My Loyal Listeners
Anyone can do it, they said
Down at the tattoo place.
Internet radio.
It caught my fancy,
As my love for solitude
Conflicts so with my need
To vent at foolish humanity.
Here is the best of both:
Alone in my room, yet
Telling the sheep
They have been measured, and found wanting.
Some simple software, and voilá
I'm live and on the air.
I play a few of my tamer tracks;
Queen Adreena, Libitina,
And lesser known sounds.
Between the music, I offer my wisdom
For anyone who might stop for a listen.
I suspect it's all make believe.
The next day I'm better prepared,
(Spent Literature class writing out
The content of my rant)
I skewer the powers that be--
Local and Global
And take a parting shot at my most recent adversaries:
The local mall's music store
Who've reduced the alternative and punk sections
To make way for a bright and cheery
Hannah Montana aisle.
I sign off with my chosen name
So few know it anyway.
The next day I'm surprised
Walking home through the mall
(Simply to avoid the rain)
A window boarded up
And there, scrawled on the wall
"Dythandra defies Disney,
Death to corporate sellouts"
This is an interesting development
I hurry home to my computer
There is further mayhem to be wrought.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Poetry by Dythandra
In Pursuit of Filthy Lucre
Your dad's bonus didn't come through
And money's going to be a little... tight.
I'd always thought myself above such...
Mundane concerns.
I'd sneered at their attempts to bribe me,
To change my wardrobe or my hair.
Blackmail's more my thing--they cave so easily.
This was different, though--they were... embarassed.
Twas not a total surprise--they'd been hinting for a while.
When I was your age, I had a job.
With that kind of early start,
You'd think you'd be further ahead
Money doesn't grow on trees, you know
Maybe not, but I've got some friends
Who grow it on smaller plants
When the cash flow ends, I get creative.
Mommy dearest's empties
Bring me enough cash
To keep black nail polish in supply.
Still, it's not enough
For even my meagre expenses
So I finally deign
To scan the "Help Wanted".
It's lucky--call it that if you must--
That the job market is such
That demand makes employers
Look past my fashion sense.
I try telemarketing first.
They don't see me; I don't see them.
Win-win for all.
That one lasts two weeks.
Seems that my prospective customers
Found my unsolicited pitches for carpet cleaning
A little sarcastic.
I feign surprise when my pimply supervisor
Confronts me about my claim that
"We suck more than any company in town".
We clean carpets--of course we suck
Or at least, I'd guess you do.
No resume construction there.
My next opportunity--the perfume counter
At the entrance to the deparment store.
Apparently some poor manager misread my look
As young, hip, "trendy'.
I suppose misanthropy does make the disdained
Try a little harder.
I was to wear the outfit--black skirt, white blouse
And the--I shudder--pastel apron.
Then spray samples on prospective customers
Who happened by.
They were no fun--"Ask permission" they warn.
I tried that
But too many glanced in my eyes,
Then, instincts trained from avoiding predators,
Through eons of evolution,
Warn them away.
Mothers clutch children,
One complains I'm spraying "witch water"
Another simply screams.
That dismissal was more fun.
They wouldn't look me in the eyes,
But I got two weeks severance.
Still, that money won't last forever,
And I've underground music and comics to buy.
Perhaps it's time to visit my friends at the tattoo parlour
And see if my fake ID
And love of skulls
Can start me down a real career path.
Plus how can the parentals complain?
Think of all the money
My staff discount will save...
Your dad's bonus didn't come through
And money's going to be a little... tight.
I'd always thought myself above such...
Mundane concerns.
I'd sneered at their attempts to bribe me,
To change my wardrobe or my hair.
Blackmail's more my thing--they cave so easily.
This was different, though--they were... embarassed.
Twas not a total surprise--they'd been hinting for a while.
When I was your age, I had a job.
With that kind of early start,
You'd think you'd be further ahead
Money doesn't grow on trees, you know
Maybe not, but I've got some friends
Who grow it on smaller plants
When the cash flow ends, I get creative.
Mommy dearest's empties
Bring me enough cash
To keep black nail polish in supply.
Still, it's not enough
For even my meagre expenses
So I finally deign
To scan the "Help Wanted".
It's lucky--call it that if you must--
That the job market is such
That demand makes employers
Look past my fashion sense.
I try telemarketing first.
They don't see me; I don't see them.
Win-win for all.
That one lasts two weeks.
Seems that my prospective customers
Found my unsolicited pitches for carpet cleaning
A little sarcastic.
I feign surprise when my pimply supervisor
Confronts me about my claim that
"We suck more than any company in town".
We clean carpets--of course we suck
Or at least, I'd guess you do.
No resume construction there.
My next opportunity--the perfume counter
At the entrance to the deparment store.
Apparently some poor manager misread my look
As young, hip, "trendy'.
I suppose misanthropy does make the disdained
Try a little harder.
I was to wear the outfit--black skirt, white blouse
And the--I shudder--pastel apron.
Then spray samples on prospective customers
Who happened by.
They were no fun--"Ask permission" they warn.
I tried that
But too many glanced in my eyes,
Then, instincts trained from avoiding predators,
Through eons of evolution,
Warn them away.
Mothers clutch children,
One complains I'm spraying "witch water"
Another simply screams.
That dismissal was more fun.
They wouldn't look me in the eyes,
But I got two weeks severance.
Still, that money won't last forever,
And I've underground music and comics to buy.
Perhaps it's time to visit my friends at the tattoo parlour
And see if my fake ID
And love of skulls
Can start me down a real career path.
Plus how can the parentals complain?
Think of all the money
My staff discount will save...
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Cartographer
Hi kid--sure, sit down. That--oh that’s an old globe that’s been cluttering up this office for years. I keep meaning to chuck it out. Really? Sure you can have it. So what’s your career goal?
Cartographer? Oh, yeah--those people that do the geography stuff--it’s pretty much the only answer I know when some kid comes in who’s acing geography and they ask what the hell they can do with a degree in it. So that’s what you’re thinking of? I suspect your future may not go the way you’ve mapped it out, if you’ll allow me the pun.
You’ll go to some nearby college and do a degree in Geography. You’ll cover all the bases--the plate tectonics stuff, urban geography, political geography, environment, and a bunch of other stuff I’m getting sleepy thinking about. After your first degree you’ll realize you need graduate credentials to get anywhere so you’ll begin your masters right away, picking ups some TA work to help pay the bills.
Once you’re done, you’ll look for something that allows you to use your training, and the internet phenomenon of global photo mapping should provide that. Everything from onboard car computers which can chart out a travel plan to stalker sites that allow one to check out the back yard of the old high school flame utilize people with your skill set to make everything work.
You’ll toil in front of screens for hours as the dreary days all run together. Occasionally you get a bit of excitement from the visit of government types who’ve suddenly decided some new military hot spot must be removed from your scans of the globe, but otherwise it’s pretty mundane work.
You begin using your weekends to visit museums which feature displays of old maps--Vasco da Gama holds more interest for you than Google earth ever could. You eventually chuck your high-tech job and take on a poorly-paid position at a historical institute specializing in cartographic history.
It’s fascinating--you spend hours pouring over ancient maps from all over the world--some completely the product of their creator’s fantasies, while others are almost as accurate as those created hundreds of years later.
After a few months in this new job, you realize that while your soul is content, your bank account--already meager--has shrunk to nothing. You are forced to vacate your modest one-bedroom apartment and move into a storage room in the historical institute. The manager takes pity on you and gives you the room almost rent-free, in return for your doing some minor caretaking duties at night.
It turns out this is even better for your obsession with the older artifacts in the institute; you begin wandering into the dark basement and dusty attic of the building every night--finding uncatalogued maps and charts that haven’t been looked at for years. One catches your attention more than the others--it’s a fragment, showing a piece of land--possibly an island--with a narrow channel separating it from what might be mainland. What bothers you is that it looks vaguely familiar, but none of the few names on the map mean anything to you. There is nothing to even indicate the continent of origin, but the island has something you later are able to translate from a mix of Portuguese and Latin as “The Lost Land”.
You go about your work half asleep during the day, because each night you try to find anything to help you understand the map fragment that has captured your imagination. Suddenly, just before dawn one Thursday morning, you realize the mainland is a portion of the south Chilean coast--very close up. You search Google Earth and some other maps to confirm your theory, and you’re positive you’re correct. Problem is, the "Lost Land” is not anything you’ve ever seen referenced anywhere before. You do a bunch of internet searches, and come up with a couple of obscure references to some crackpot named Dr. Chavez who presented a paper at a “cryptogeography” conference that suggested that all previous theories about Atlantis got it wrong--the lost continent was really a relatively small island off the Pacific coast of South America which had once been home to an advanced civilization.
You sleep in and are woken by your supervisor--he’s angry you missed the start of your shift, and informs you that a visitor wishes to see you. It’s the same Dr. Chavez--turns out he’d been tracking the map fragment you found and somehow was informed of your internet searches after his sleuthing had already led him to the institute.
He takes you out for lunch and picks your brain, and soon determines you know little. He then explains his theory, which has evolved from that he shared at the conference two years earlier, and it revolves around ancient visits from alien beings, advanced technology existing on a small island thousands of years ago, and the possibility of riches and treasure with the discovery of the sunken remains of this mystical place.
Hang on--I need to answer this. Hello? Oh right--I forgot it was Margaret’s birthday--still some cake in the staffroom? Okay--no, I’ll be there in a sec.
Sorry kid--what? Oh sure, I’m going to finish it.
He’ll lead you out into an alley behind the restaurant where you’ll show him the map fragment which you smuggled out of the institute. Then his accomplice will suddenly appear behind you and inject you with a quick acting poison which kills you quickly but painfully. A few months later he’ll be famous and rich.
Maybe 20 people will turn out for your funeral. Their gift to your memory will be a really accurate map of the spot they sprinkle your ashes, which they’ll post on your myspace page.
Gotta run.
Hi kid--sure, sit down. That--oh that’s an old globe that’s been cluttering up this office for years. I keep meaning to chuck it out. Really? Sure you can have it. So what’s your career goal?
Cartographer? Oh, yeah--those people that do the geography stuff--it’s pretty much the only answer I know when some kid comes in who’s acing geography and they ask what the hell they can do with a degree in it. So that’s what you’re thinking of? I suspect your future may not go the way you’ve mapped it out, if you’ll allow me the pun.
You’ll go to some nearby college and do a degree in Geography. You’ll cover all the bases--the plate tectonics stuff, urban geography, political geography, environment, and a bunch of other stuff I’m getting sleepy thinking about. After your first degree you’ll realize you need graduate credentials to get anywhere so you’ll begin your masters right away, picking ups some TA work to help pay the bills.
Once you’re done, you’ll look for something that allows you to use your training, and the internet phenomenon of global photo mapping should provide that. Everything from onboard car computers which can chart out a travel plan to stalker sites that allow one to check out the back yard of the old high school flame utilize people with your skill set to make everything work.
