will soon become, "My cat comes when I call some of the time." and eventually will become, "My cat comes almost all the time."
Why almost all the time...why not all the time, like dogs? Because dogs are like Germans. Punctual. Practical. Reliable. Cats are like you and me (and—if you're German—this is a metaphor. Stop. Taking. Things. So. Literally. Good boy). When our phones ring we check caller ID, decide if we're in the mood, too busy, too tired...and maybe-sometimes we even turn off our phones because we don't want to be bothered. When you sing-call for your cat in the middle of its nap on the laundry you took out of the dryer but haven't gotten around to folding yet, don't be surprised if it "hits ignore" and goes back to sleep.
This truth is buried in everything we innately know about dogs and cats. The best names for dogs are short and roll off the tongue in a punchy, almost monosyllabic manner (Rex, Fido, Jack) while the best names for cats are long and drawn out (Cecil O. Zonkey). Sure, you may use its short nickname but you realize that's for your own benefit. Not his. All he hears is dog-speak.
When my cat is off doing his own thing and I sing, "whereismyCECILBoy-o-boy-o-ZooOooNKeEeYBoOy..i-sure-missMyCECILloO-ZOoooonKeeey." He comes. 90% of the time. I understand it'll be done at cat pace and not dog pace. Cats need to stretch. Focus. Think about their next inactive action. Smell and listen to check if danger is present. Then mozy. It may take a few sung phrases. He may not arrive for a few minutes.
I think it's fantastic he only blows me off once in a while since I ignore phone calls from family and friends at least that often.
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