You’ll toil in front of screens for hours as the dreary days all run together. Occasionally you get a bit of excitement from the visit of government types who’ve suddenly decided some new military hot spot must be removed from your scans of the globe, but otherwise it’s pretty mundane work.
You begin using your weekends to visit museums which feature displays of old maps--Vasco da Gama holds more interest for you than Google earth ever could. You eventually chuck your high-tech job and take on a poorly-paid position at a historical institute specializing in cartographic history.
It’s fascinating--you spend hours pouring over ancient maps from all over the world--some completely the product of their creator’s fantasies, while others are almost as accurate as those created hundreds of years later.
After a few months in this new job, you realize that while your soul is content, your bank account--already meager--has shrunk to nothing. You are forced to vacate your modest one-bedroom apartment and move into a storage room in the historical institute. The manager takes pity on you and gives you the room almost rent-free, in return for your doing some minor caretaking duties at night.
It turns out this is even better for your obsession with the older artifacts in the institute; you begin wandering into the dark basement and dusty attic of the building every night--finding uncatalogued maps and charts that haven’t been looked at for years. One catches your attention more than the others--it’s a fragment, showing a piece of land--possibly an island--with a narrow channel separating it from what might be mainland. What bothers you is that it looks vaguely familiar, but none of the few names on the map mean anything to you. There is nothing to even indicate the continent of origin, but the island has something you later are able to translate from a mix of Portuguese and Latin as “The Lost Land”.
You go about your work half asleep during the day, because each night you try to find anything to help you understand the map fragment that has captured your imagination. Suddenly, just before dawn one Thursday morning, you realize the mainland is a portion of the south Chilean coast--very close up. You search Google Earth and some other maps to confirm your theory, and you’re positive you’re correct. Problem is, the "Lost Land” is not anything you’ve ever seen referenced anywhere before. You do a bunch of internet searches, and come up with a couple of obscure references to some crackpot named Dr. Chavez who presented a paper at a “cryptogeography” conference that suggested that all previous theories about Atlantis got it wrong--the lost continent was really a relatively small island off the Pacific coast of South America which had once been home to an advanced civilization.
You sleep in and are woken by your supervisor--he’s angry you missed the start of your shift, and informs you that a visitor wishes to see you. It’s the same Dr. Chavez--turns out he’d been tracking the map fragment you found and somehow was informed of your internet searches after his sleuthing had already led him to the institute.
He takes you out for lunch and picks your brain, and soon determines you know little. He then explains his theory, which has evolved from that he shared at the conference two years earlier, and it revolves around ancient visits from alien beings, advanced technology existing on a small island thousands of years ago, and the possibility of riches and treasure with the discovery of the sunken remains of this mystical place.
Hang on--I need to answer this. Hello? Oh right--I forgot it was Margaret’s birthday--still some cake in the staffroom? Okay--no, I’ll be there in a sec.
Sorry kid--what? Oh sure, I’m going to finish it.
He’ll lead you out into an alley behind the restaurant where you’ll show him the map fragment which you smuggled out of the institute. Then his accomplice will suddenly appear behind you and inject you with a quick acting poison which kills you quickly but painfully. A few months later he’ll be famous and rich.
Maybe 20 people will turn out for your funeral. Their gift to your memory will be a really accurate map of the spot they sprinkle your ashes, which they’ll post on your myspace page.
Gotta run.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
This is creepy/weird
We watch (as I've discussed with several of you through comments) all three versions of CSI, plus a few other similar shows. At times we've complained of the farfetched nature of some of the stories and crimes depicted in some of these. Lately, though, there have been more stories in this part of the world that rival some of these writers' creations, so maybe an investigator's world does include such odd situations.
Check out this one:
http://www.thestar.com/News/Canada/article/304153
I have no idea where you'd even begin to come up with a rationale for this.
Possibilities of origin are touched on in this article:
http://www.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/news/story.html?id=9fa173cd-9fb3-4382-9d37-90cebdd12562&k=26030
Not something you want to find on a beach outing.
Check out this one:
http://www.thestar.com/News/Canada/article/304153
I have no idea where you'd even begin to come up with a rationale for this.
Possibilities of origin are touched on in this article:
http://www.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/news/story.html?id=9fa173cd-9fb3-4382-9d37-90cebdd12562&k=26030
Not something you want to find on a beach outing.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Striking Hollywood Writers Collaborate to Bring You
Groundhog Day After Tomorrow
A weatherman/climatologist travels to Punxsutawney, PA for the annual Groundhog Day appearance of Punxasutawney Phil. Evil omens portend something different this year--Phil's head spins completely around and James Earl Jones' voice bellows forth proclaiming "Six more millenia of winter".
Suddenly an ice age begins, freezing millions to death and forcing the rest into a harrowing battle with the elements. Still, the next morning the weatherman wakes up to find it's still February 2nd and the events of the day repeat. Again and again it happens--always ending in an ice age.
The weatherman begins finding new and clever ways to destroy the demonic prophet of instant climate change, and along the way falls in love with a local police officer who repeatedly drives him handcuffed from the site of gruesome groundhog annihilation.
They eventually live happily ever after in an igloo they build with a kit from Walmart.
A weatherman/climatologist travels to Punxsutawney, PA for the annual Groundhog Day appearance of Punxasutawney Phil. Evil omens portend something different this year--Phil's head spins completely around and James Earl Jones' voice bellows forth proclaiming "Six more millenia of winter".
Suddenly an ice age begins, freezing millions to death and forcing the rest into a harrowing battle with the elements. Still, the next morning the weatherman wakes up to find it's still February 2nd and the events of the day repeat. Again and again it happens--always ending in an ice age.
The weatherman begins finding new and clever ways to destroy the demonic prophet of instant climate change, and along the way falls in love with a local police officer who repeatedly drives him handcuffed from the site of gruesome groundhog annihilation.
They eventually live happily ever after in an igloo they build with a kit from Walmart.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Striking Hollywood Writers Collaborate to Bring You
Raging Bull Durham
Robert DeNiro costars with Kevin Costner as a washed up boxer and a washed up baseball player, one who believes he coulda been a contender, and one who believes he coulda played for one. Surviving on a steady diet of cheeseburgers, Jake, the boxer, creates a moderately successful nightclub act: "Jake IS the Fatman".
My Fair Lady and the Tramp
A poor English flower girl and her mangy dog are taken in by a wealthy Rex Harrison and his spoiled dog "Lady". He makes a bet with his friend that he can teach both flower girl and street cur to pass themselves off as royalty. Hilarity ensues as the stuffy uppercrust meets the street naivete of both girl and dog, culminating in a rousing human/canine song and dance number "Get me to the Vet on Time".
Robert DeNiro costars with Kevin Costner as a washed up boxer and a washed up baseball player, one who believes he coulda been a contender, and one who believes he coulda played for one. Surviving on a steady diet of cheeseburgers, Jake, the boxer, creates a moderately successful nightclub act: "Jake IS the Fatman".
My Fair Lady and the Tramp
A poor English flower girl and her mangy dog are taken in by a wealthy Rex Harrison and his spoiled dog "Lady". He makes a bet with his friend that he can teach both flower girl and street cur to pass themselves off as royalty. Hilarity ensues as the stuffy uppercrust meets the street naivete of both girl and dog, culminating in a rousing human/canine song and dance number "Get me to the Vet on Time".
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Striking Hollywood Writers Collaborate to Bring You
Cider House Rules of Engagement
Samuel L. Jackson stars as a decorated officer who leads a squad of commandos into an orchard where a lone abortionist (Tobey Maguire) is besieged by a militant group of pro-life protesters. Tommy Lee Jones must defend Jackson's character when several trees are uprooted and an angry orchard owner takes the veteran commander to small claims court.
A Few Good Men in Tights
Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, Carey Elwes and Dave Chappelle star in this courtroom drama. After Will Scarlet complains about the quality and portions of venison being served to the Merry Men, he is found hanging from an oak tree in Sherwood Forest. Little John and Friar Tuck are accused of silencing Scarlet, and Cruise's enthusiastic performance as a young inquisitor culminates in the famous scene where Robin Hood asks "Canst thou handle the truth?"
Editor's note: Since they're all looking to put food on the table, striking Hollywood writers welcome your ideas for further collaborations. Please feel free to submit them as comments.
Samuel L. Jackson stars as a decorated officer who leads a squad of commandos into an orchard where a lone abortionist (Tobey Maguire) is besieged by a militant group of pro-life protesters. Tommy Lee Jones must defend Jackson's character when several trees are uprooted and an angry orchard owner takes the veteran commander to small claims court.
A Few Good Men in Tights
Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, Carey Elwes and Dave Chappelle star in this courtroom drama. After Will Scarlet complains about the quality and portions of venison being served to the Merry Men, he is found hanging from an oak tree in Sherwood Forest. Little John and Friar Tuck are accused of silencing Scarlet, and Cruise's enthusiastic performance as a young inquisitor culminates in the famous scene where Robin Hood asks "Canst thou handle the truth?"
Editor's note: Since they're all looking to put food on the table, striking Hollywood writers welcome your ideas for further collaborations. Please feel free to submit them as comments.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Crime Scene Investigator
Hi--no, I'm glad you called. Yeah, it has been a while. Really? I was wondering how that reconciliation was working out for you. That's too bad. Me? No, I don't have any plans for supper. Oh right, all you can eat shrimp until six--that sounds good. Yeah, I can probably be out of here in five--traffic's a bugger out that way. Okay--see you there.
Oh, hi kids. I was just leaving. What? No, I never make appointments this late? Really--I did--let me check that book. Well, look, could you come back tomorrow or something. No, no--I understand you guys are busy too. Okay--but four of you? Normally I only do one career at a time. Oh, you all want to be CSI's huh?
Hmm--well, I've seen those shows as well. If popular media and our preconceptions are to be trusted, then a career as a crime scene investigator will go something like this:
You'll probably do the police academy or something lab oriented. Then you'll go somewhere where they'll determine if you have the qualifications to work in a crime lab. That means they'll check whether you meet the "hotness" requirements--since most CSI's look like they could be models or something.
You'll start in the lab, which means you'll have to hide the hotness a little by tying your hair in a bun and wearing glasses and a lab coat if you're a girl, and being a bit of a anime or tech geek if you're a guy. One day you'll get your break and there will be an opening out in the field, so you can shed the lab coat and ride in the cool vehicles. Apparently in Miami taxpayers provide Hummers for their civil servants.
Don't gain weight--one thing CSI's have in common is they're all fit. If you're female you'll always wear very low cut tops to go out to crime scenes, no matter that you have to bend over bodies all the time. This holds true even if you're a female forensic pathologist. If you're blonde you'll also wear designer pant suits and stiletto heels and you'll have probably dated every FBI, Treasury or ATF agent you run across at work.
If you're a guy, you'll have a dark secret--gambling, drugs, alcohol or abuse in your past. Actually, this may be true for the girls as well. If you're hispanic, either your sibling or niece or nephew will be mixed up in the cartels or with other bad people and you'll have to pull in favors to save them.
Also, you'll "cross the line" every few months and be investigated by some asshat from the Internal Affairs Bureau. Your boss will break some rules and save you, though. You'll learn to trust your boss, even though he may be kind of creepy and you've never seen him outdoors even at night without dark glasses and the whispered rumors about his personal life are, well, disturbing...
Though you work in a city of millions, your shift--either days, afternoons or nights--will only investigate two crimes at a time. Sometimes only one. Those crimes will involve hot people being killed by other hot people. Usually the body is found at a beach volleyball court, a fashion show, a fetish party or simply a skanky motel.
Also, though the city police force includes thousands of officers, you will always find the same one waiting at your crime scene. It's kind of creepy, actually.
You'll have an uncanny knack for spotting the dead mosquito in the driveway that just happened to bite the perp as he or she was killing the victim, and you'll somehow turn that mosquito into a DNA hit in the computer--a computer which has a crazy holographic projector that responds to waves of your hands rather than something as mundane as a mouse.
You'll use other amazing technology as well--perfume sniffing machines and such. No matter that no other law enforcement agencies have seen them--they exist in crime labs.
You'll never have a family, unless somehow you already have one and are estranged from them by the time you start working as a CSI. Still, your work will be rewarding, since every criminal will actually instantly give a confession once you finally share the questionable evidence your science fiction technology provides.
Have fun--I'm outta here.
Hi--no, I'm glad you called. Yeah, it has been a while. Really? I was wondering how that reconciliation was working out for you. That's too bad. Me? No, I don't have any plans for supper. Oh right, all you can eat shrimp until six--that sounds good. Yeah, I can probably be out of here in five--traffic's a bugger out that way. Okay--see you there.
Oh, hi kids. I was just leaving. What? No, I never make appointments this late? Really--I did--let me check that book. Well, look, could you come back tomorrow or something. No, no--I understand you guys are busy too. Okay--but four of you? Normally I only do one career at a time. Oh, you all want to be CSI's huh?
Hmm--well, I've seen those shows as well. If popular media and our preconceptions are to be trusted, then a career as a crime scene investigator will go something like this:
You'll probably do the police academy or something lab oriented. Then you'll go somewhere where they'll determine if you have the qualifications to work in a crime lab. That means they'll check whether you meet the "hotness" requirements--since most CSI's look like they could be models or something.
You'll start in the lab, which means you'll have to hide the hotness a little by tying your hair in a bun and wearing glasses and a lab coat if you're a girl, and being a bit of a anime or tech geek if you're a guy. One day you'll get your break and there will be an opening out in the field, so you can shed the lab coat and ride in the cool vehicles. Apparently in Miami taxpayers provide Hummers for their civil servants.
Don't gain weight--one thing CSI's have in common is they're all fit. If you're female you'll always wear very low cut tops to go out to crime scenes, no matter that you have to bend over bodies all the time. This holds true even if you're a female forensic pathologist. If you're blonde you'll also wear designer pant suits and stiletto heels and you'll have probably dated every FBI, Treasury or ATF agent you run across at work.
If you're a guy, you'll have a dark secret--gambling, drugs, alcohol or abuse in your past. Actually, this may be true for the girls as well. If you're hispanic, either your sibling or niece or nephew will be mixed up in the cartels or with other bad people and you'll have to pull in favors to save them.
Also, you'll "cross the line" every few months and be investigated by some asshat from the Internal Affairs Bureau. Your boss will break some rules and save you, though. You'll learn to trust your boss, even though he may be kind of creepy and you've never seen him outdoors even at night without dark glasses and the whispered rumors about his personal life are, well, disturbing...
Though you work in a city of millions, your shift--either days, afternoons or nights--will only investigate two crimes at a time. Sometimes only one. Those crimes will involve hot people being killed by other hot people. Usually the body is found at a beach volleyball court, a fashion show, a fetish party or simply a skanky motel.
Also, though the city police force includes thousands of officers, you will always find the same one waiting at your crime scene. It's kind of creepy, actually.
You'll have an uncanny knack for spotting the dead mosquito in the driveway that just happened to bite the perp as he or she was killing the victim, and you'll somehow turn that mosquito into a DNA hit in the computer--a computer which has a crazy holographic projector that responds to waves of your hands rather than something as mundane as a mouse.
You'll use other amazing technology as well--perfume sniffing machines and such. No matter that no other law enforcement agencies have seen them--they exist in crime labs.
You'll never have a family, unless somehow you already have one and are estranged from them by the time you start working as a CSI. Still, your work will be rewarding, since every criminal will actually instantly give a confession once you finally share the questionable evidence your science fiction technology provides.
Have fun--I'm outta here.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Pandering
I understand that times change and I am not adverse to making art more accessible, at least in principle. I don't recoil in horror at the idea that an opera company might make the English translation available on the backs of seats (was it Lincoln Center I saw that?) or on a surtitle or subtitle screen.
I accept that the "Leonardo" Romeo and Juliet with its opening gunplay at a gas station or tabloid news introduction is likely to appeal more to the average adolescent than the BBC recording of a staged performance.
Still, I heard about this on my car radio today:
"Play! A Video Game Symphony"
Click the link, then lament the end of civilization as we know it.
I accept that the "Leonardo" Romeo and Juliet with its opening gunplay at a gas station or tabloid news introduction is likely to appeal more to the average adolescent than the BBC recording of a staged performance.
Still, I heard about this on my car radio today:
"Play! A Video Game Symphony"
Click the link, then lament the end of civilization as we know it.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Poetry By Dythandra
For Those Who Follow
I'd just as soon not bother,
As they pass the papers out.
There's a template, you see--
No more than 500 characters,
"Including spaces", we are warned.
I've met maybe a dozen "characters"
Among the denizens of this cesspool of bland conformity.
I am torn--I could just pass it by,
But knowing who is charged with creating the yearbook,
I fear allowing their spoof to be attached
To my picture forever.
Graviora manent
No doubt they'd look it up
And be disappointed
I wasn't threatening mayhem to all.
"Remember, this is your legacy"
A tight-lipped sponsor warns.
No doubt tired of the witticisms
Of nearly-men who think "American Pie" great cinema.
My legacy.
I doubt it.
It I have such, then it may be
A host of websites blocked by the school server.
Perhaps the less than legal herbs
Which poke through soil of the courtyard garden
When spring arrives.
There are always those few pieces of art
Which made the bulletin board,
Until the powers that be
Recognized their own faces
In the grimaces of the gargoyles.
Still, I may leave a darker mark,
There are five months left to go...
I'd just as soon not bother,
As they pass the papers out.
There's a template, you see--
No more than 500 characters,
"Including spaces", we are warned.
I've met maybe a dozen "characters"
Among the denizens of this cesspool of bland conformity.
I am torn--I could just pass it by,
But knowing who is charged with creating the yearbook,
I fear allowing their spoof to be attached
To my picture forever.
Graviora manent
No doubt they'd look it up
And be disappointed
I wasn't threatening mayhem to all.
"Remember, this is your legacy"
A tight-lipped sponsor warns.
No doubt tired of the witticisms
Of nearly-men who think "American Pie" great cinema.
My legacy.
I doubt it.
It I have such, then it may be
A host of websites blocked by the school server.
Perhaps the less than legal herbs
Which poke through soil of the courtyard garden
When spring arrives.
There are always those few pieces of art
Which made the bulletin board,
Until the powers that be
Recognized their own faces
In the grimaces of the gargoyles.
Still, I may leave a darker mark,
There are five months left to go...
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future in
TV & Audio Repair
Hi there--what'll it be? Electronics repair? You mean like TVs, DVD players and stuff like that? Well, if you'd come in here two years ago I'd have sent you off to look for something else, and told you it was a dead 1960s kind of career dream. Things have changed, though, so this career might make a comeback--it won't be a good one, though.
You see with all this environmental craziness that's sweeping the globe people are suddenly thinking that disposable TVs and electronics that wear out in 18 months and get tossed in a landfill aren't really the most green way to go. That's where people like you come in. Most of the old school TV repair guys have been dieing out--there's a big difference between the old 21-inch RCA and the new super flat plasma screens that sell for more than my car set me back. The local guy on the corner hasn't kept up--people go to "authorized service centers" if they need repairs, and once the warranty or the extended warranty is up, it's too expensive to bother.
Now, though, with all these enviro-levies on disposing of this stuff, plus the simple social pressure to conserve, people are wanting to make this crap last longer, so they'll consider shelling out repair fees instead of just running down to the big-box electronics store for a newer model. You will go to a basic technical institute and learn the essentials of the electronics repair business--most of your instructors will be from eastern Europe or Cuba because it's only the lack of available consumer products that has kept their skills alive in the decades when their North American counterparts were becoming extinct.
You'll need to know where to buy replacement chips rather than tubes--a big change from the old days--and you'll work with the same sort of magnifying optical equipment that diamond cutters rely on. Still, once you're out of school you'll find a cheap storefront in the industrial part of town and set up shop. You'll add to your school debt by taking out ads in the local paper, and augment your meagre income the first few months by heading to the dump after work to salvage discarded equipment that you can repair and sell as "refurbished".
Things will pick up when you get some "save your TV--save the planet" t-shirts printed, and give them away at your information booth at a local envirofair. Soon the politically correct are showing up to give your shop a try.
The increased traffic won't all be good, though. It's tough to get parts as manufacturers have been using a business model that relies on disposal rather than repair, and they simply don't make replacement components. Fortunately, you get some help from a variety of environmental groups who begin pressuring the big companies to change their ways.
Still, they've had too many years of building things to break down six months after the warranty expires, and there's no interest in changing things as they long ago farmed out all their manufacturing work to third world sweatshops. Thus, you end up in the incredibly frustrating position of trying to mend things built to break down, and every customer curses you when six weeks after one repair is done they have to return for you to fix something else. You end up doing many jobs for free, even though the new breakdowns have nothing to do with your previous work. It's that or spend most of your days in small claims court.
You don't work the standard 40-hour week--you probably should hire an assistant, but they're hard to find and you can't really afford one--instead you often arrive at work at 9:00 a.m. and don't lock up and leave until close to midnight. It means it's likely you'll enter your 30s still single and lonely.
One day you'll be repairing a particularly crappy combination VCR/DVD recorder and you'll find a tiny note stuck inside. You'll need a magnifying glass to read it, and you're suprised to discover it's a letter from one of the employees at the factory that built the shoddy equipment. She explains that she is a poor young woman stuck in virtual slavery in Bangladesh, and implores whoever finds the note to "say a prayer" for her. Of course she also includes an email address, and you're intrigued enough to send her a short message after work that day.
Long story short, you eventually fly to meet her on your first vacation in years, and you're an instant celebrity in her impoverished town. The two of you develop a romance quickly--your 14 year age difference doesn't seem to bother anyone--and you go home after the two of you promise to marry within six months. After you get home you send your meagre savings to her to help protect her family from the local gangs she told you about while you were visiting.
Eventually you get her out and she moves here where you are quickly married. You put her to work in your shop, but her limited English makes her interactions with customers awkward and some of them are annoyed enough to abandon your shop. Your business takes a further downturn when a number of "authorized" repair centers begin advertising campaigns that suggest people would be foolish to take expensive electronics to those who haven't completed the "special training" by the manufacturers. You considered the week-long course, but it was clearly a scam and you didn't have the 20 grand they charged for the training.
Soon your main customers are old folks and audiophiles who bring you vintage record players and the local ham radio club, who refuse to buy anything manufactured since the advent of transistors since they feel all newer equipment has been bugged by the government as part of some evil conspiracy.
You become desperate--your rent is in arrears and you see no improvements in sight. Meanwhile, your young wife is out clubbing most nights with other girls from the local Bangladeshi community (you didn't even know there was one) and she manages to cajole you into agreeing to sponsor one of her brothers to come over with the promise of employment at your shop--a ridiculous proposition since you can't even support yourself and your wife. The brother quickly connects to some of the less savory members of the community and soon he's bringing cell phones to you and asking you to strip or reprogram cards and codes--he's convinced you're some kind of electronics whiz but you really don't know much about mobile phones; fortunately there are some sketchy websites that explain the process in detail.
He seems to be making decent money from his stolen phone business, but still doesn't manage to give you any rent for the basement suite he occupies in your home. Just as you're about ready to close your doors and declare bankruptcy, a potential solution is dropped in your lap.
Your wife is by herself in the shop near the end of the day, while you're off scrounging through discarded video players at the dump. A man comes in quite agitated, claiming his wife dropped off a broken dvd player for repair earlier in the day, and he must have it back. Your wife barely understands him, and has no idea where the machine might be, so he extracts a promise that he can come pick it up from you first thing in the morning.
When she relays this message to you, you are intrigued, so you go back into work and find the player in question. You quickly open it and find a homemade dvd stuck inside. You take the dvd and pop it into a different machine and are shocked to see a well known "family values" politician taking part in party that would rival anything Caligula might have offered in Roman times. He's featured in some of the more distasteful scenes, where his face is clearly visible, and there's no mistaking his voice, the same one that has so often been heard on television lambasting the depraved morals of the liberal media.
When he shows up the next morning, you return the broken player with the dvd safely stowed back inside. He seems relieved, and you pretend to have no idea what he is trying to hide, even though you've already made several copies of the worst scenes and later that day you lock one in a safety deposit box, and email digitized copies to a variety of accounts to make sure you can access them anywhere.
You tell your wife you're closing the shop for the rest of the day, and she seems unconcerned--she's happy to go off with friends. You suspect she's cheating on you, but you've been so stressed about your financial situation you hardly care what she does any more. You rush across town to a meeting of your ham radio friends--they happily gathered when you called one to say you had something huge to share with them.
They hate and distrust all levels of government, and are thrilled to see the video clip you copied. They help you formulate an blackmail scheme, and the next day a copy of the video is couriered to the politician's office along with a demand that he send a cashier's cheque for 50 thousand dollars to a post office box you rented.
There's no reply for a few days, and then a blustery letter arrives--threatening to use his "connections" to have you all killed, starting with the "video guy". He rightly assumes you're behind the scheme. Then, the next morning immigration officials arrive unexpectedly and accuse you of participating in a sham marriage to help bring criminals into the country. They have surveillance footage that shows your supposed brother in law selling stolen phones, and also pimping for your wife, with whom he also shares a relationship that their surveillance suggests is anything but fraternal. It's probably the politician who is behind this sudden visit.
You explain your side of the story, and they laugh and show you a website for third world workers that has a script for the exact same note you found in the video recorder that led you to Bangladesh. They explain that it's a very old scam which first started with German women working in harsh factory conditions shortly after World War II.
You agree to testify against your wife and the man she claimed was her brother, but he goes into hiding. Your marriage is anulled and your wife is deported, but you keep getting phone calls late at night from her partner, and he always threatens terrible things in broken English.
You assume it is he who throws a molotov cocktail into your shop one night, and the old building's sprinklers don't work and soon the whole enterprise is a smoking melted mess. All records of the repair inventory are gone and suddenly customers appear out of nowhere, claiming you were in possession of all sorts of very expensive electronic toys for which you must now reimburse them. Your insurance company believes you started the fire yourself--their investigators easily find out about your financial situation, and you are forced to settle for a meagre sum that is swallowed by customer claims.
You give up your rental house and begin living in a van in the back yard of a home where your ham radio friends meet to plan the next steps of your extortion scheme. Meanwhile, the politician has begun to have second thoughts about his situation and agrees to pay the 50 grand. His acquiescence makes your friends suspect he could easily pay more, and they insist you up the ante. You arrange a drop for the 50 thousand dollars, but only give him one copy of the video. You later send a message to explain you want 25 thousand more to go away forever.
Evidently he doesn't believe you, and saves 10 grand by paying a hit man 15 thousand to put a bullet through your head. Two or three of your ham radio friends believe you faked your death to escape and are later arrested trying to dig up your coffin to prove their theory. The phony brother in law breaks into the van and finds the 50 grand before the politician can get it back and uses it to set up a very successful drug lab. In recognition of your contribution he puts your intials as his label on every ecstasy tablet.
Hi there--what'll it be? Electronics repair? You mean like TVs, DVD players and stuff like that? Well, if you'd come in here two years ago I'd have sent you off to look for something else, and told you it was a dead 1960s kind of career dream. Things have changed, though, so this career might make a comeback--it won't be a good one, though.
You see with all this environmental craziness that's sweeping the globe people are suddenly thinking that disposable TVs and electronics that wear out in 18 months and get tossed in a landfill aren't really the most green way to go. That's where people like you come in. Most of the old school TV repair guys have been dieing out--there's a big difference between the old 21-inch RCA and the new super flat plasma screens that sell for more than my car set me back. The local guy on the corner hasn't kept up--people go to "authorized service centers" if they need repairs, and once the warranty or the extended warranty is up, it's too expensive to bother.
Now, though, with all these enviro-levies on disposing of this stuff, plus the simple social pressure to conserve, people are wanting to make this crap last longer, so they'll consider shelling out repair fees instead of just running down to the big-box electronics store for a newer model. You will go to a basic technical institute and learn the essentials of the electronics repair business--most of your instructors will be from eastern Europe or Cuba because it's only the lack of available consumer products that has kept their skills alive in the decades when their North American counterparts were becoming extinct.
You'll need to know where to buy replacement chips rather than tubes--a big change from the old days--and you'll work with the same sort of magnifying optical equipment that diamond cutters rely on. Still, once you're out of school you'll find a cheap storefront in the industrial part of town and set up shop. You'll add to your school debt by taking out ads in the local paper, and augment your meagre income the first few months by heading to the dump after work to salvage discarded equipment that you can repair and sell as "refurbished".
Things will pick up when you get some "save your TV--save the planet" t-shirts printed, and give them away at your information booth at a local envirofair. Soon the politically correct are showing up to give your shop a try.
The increased traffic won't all be good, though. It's tough to get parts as manufacturers have been using a business model that relies on disposal rather than repair, and they simply don't make replacement components. Fortunately, you get some help from a variety of environmental groups who begin pressuring the big companies to change their ways.
Still, they've had too many years of building things to break down six months after the warranty expires, and there's no interest in changing things as they long ago farmed out all their manufacturing work to third world sweatshops. Thus, you end up in the incredibly frustrating position of trying to mend things built to break down, and every customer curses you when six weeks after one repair is done they have to return for you to fix something else. You end up doing many jobs for free, even though the new breakdowns have nothing to do with your previous work. It's that or spend most of your days in small claims court.
You don't work the standard 40-hour week--you probably should hire an assistant, but they're hard to find and you can't really afford one--instead you often arrive at work at 9:00 a.m. and don't lock up and leave until close to midnight. It means it's likely you'll enter your 30s still single and lonely.
One day you'll be repairing a particularly crappy combination VCR/DVD recorder and you'll find a tiny note stuck inside. You'll need a magnifying glass to read it, and you're suprised to discover it's a letter from one of the employees at the factory that built the shoddy equipment. She explains that she is a poor young woman stuck in virtual slavery in Bangladesh, and implores whoever finds the note to "say a prayer" for her. Of course she also includes an email address, and you're intrigued enough to send her a short message after work that day.
Long story short, you eventually fly to meet her on your first vacation in years, and you're an instant celebrity in her impoverished town. The two of you develop a romance quickly--your 14 year age difference doesn't seem to bother anyone--and you go home after the two of you promise to marry within six months. After you get home you send your meagre savings to her to help protect her family from the local gangs she told you about while you were visiting.
Eventually you get her out and she moves here where you are quickly married. You put her to work in your shop, but her limited English makes her interactions with customers awkward and some of them are annoyed enough to abandon your shop. Your business takes a further downturn when a number of "authorized" repair centers begin advertising campaigns that suggest people would be foolish to take expensive electronics to those who haven't completed the "special training" by the manufacturers. You considered the week-long course, but it was clearly a scam and you didn't have the 20 grand they charged for the training.
Soon your main customers are old folks and audiophiles who bring you vintage record players and the local ham radio club, who refuse to buy anything manufactured since the advent of transistors since they feel all newer equipment has been bugged by the government as part of some evil conspiracy.
You become desperate--your rent is in arrears and you see no improvements in sight. Meanwhile, your young wife is out clubbing most nights with other girls from the local Bangladeshi community (you didn't even know there was one) and she manages to cajole you into agreeing to sponsor one of her brothers to come over with the promise of employment at your shop--a ridiculous proposition since you can't even support yourself and your wife. The brother quickly connects to some of the less savory members of the community and soon he's bringing cell phones to you and asking you to strip or reprogram cards and codes--he's convinced you're some kind of electronics whiz but you really don't know much about mobile phones; fortunately there are some sketchy websites that explain the process in detail.
He seems to be making decent money from his stolen phone business, but still doesn't manage to give you any rent for the basement suite he occupies in your home. Just as you're about ready to close your doors and declare bankruptcy, a potential solution is dropped in your lap.
Your wife is by herself in the shop near the end of the day, while you're off scrounging through discarded video players at the dump. A man comes in quite agitated, claiming his wife dropped off a broken dvd player for repair earlier in the day, and he must have it back. Your wife barely understands him, and has no idea where the machine might be, so he extracts a promise that he can come pick it up from you first thing in the morning.
When she relays this message to you, you are intrigued, so you go back into work and find the player in question. You quickly open it and find a homemade dvd stuck inside. You take the dvd and pop it into a different machine and are shocked to see a well known "family values" politician taking part in party that would rival anything Caligula might have offered in Roman times. He's featured in some of the more distasteful scenes, where his face is clearly visible, and there's no mistaking his voice, the same one that has so often been heard on television lambasting the depraved morals of the liberal media.
When he shows up the next morning, you return the broken player with the dvd safely stowed back inside. He seems relieved, and you pretend to have no idea what he is trying to hide, even though you've already made several copies of the worst scenes and later that day you lock one in a safety deposit box, and email digitized copies to a variety of accounts to make sure you can access them anywhere.
You tell your wife you're closing the shop for the rest of the day, and she seems unconcerned--she's happy to go off with friends. You suspect she's cheating on you, but you've been so stressed about your financial situation you hardly care what she does any more. You rush across town to a meeting of your ham radio friends--they happily gathered when you called one to say you had something huge to share with them.
They hate and distrust all levels of government, and are thrilled to see the video clip you copied. They help you formulate an blackmail scheme, and the next day a copy of the video is couriered to the politician's office along with a demand that he send a cashier's cheque for 50 thousand dollars to a post office box you rented.
There's no reply for a few days, and then a blustery letter arrives--threatening to use his "connections" to have you all killed, starting with the "video guy". He rightly assumes you're behind the scheme. Then, the next morning immigration officials arrive unexpectedly and accuse you of participating in a sham marriage to help bring criminals into the country. They have surveillance footage that shows your supposed brother in law selling stolen phones, and also pimping for your wife, with whom he also shares a relationship that their surveillance suggests is anything but fraternal. It's probably the politician who is behind this sudden visit.
You explain your side of the story, and they laugh and show you a website for third world workers that has a script for the exact same note you found in the video recorder that led you to Bangladesh. They explain that it's a very old scam which first started with German women working in harsh factory conditions shortly after World War II.
You agree to testify against your wife and the man she claimed was her brother, but he goes into hiding. Your marriage is anulled and your wife is deported, but you keep getting phone calls late at night from her partner, and he always threatens terrible things in broken English.
You assume it is he who throws a molotov cocktail into your shop one night, and the old building's sprinklers don't work and soon the whole enterprise is a smoking melted mess. All records of the repair inventory are gone and suddenly customers appear out of nowhere, claiming you were in possession of all sorts of very expensive electronic toys for which you must now reimburse them. Your insurance company believes you started the fire yourself--their investigators easily find out about your financial situation, and you are forced to settle for a meagre sum that is swallowed by customer claims.
You give up your rental house and begin living in a van in the back yard of a home where your ham radio friends meet to plan the next steps of your extortion scheme. Meanwhile, the politician has begun to have second thoughts about his situation and agrees to pay the 50 grand. His acquiescence makes your friends suspect he could easily pay more, and they insist you up the ante. You arrange a drop for the 50 thousand dollars, but only give him one copy of the video. You later send a message to explain you want 25 thousand more to go away forever.
Evidently he doesn't believe you, and saves 10 grand by paying a hit man 15 thousand to put a bullet through your head. Two or three of your ham radio friends believe you faked your death to escape and are later arrested trying to dig up your coffin to prove their theory. The phony brother in law breaks into the van and finds the 50 grand before the politician can get it back and uses it to set up a very successful drug lab. In recognition of your contribution he puts your intials as his label on every ecstasy tablet.
Monday, December 24, 2007
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains
A Christmas Carol
So there's this old dude named Scrooge--which I'm not sure if the word means cheap and mean like the Grinch on account of it was his name or vers vice-a but anyway he was all "I love money and don't like people". So he didn't go to the mall to buy gifts or nothing.
There was this guy, Bob Cratchet, who worked for him and his name sounds like "scratch it" 'cause he was poor and lived in a crappy house and so I think they had fleas and lice and stuff. He had to help count Scrooge's money but didn't get any for himself. He wanted Christmas off for a holiday so Scrooge was all "You suck so come in early the next day".
Then Scrooge went home and he started having visions of Bob Marley, which is probably 'cause some of that Jamaican ganja can kind of mess you up, and this ghost Marley was all singing reggae stuff about how Scrooge was gonna end up dragging chains after he died.
Then three other ghosts show up. The past Christmas ghost is all "Look you used to not suck but then you got all money hungry" The ghost of Christmas present--not the ghost of Christmas presents, cause that would be like that Nightmare on Elm Street lego set I got when I was eleven and it was a present with ghosts--anyway that ghost was all "Look here is your nephew and Bob Cratchet's family and they all feel sorry for you and hate you and think you suck." And there was some creepy guy with long hair who was kind of fat with bad teeth and he had this little ukelele and sang "tiptoe through the tulips" in this kinda helium-like voice and his name was Tiny Tim.
And then the future ghost shows up and he's all "Look there's your grave and everyone's laughing that you're dead" and Scrooge is all emo and then he kind of gets like the Grinch when his heart grew 7 times or whatever and turns nice. I kinda think this Dickens guy totally ripped off the story from Dr. Seuss.
So he buys a turkey and is all nice to Cratchet and gives him a raise and stuff, but if I were them people I'd totally figure he was being fake and check the egg nog for rat poison or something.
Oh, and that Tiny Tim guy says "God bless us everyone" which is totally weird talking 'cause on account of he could just have said "bless everyone" but he didn't really want to bless everyone so he's kind of selfish and mean cause he really just meant "us" which wasn't really Scrooge 'cause on account of they were poor and Scrooge wasn't one of them so it's like a sort of secret shot at the old rich guy kind of like when we tell my French teacher that we really like his ties but we think they're hella stupid looking.
I gotta go buy some presents now dude. It's like Christmas eve and I spent the last three days playing Halo and I'm so screwed if I don't go to the store quick. Later.
_____________________________________________________
Editor's note: I know "it isn't funny if you've got to explain it" but for the benefit of those readers under 40 (which is most who read this) a couple of links about the Tiny Tim mentioned above:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiny_Tim_(musician)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skU-jBFzXl0
In the mid 70s he was pretty well known. Just like today, there's no accounting for what earns people their 15 minutes of fame.
So there's this old dude named Scrooge--which I'm not sure if the word means cheap and mean like the Grinch on account of it was his name or vers vice-a but anyway he was all "I love money and don't like people". So he didn't go to the mall to buy gifts or nothing.
There was this guy, Bob Cratchet, who worked for him and his name sounds like "scratch it" 'cause he was poor and lived in a crappy house and so I think they had fleas and lice and stuff. He had to help count Scrooge's money but didn't get any for himself. He wanted Christmas off for a holiday so Scrooge was all "You suck so come in early the next day".
Then Scrooge went home and he started having visions of Bob Marley, which is probably 'cause some of that Jamaican ganja can kind of mess you up, and this ghost Marley was all singing reggae stuff about how Scrooge was gonna end up dragging chains after he died.
Then three other ghosts show up. The past Christmas ghost is all "Look you used to not suck but then you got all money hungry" The ghost of Christmas present--not the ghost of Christmas presents, cause that would be like that Nightmare on Elm Street lego set I got when I was eleven and it was a present with ghosts--anyway that ghost was all "Look here is your nephew and Bob Cratchet's family and they all feel sorry for you and hate you and think you suck." And there was some creepy guy with long hair who was kind of fat with bad teeth and he had this little ukelele and sang "tiptoe through the tulips" in this kinda helium-like voice and his name was Tiny Tim.
And then the future ghost shows up and he's all "Look there's your grave and everyone's laughing that you're dead" and Scrooge is all emo and then he kind of gets like the Grinch when his heart grew 7 times or whatever and turns nice. I kinda think this Dickens guy totally ripped off the story from Dr. Seuss.
So he buys a turkey and is all nice to Cratchet and gives him a raise and stuff, but if I were them people I'd totally figure he was being fake and check the egg nog for rat poison or something.
Oh, and that Tiny Tim guy says "God bless us everyone" which is totally weird talking 'cause on account of he could just have said "bless everyone" but he didn't really want to bless everyone so he's kind of selfish and mean cause he really just meant "us" which wasn't really Scrooge 'cause on account of they were poor and Scrooge wasn't one of them so it's like a sort of secret shot at the old rich guy kind of like when we tell my French teacher that we really like his ties but we think they're hella stupid looking.
I gotta go buy some presents now dude. It's like Christmas eve and I spent the last three days playing Halo and I'm so screwed if I don't go to the store quick. Later.
_____________________________________________________
Editor's note: I know "it isn't funny if you've got to explain it" but for the benefit of those readers under 40 (which is most who read this) a couple of links about the Tiny Tim mentioned above:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiny_Tim_(musician)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skU-jBFzXl0
In the mid 70s he was pretty well known. Just like today, there's no accounting for what earns people their 15 minutes of fame.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Retired Person
Oh hi. No, I'm done with appointments--at Christmas they don't much care for the future beyond how long it's going to take to get to the airport, ski hill or shopping mall. Want a shot? Here--I don't normally keep a bottle in here, of course, but 'tis the season.
Me? Not a whole lot, I guess. I mean, the kids will do the obligatory thing on the 26th or maybe the 27th--we haven't pinned that down yet. Son's got to work apparently so he can't do more than maybe a lunch, he says. Daughter wonders if I'd be hurt if she accepted her boyfriend's offer to go with his family to Aspen. Probably best to go along with it than have her come over and sulk.
Presents? I give gift certificates--music stores mostly. What about you? Really--just three months? I didn't realize you weren't even going to finish out the school year. Me? No, I just look like I should be close to packing it in. Must be the fluorescent lights in here--that or the smokes and the Jack Daniels. Sorry--don't mean to get maudlin.
Really? You want me to give you my career advice on retirement? I never really thought anyone would ever ask that. I usually tell most of the kids to expect to be dead or bankrupt by 60--saves them coming back and saying I built up their hopes, you know? Easiest not to expect much, I've learned--then you don't end up disappointed.
So--retirement, huh? Well, you're what--56? Wow--if I hadn't gotten divorced I'd probably be able to go at 58. Now my bank account says that isn't in the cards. Anyway, 'nough about me.
So, you'll probably have all these great ideas about travel and adventure, right? But how old's your wife--she retiring? Aha--just as I thought. So you'll retire and want to get moving on with the adventures, but she still has the workaday thing to do, so you'll go play golf and putter around the garden while she resents you as she has to get up and go into her daily grind.
Eventually she'll get her three weeks vacation and you'll suggest something exotic--like backpacking in the Himilayas--but she'll just want a beach, a chair and a pitcher of margaritas. You'll settle for something in between--a cruise that includes "the best of both" and delivers little more than intestinal parasites that leave you in the fetal position for two weeks.
She goes back to work and you get bored, so you take her advice and volunteer for a variety of good causes--maybe the soup kitchen, or reading for the blind, or delivering meals to shut-ins. You won't just make it a once a week gig; you'll throw yourself into it wholeheartedly, and soon you have an entire little social world with the other volunteers, and your wife points out that you might have well have just kept on working. You explain it's all about the satisfaction of making a difference in the world, but her eyes have glazed over by that point in the conversation.
Eventually she retires and you start retirement in earnest. You buy the big motor home you'd always wanted--fully decked out with satellite t.v. and a jacuzzi tub. Of course it costs more to fill it with gas and pay for campsite rentals than it would have cost you to fly around to four star hotels, but you delude yourself into thinking you're getting in touch with the great outdoors. In fact you're simply learning how long small town garages can milk repair jobs while you are stuck in a cockroach-infested motel eating barely digestible meals at the local greasy spoon.
One day when you're struggling to get the fifth wheel unhooked from the truck you strain your back. You end up in hospital for a few days, and have to hire someone to drive the camper back while you and your wife fly home. That ends your camping days.
You try going back to the volunteering, but the back problems limit your ability to be much help, and you give it up. Meanwhile, now your wife is showing the same restlessness you felt when you first retired, and she directs her energy into her garden, soon winning prizes at local produce fairs with her vegetables and flowers. You become a fixture in your recliner, and watch your waistline grow as you wear the numbers off the t.v. remote.
Your wife becomes more and more involved in her gardening club, and soon is heading off too conventions all over the country. You notice she doesn't seem to mind too much when you beg off, and you also wonder why the gardening club has so many late weeknight meetings. You're taken by surprise when she files for divorce and shacks up with a man ten years younger.
Hey, but you can still come visit us here, right? You know where the Christmas party is, by the way? Nobody seems to want to tell me.
Oh hi. No, I'm done with appointments--at Christmas they don't much care for the future beyond how long it's going to take to get to the airport, ski hill or shopping mall. Want a shot? Here--I don't normally keep a bottle in here, of course, but 'tis the season.
Me? Not a whole lot, I guess. I mean, the kids will do the obligatory thing on the 26th or maybe the 27th--we haven't pinned that down yet. Son's got to work apparently so he can't do more than maybe a lunch, he says. Daughter wonders if I'd be hurt if she accepted her boyfriend's offer to go with his family to Aspen. Probably best to go along with it than have her come over and sulk.
Presents? I give gift certificates--music stores mostly. What about you? Really--just three months? I didn't realize you weren't even going to finish out the school year. Me? No, I just look like I should be close to packing it in. Must be the fluorescent lights in here--that or the smokes and the Jack Daniels. Sorry--don't mean to get maudlin.
Really? You want me to give you my career advice on retirement? I never really thought anyone would ever ask that. I usually tell most of the kids to expect to be dead or bankrupt by 60--saves them coming back and saying I built up their hopes, you know? Easiest not to expect much, I've learned--then you don't end up disappointed.
So--retirement, huh? Well, you're what--56? Wow--if I hadn't gotten divorced I'd probably be able to go at 58. Now my bank account says that isn't in the cards. Anyway, 'nough about me.
So, you'll probably have all these great ideas about travel and adventure, right? But how old's your wife--she retiring? Aha--just as I thought. So you'll retire and want to get moving on with the adventures, but she still has the workaday thing to do, so you'll go play golf and putter around the garden while she resents you as she has to get up and go into her daily grind.
Eventually she'll get her three weeks vacation and you'll suggest something exotic--like backpacking in the Himilayas--but she'll just want a beach, a chair and a pitcher of margaritas. You'll settle for something in between--a cruise that includes "the best of both" and delivers little more than intestinal parasites that leave you in the fetal position for two weeks.
She goes back to work and you get bored, so you take her advice and volunteer for a variety of good causes--maybe the soup kitchen, or reading for the blind, or delivering meals to shut-ins. You won't just make it a once a week gig; you'll throw yourself into it wholeheartedly, and soon you have an entire little social world with the other volunteers, and your wife points out that you might have well have just kept on working. You explain it's all about the satisfaction of making a difference in the world, but her eyes have glazed over by that point in the conversation.
Eventually she retires and you start retirement in earnest. You buy the big motor home you'd always wanted--fully decked out with satellite t.v. and a jacuzzi tub. Of course it costs more to fill it with gas and pay for campsite rentals than it would have cost you to fly around to four star hotels, but you delude yourself into thinking you're getting in touch with the great outdoors. In fact you're simply learning how long small town garages can milk repair jobs while you are stuck in a cockroach-infested motel eating barely digestible meals at the local greasy spoon.
One day when you're struggling to get the fifth wheel unhooked from the truck you strain your back. You end up in hospital for a few days, and have to hire someone to drive the camper back while you and your wife fly home. That ends your camping days.
You try going back to the volunteering, but the back problems limit your ability to be much help, and you give it up. Meanwhile, now your wife is showing the same restlessness you felt when you first retired, and she directs her energy into her garden, soon winning prizes at local produce fairs with her vegetables and flowers. You become a fixture in your recliner, and watch your waistline grow as you wear the numbers off the t.v. remote.
Your wife becomes more and more involved in her gardening club, and soon is heading off too conventions all over the country. You notice she doesn't seem to mind too much when you beg off, and you also wonder why the gardening club has so many late weeknight meetings. You're taken by surprise when she files for divorce and shacks up with a man ten years younger.
Hey, but you can still come visit us here, right? You know where the Christmas party is, by the way? Nobody seems to want to tell me.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Poetry by Dythandra
Satan's Little Helper
'Twas two weeks before Xmas
And I made the mistake
Of choosing the mall
As a shortcut to take.
I'd forgotten the crush,
The stench of the crowd
And the holiday music
Played annoyingly loud.
Still, I must carry on,
Now the decision is made
'Nought to fear in these shops
Why should I be afraid?
Sure I'm thinner, I'm darker,
More nocturnal than most
But I'd chill with Jack Skellington
Or Scrooge's chain-rattlin' ghost.
I'm two-thirds of the way
Through the holiday madness
When a sight fills my heart
With some holiday gladness.
She was just a year older,
When I, a troubled sophomore,
Was sent by well-meaning others
Through the peer counseling door.
She attempted to "reach me"
Her advice was unheeded,
'Til one day she discovered
'Twas just friendship I needed.
Things then gradually got better,
And I thought she was great,
We'd share hopes and our dreams
On our weekly lunch date.
Still it felt like a dagger
When a boy she might mention,
See, she thought we were friends,
But I had other intentions.
Sadly my mentor was
Taken from me,
By repercussions arising
From unplanned pregnancy.
I suggested she end it--
"Go see Planned Parenthood",
But her Catholic parents,
Thought that wasn't so good.
So without one goodbye
Due to all of this drama
My friend suddenly vanished
To go live with her Grandma.
Now two years have passed,
Since she was torn from my side,
But here she's running toward me,
And she's clutching her side.
"Oh hi--it's Dythandra..."
She gasps out a name,
That others dismissed
As a silly girl's game.
I nod, she continues;
"Long time no see,"
I ask her what's wrong
But she suddenly flees.
I follow behind her
To the washroom--she's quick
There she spends the next minutes
Being violently sick.
While I'm trying to help her
I think to myself
Why is this poor sickly girl
Dressed up like an elf?
"Can you help me?" she moans
When the spasms have expired,
"If I go home on a Saturday,
I think I'll be fired."
She goes on to explain
'Bout her gainful employ
Taking photos of Santa
With young girls and young boys.
Had it been anyone else,
I'd have rejected the plea
But one look in those eyes
Simply mesmerized me.
I was troubled to remember
How I missed the warning
When two years before,
She'd get sick every morning.
And as if she could read,
My thoughts as they grew,
She looked up and assured me
"It's only the flu."
Then as if in a dream,
And in spite of myself
I was suddenly clad
In the garb of an elf.
The kids were excited,
Loud, rambunctious, elated
While St. Nick just sat there,
In a job that he hated.
"What should I ask for?"
So many they wonder,
And with the worst of intentions
I deliberately blunder.
"Try asking your father
To come straight home from work,
When he lives at the bar,
It just proves he's a jerk.
Or tell mommy to buy you
A new bike instead,
Of treatments that botox
The lines on her head.
Better yet, ditch this place
With its sentiments fake,
And spend holiday cash
Where a difference you'll make.
Some nice cosy blankets
Would surely be pleasing
For the folks who on cold
Downtown streets are found freezing.
Or send a donation
To those folks who try
To give the impoverished
A safe water supply."
Alarmed at my sentiments,
As I burst her kid's bubble,
One mom fetches the manager
To come give me trouble.
"Hey, you're the not the one
Where's the regular elf?"
Clearly he'd never hire
One so strange as myself."
"Leave that poor girl alone,"
A deep voice suddenly rumbles,
Santa stands up and a child
From his knee gently tumbles.
"Stay out of this Jack,"
He dismisses St. Nick,
His target is chosen
And he'll finish me quick.
"No I won't," Santa says
With a gleam in his eye,
"If you get rid of her,
Then I'm saying goodbye.
I've sat here quite meekly
And watched you destroy,
The true meaning of Christmas,
To sell a few toys."
The manager's ready
To shout at this Claus,
When he's stopped by the sound
Of bystanders' applause.
"Nevermind." Then he's gone
Santa gives me high five,
And goes back to his place
Now more strangely alive.
I'm thankful, though his good will
Might sorely be tested,
If he remembered last year
I nearly had him arrested.
I feel I've been weak,
And it's rather annoying
That I've given voice to thoughts
That I usually find cloying
Just don't get used to the change
That you've seen in myself,
It just must be that I'm dressed
Like a stupid store elf.
Or perhaps that a girl
Whom I once had been stalking
Just happened to be
In the mall I was walking.
My next poem won't be pathetic
It's just holiday timing,
I despise sentiment
And I really hate rhyming.
'Twas two weeks before Xmas
And I made the mistake
Of choosing the mall
As a shortcut to take.
I'd forgotten the crush,
The stench of the crowd
And the holiday music
Played annoyingly loud.
Still, I must carry on,
Now the decision is made
'Nought to fear in these shops
Why should I be afraid?
Sure I'm thinner, I'm darker,
More nocturnal than most
But I'd chill with Jack Skellington
Or Scrooge's chain-rattlin' ghost.
I'm two-thirds of the way
Through the holiday madness
When a sight fills my heart
With some holiday gladness.
She was just a year older,
When I, a troubled sophomore,
Was sent by well-meaning others
Through the peer counseling door.
She attempted to "reach me"
Her advice was unheeded,
'Til one day she discovered
'Twas just friendship I needed.
Things then gradually got better,
And I thought she was great,
We'd share hopes and our dreams
On our weekly lunch date.
Still it felt like a dagger
When a boy she might mention,
See, she thought we were friends,
But I had other intentions.
Sadly my mentor was
Taken from me,
By repercussions arising
From unplanned pregnancy.
I suggested she end it--
"Go see Planned Parenthood",
But her Catholic parents,
Thought that wasn't so good.
So without one goodbye
Due to all of this drama
My friend suddenly vanished
To go live with her Grandma.
Now two years have passed,
Since she was torn from my side,
But here she's running toward me,
And she's clutching her side.
"Oh hi--it's Dythandra..."
She gasps out a name,
That others dismissed
As a silly girl's game.
I nod, she continues;
"Long time no see,"
I ask her what's wrong
But she suddenly flees.
I follow behind her
To the washroom--she's quick
There she spends the next minutes
Being violently sick.
While I'm trying to help her
I think to myself
Why is this poor sickly girl
Dressed up like an elf?
"Can you help me?" she moans
When the spasms have expired,
"If I go home on a Saturday,
I think I'll be fired."
She goes on to explain
'Bout her gainful employ
Taking photos of Santa
With young girls and young boys.
Had it been anyone else,
I'd have rejected the plea
But one look in those eyes
Simply mesmerized me.
I was troubled to remember
How I missed the warning
When two years before,
She'd get sick every morning.
And as if she could read,
My thoughts as they grew,
She looked up and assured me
"It's only the flu."
Then as if in a dream,
And in spite of myself
I was suddenly clad
In the garb of an elf.
The kids were excited,
Loud, rambunctious, elated
While St. Nick just sat there,
In a job that he hated.
"What should I ask for?"
So many they wonder,
And with the worst of intentions
I deliberately blunder.
"Try asking your father
To come straight home from work,
When he lives at the bar,
It just proves he's a jerk.
Or tell mommy to buy you
A new bike instead,
Of treatments that botox
The lines on her head.
Better yet, ditch this place
With its sentiments fake,
And spend holiday cash
Where a difference you'll make.
Some nice cosy blankets
Would surely be pleasing
For the folks who on cold
Downtown streets are found freezing.
Or send a donation
To those folks who try
To give the impoverished
A safe water supply."
Alarmed at my sentiments,
As I burst her kid's bubble,
One mom fetches the manager
To come give me trouble.
"Hey, you're the not the one
Where's the regular elf?"
Clearly he'd never hire
One so strange as myself."
"Leave that poor girl alone,"
A deep voice suddenly rumbles,
Santa stands up and a child
From his knee gently tumbles.
"Stay out of this Jack,"
He dismisses St. Nick,
His target is chosen
And he'll finish me quick.
"No I won't," Santa says
With a gleam in his eye,
"If you get rid of her,
Then I'm saying goodbye.
I've sat here quite meekly
And watched you destroy,
The true meaning of Christmas,
To sell a few toys."
The manager's ready
To shout at this Claus,
When he's stopped by the sound
Of bystanders' applause.
"Nevermind." Then he's gone
Santa gives me high five,
And goes back to his place
Now more strangely alive.
I'm thankful, though his good will
Might sorely be tested,
If he remembered last year
I nearly had him arrested.
I feel I've been weak,
And it's rather annoying
That I've given voice to thoughts
That I usually find cloying
Just don't get used to the change
That you've seen in myself,
It just must be that I'm dressed
Like a stupid store elf.
Or perhaps that a girl
Whom I once had been stalking
Just happened to be
In the mall I was walking.
My next poem won't be pathetic
It's just holiday timing,
I despise sentiment
And I really hate rhyming.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains High School Literature
Madame Bovary
So I come back to school this fall and I look at my schedule and there's this "Advanced Novel" course or something and I'm like all "What happened to Mechanics III?" and the counselor's all "You have to repeat Math since you flunked it last year and so your schedule didn't work" and I'm all "But this is like some AP course" and he's all "If you limited your weed to weekends you could probably do it" and I'm all "Whattya mean, I don't smoke any..." and he's all "Do I look like I was born yesterday" and I figure that's a good time to shut up and then he says apparently from some sort of IQ test I took back before the recreational smoking got outta hand I scored "Well into the slightly above average test range".
So here I am. And it's full of hella smart kids and the first thing they make us read is Madame Bovary. And I'm like all "Woo-hoo--it's short". That's the only good thing to say about it.
In this course we have to look for all this symbolicisms and stuff. So I figure the title's a symbol cause it sounds like 'bovine' and 'ovary' and it made me think of what my mom says when I go in and outta the house when I'm working on my car--did I ever tell you I bought a 69 Plymouth Duster this summer? It's bitchin' and I'm gonna put a shift kit in it but I'm gettin' kinda pissed at some of my so-called friends who sneak into the driveway at night and pull all the spark plug cables off the distributor cap--Do you know anybody who's got their firing order memorized to put those things back? Oh wait--
Yeah, so when I keep goin' in and out of the house my old lady's all "Close the door--were you born in a barn?" So I say something about the whole "Bovary is bovine ovary" and the smart AP French girls start arguing and one calls me an idiot and then the other says something about this guy named "Tuvache" and then the first one yells at her in French and one of them says "No, you're a cow".
Anyway, this Emma chick is all "I want a life like the romance novels" and then she marries this doctor but he's crappy so soon she's all "Life sucks" and then she's a whore. Well, and she has a kid and then the kids says "Mommy pay attention to me" and she's all "No, I'm busy being a whore."
And then she gets sick but really just her boyfriend ditched her (well and maybe she had the hep) and her husband is all "poor baby" but she's just skanky but he's too stupid to know. (Kinda like if Homer Simpson was a doctor and married Vegas Mom only instead of Marge.)
But then she gets better cause she has other guys and he's all still "I'm stupid and a crappy doctor" and she's all "I have to shop and buy more stuff" and he's all "okay dear" and she's all "I have to go to another town for music lessons but really I'm having an affair there" and he's all "Okay but I met your music teacher and she didn't know you" and she's all "Shut up stupid it's someone with the same name" and he's all "d'oh".
And then I think she dies. But not of bovarian... Ouch. Somebody just smacked me in the head with their book. I hate this class.
So I come back to school this fall and I look at my schedule and there's this "Advanced Novel" course or something and I'm like all "What happened to Mechanics III?" and the counselor's all "You have to repeat Math since you flunked it last year and so your schedule didn't work" and I'm all "But this is like some AP course" and he's all "If you limited your weed to weekends you could probably do it" and I'm all "Whattya mean, I don't smoke any..." and he's all "Do I look like I was born yesterday" and I figure that's a good time to shut up and then he says apparently from some sort of IQ test I took back before the recreational smoking got outta hand I scored "Well into the slightly above average test range".
So here I am. And it's full of hella smart kids and the first thing they make us read is Madame Bovary. And I'm like all "Woo-hoo--it's short". That's the only good thing to say about it.
In this course we have to look for all this symbolicisms and stuff. So I figure the title's a symbol cause it sounds like 'bovine' and 'ovary' and it made me think of what my mom says when I go in and outta the house when I'm working on my car--did I ever tell you I bought a 69 Plymouth Duster this summer? It's bitchin' and I'm gonna put a shift kit in it but I'm gettin' kinda pissed at some of my so-called friends who sneak into the driveway at night and pull all the spark plug cables off the distributor cap--Do you know anybody who's got their firing order memorized to put those things back? Oh wait--
Yeah, so when I keep goin' in and out of the house my old lady's all "Close the door--were you born in a barn?" So I say something about the whole "Bovary is bovine ovary" and the smart AP French girls start arguing and one calls me an idiot and then the other says something about this guy named "Tuvache" and then the first one yells at her in French and one of them says "No, you're a cow".
Anyway, this Emma chick is all "I want a life like the romance novels" and then she marries this doctor but he's crappy so soon she's all "Life sucks" and then she's a whore. Well, and she has a kid and then the kids says "Mommy pay attention to me" and she's all "No, I'm busy being a whore."
And then she gets sick but really just her boyfriend ditched her (well and maybe she had the hep) and her husband is all "poor baby" but she's just skanky but he's too stupid to know. (Kinda like if Homer Simpson was a doctor and married Vegas Mom only instead of Marge.)
But then she gets better cause she has other guys and he's all still "I'm stupid and a crappy doctor" and she's all "I have to shop and buy more stuff" and he's all "okay dear" and she's all "I have to go to another town for music lessons but really I'm having an affair there" and he's all "Okay but I met your music teacher and she didn't know you" and she's all "Shut up stupid it's someone with the same name" and he's all "d'oh".
And then I think she dies. But not of bovarian... Ouch. Somebody just smacked me in the head with their book. I hate this class.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Nanowrimo
It's very close to that time again folks--National Novel Writing Month.
Just as I have Amelia to thank (or blame) for getting me started on blogging a few years ago, I can thank Camila for introducing me to this event, which I rather foolishly attempted in 2005. (I was trying to complete a masters and working full time and... well, it was silly of me.)
I think maybe I got about 1/4 through and crashed.
Back then I, as many others do, created an online location where my novel was posted as it was being created. I shared it only with others doing the same thing, and maybe one or two privileged souls. I remember reading the one that Camila had written the year before (what was she, maybe 11?) and thinking it very good.
This time I'm ready. At least I like to think so. It's a marathon of words and I feel like I have a little better idea of how to start this grind. Plus--no masters.
I invite you to consider joining me in this adventure. The website, if you want to sign up is nanowrimo.org.
I don't know who of my nano "buddies" will be doing it again this year; I know Camila has said she's on board, and I suspect that Katie H. will be finding art school too crazy busy to allow the time. As for Bayley, well, I have sent her a message but I don't know.
But there are others among you. If she were not leaving for India during the month, this would be a great thing for Milly to try during her year off school. I think, from what I've read, that 'neuroticmom' could do a biting satire behind the scenes of a legal office, and I think 'Jourdan' is also someone whose skills would be up to the challenge.
I don't know if Jenny P. could turn road rage into a full length book :P
or if Berkeley G's dysfunctional roommate anectdotes would provide enough fodder for this sort of project.
If Ella still visits, I think her work stories alone would fill a book, and her adolescence yet another.
Dustin, based on your improv, I think you might be able to pull it off (and maybe turn it into English credit to make up for unavoidable class absences).
If I haven't mentioned you, that doesn't mean I don't extend the invitation.
Think about it.
I'm not sure how free I'll be with the address of wherever I end up posting my novel attempt. I will, of course, give it to anyone else attempting their own, and hope that they reciprocate.
I could just create a new blog with this i.d., then all you'd have to do is check my profile and there it would be. Alternately, I could use the profile of another, less public writing place, but then anyone who finds the novel gets that. Hmm.
Likely I'll make it available to anyone who visits here.
The gauntlet is down.
Just as I have Amelia to thank (or blame) for getting me started on blogging a few years ago, I can thank Camila for introducing me to this event, which I rather foolishly attempted in 2005. (I was trying to complete a masters and working full time and... well, it was silly of me.)
I think maybe I got about 1/4 through and crashed.
Back then I, as many others do, created an online location where my novel was posted as it was being created. I shared it only with others doing the same thing, and maybe one or two privileged souls. I remember reading the one that Camila had written the year before (what was she, maybe 11?) and thinking it very good.
This time I'm ready. At least I like to think so. It's a marathon of words and I feel like I have a little better idea of how to start this grind. Plus--no masters.
I invite you to consider joining me in this adventure. The website, if you want to sign up is nanowrimo.org.
I don't know who of my nano "buddies" will be doing it again this year; I know Camila has said she's on board, and I suspect that Katie H. will be finding art school too crazy busy to allow the time. As for Bayley, well, I have sent her a message but I don't know.
But there are others among you. If she were not leaving for India during the month, this would be a great thing for Milly to try during her year off school. I think, from what I've read, that 'neuroticmom' could do a biting satire behind the scenes of a legal office, and I think 'Jourdan' is also someone whose skills would be up to the challenge.
I don't know if Jenny P. could turn road rage into a full length book :P
or if Berkeley G's dysfunctional roommate anectdotes would provide enough fodder for this sort of project.
If Ella still visits, I think her work stories alone would fill a book, and her adolescence yet another.
Dustin, based on your improv, I think you might be able to pull it off (and maybe turn it into English credit to make up for unavoidable class absences).
If I haven't mentioned you, that doesn't mean I don't extend the invitation.
Think about it.
I'm not sure how free I'll be with the address of wherever I end up posting my novel attempt. I will, of course, give it to anyone else attempting their own, and hope that they reciprocate.
I could just create a new blog with this i.d., then all you'd have to do is check my profile and there it would be. Alternately, I could use the profile of another, less public writing place, but then anyone who finds the novel gets that. Hmm.
Likely I'll make it available to anyone who visits here.
The gauntlet is down.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Yeah we are
And if the weather stays the way it's been this week, this has to be true.
Y'all come visit sometime.
(and oops--I posted this in the wrong place first)
Y'all come visit sometime.
(and oops--I posted this in the wrong place first)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
day after summer
I know it's been three CCC posts in a row. I'm also not feeling those posts as much--I want to write them, but then they feel too long and all the same to me. I think I'm actually in the right mindframe for Nanowrimo to start in a little over a week.
Weird news from the mainland last week. Drug shooting leaves six dead in an apartment building, but two were innocent bystanders--one of whom was just a gas repair guy there to fix a fireplace. No signs that they've got any good leads on the killers, just that it's gang related.
Also, a small plane crashes into a 15 story condo building. Turns out the pilot, who was flying by himself, was 82 years old. I don't even think most amateur pilots of any age are wise to fly alone, and I wouldn't trust my father or my father in law--both 82--to drive a car in rush hour, never mind fly around one of the busiest airports in the country.
I guess people who didn't think to buy insurance weren't counting on this.
Yesterday set a temperature record for that date in October. It was around 20 degrees--or close to 70. No wind, beautiful day--I even went for a run.
I hesitate to write much these days here 'cause I've got local readers who I don't know--so maybe I'll put more on my other writing place; if you are from elsewhere and want the link, let me know. Suffice to say I feel like venting about the show a bit, plus I'm kind of down about having to say some goodbyes very shortly.
I need to sort out about 10 major things very soon. Should go start, I guess.
Weird news from the mainland last week. Drug shooting leaves six dead in an apartment building, but two were innocent bystanders--one of whom was just a gas repair guy there to fix a fireplace. No signs that they've got any good leads on the killers, just that it's gang related.
Also, a small plane crashes into a 15 story condo building. Turns out the pilot, who was flying by himself, was 82 years old. I don't even think most amateur pilots of any age are wise to fly alone, and I wouldn't trust my father or my father in law--both 82--to drive a car in rush hour, never mind fly around one of the busiest airports in the country.
I guess people who didn't think to buy insurance weren't counting on this.
Yesterday set a temperature record for that date in October. It was around 20 degrees--or close to 70. No wind, beautiful day--I even went for a run.
I hesitate to write much these days here 'cause I've got local readers who I don't know--so maybe I'll put more on my other writing place; if you are from elsewhere and want the link, let me know. Suffice to say I feel like venting about the show a bit, plus I'm kind of down about having to say some goodbyes very shortly.
I need to sort out about 10 major things very soon. Should go start, I guess.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Productivity Consultant
Hi there--right on time, come on in. I see you've already dropped off a resumé and a synopsis of what you want to discuss today. Do you even really need to hear anything I have to say? Data collection? I guess you could call it that. My car? Yeah, I know it's probably not the best on gas mileage, and it does seem to end up in the repair shop a lot but... Hey--this is about your future, not me, right?
"Productivity consultant"? Hmm--that sounds to me like what we used to call "efficiency experts". You're talking about one those people who businesses hire to show them how to improve the profit margin, right? Well, it's not a quick path to popularity, but I suspect that won't matter much to you if you're really into this.
You'll go to some college where you probably have family and can live cheap in their basement while you get your degree in economics or business. You'll take electives studying the works of Ayn Rand while your main courses teach you all about Keynes and Locke and all that philosophy of economics and stuff. You'll do your required work experience in the college credit counseling office, where you'll quickly become convinced that most of your peers are morons--or are you there already?
After you graduate you'll sniff around a few consulting firms, but nobody's interested in some kid just out of college, and you find yourself unimpressed by the fancy lobbies and high-end water coolers that some of these companies have sitting out for the public. It's simply not cost-effective, as far as you're concerned.
You finally decide to set up your own firm. You realize you won't find clients rushing to your crappy storefront location in the bad part of town--all you can afford--but you begin surreptitiously visiting your target businesses and jotting down a dozen ways each can shave costs, then mailing your thoughts to their owners and managers, along with your business card and an offer for a complementary consultation.
A few bite, and one meeting with you convinces them you're wise beyond your years. Soon you're dropping off 200-page reports with detailed cost-benefit analyses, but you are disappointed to discover that no more than a third of your suggestions are ever implemented. When you question the clients, they explain that some of your cuts seem simply too cruel--laying off the loyal 20-year secretary to replace her with a call center based in India, or slashing the employee health-benefits package by choosing a cheaper but disreputable HMO for medical services.
You begin writing letters and editorials for the most fiscally conservative of the financial publications, and after two years you collect your essays and letters into a book: "The Courage to Compete".
You also find your notariety isn't always positive in nature. Unions and anti-poverty groups begin quoting you--out of context, as far as you're concerned--as evidence of the soul-less nature of big business. Employers keep secret the fact that they've attended your 'slash and burn' business seminars.
You still keep consulting--it's your bread and butter--but you notice an annoying trend. Whenever word gets out that your company is doing an efficiency audit, or your vehicles show up at corporate offices, suddenly all the employees are on their best behavior. Video games vanish from break rooms, and lunches are suddenly 29 minutes, rather than 50. You find that most of the data your compile is tainted by this false work ethic that hampers your ability to ferret out the shirkers and the deadwood.
You hit upon a brilliant solution: You'll go undercover. You take a new approach; when you get a new client you send members of your team most comforable with that particular industry or business to work as new employees, who in truth are reporting daily back to you. Usually two weeks of research is all that's needed; employee theft, truancy and incompetence are all dealt with mercilessly.
You even enjoy the occasional foray into an undercover job yourself. You're still relatively young, and you delight in the pompous pronouncements of jaded, lazy corporate slugs who take you under their wing in hopes of keeping you unproductive and non-threatening. You even secretly tape some of their juicier cynical observations.
Just out of curiosity--you're not taping this interview, are you? Good.
Your ego will be your downfall. You'll make a lot of enemies along the way, but you drive a nondescript vehicle, live in a high-security residential complex, and have no kids to be targeted. In fact, you have relatively little social life because you find it a waste of valuable working hours.
You will, though, have employees who become friends of a sort. You'll come to rely on two of them--a guy you got to know in college and hired in the early days, and a ruthless girl you dated for a while and although that didn't work out, you respected her cutthroat approach to business.
Late in the fiscal year, as businesses realize there are some heads to roll when the financial report cards are shared with stockholders, is always your busiest time. This one particular time you're supervising the audit of a transcontinental trucking company, your male partner is overseeing a hospital analysis, while your female partner is running point on a major grocery chain's examination. You're up late working on your findings when your male partner gives you a call.
"I've found something pretty big," he whispers. I think I want you to come here and help me sneak some files out. At least bring the microcamera and we can get some proof before someone figures out they should've shredded all this.
You jump in your car and head to the hospital. It's almost midnight, and you part next to your partners car and flash your headlights. He opens a side door and lets you in. When you get up to the room the filing cabinets are empty. You look around, but nothing. You ask your partner what's up, but he smiles.
Seems your enemies have taken a page out of your book--work from within. Turns out he'd been working for the hospital union after they got wind of his audit and arranged a compromising blackmail situation. He soon saw their side of the argument, and he's being well paid to help arrange your tragic fall down an out of service elevator shaft.
Your funeral will be poorly attended, but it will be short, and very efficient.
Hi there--right on time, come on in. I see you've already dropped off a resumé and a synopsis of what you want to discuss today. Do you even really need to hear anything I have to say? Data collection? I guess you could call it that. My car? Yeah, I know it's probably not the best on gas mileage, and it does seem to end up in the repair shop a lot but... Hey--this is about your future, not me, right?
"Productivity consultant"? Hmm--that sounds to me like what we used to call "efficiency experts". You're talking about one those people who businesses hire to show them how to improve the profit margin, right? Well, it's not a quick path to popularity, but I suspect that won't matter much to you if you're really into this.
You'll go to some college where you probably have family and can live cheap in their basement while you get your degree in economics or business. You'll take electives studying the works of Ayn Rand while your main courses teach you all about Keynes and Locke and all that philosophy of economics and stuff. You'll do your required work experience in the college credit counseling office, where you'll quickly become convinced that most of your peers are morons--or are you there already?
After you graduate you'll sniff around a few consulting firms, but nobody's interested in some kid just out of college, and you find yourself unimpressed by the fancy lobbies and high-end water coolers that some of these companies have sitting out for the public. It's simply not cost-effective, as far as you're concerned.
You finally decide to set up your own firm. You realize you won't find clients rushing to your crappy storefront location in the bad part of town--all you can afford--but you begin surreptitiously visiting your target businesses and jotting down a dozen ways each can shave costs, then mailing your thoughts to their owners and managers, along with your business card and an offer for a complementary consultation.
A few bite, and one meeting with you convinces them you're wise beyond your years. Soon you're dropping off 200-page reports with detailed cost-benefit analyses, but you are disappointed to discover that no more than a third of your suggestions are ever implemented. When you question the clients, they explain that some of your cuts seem simply too cruel--laying off the loyal 20-year secretary to replace her with a call center based in India, or slashing the employee health-benefits package by choosing a cheaper but disreputable HMO for medical services.
You begin writing letters and editorials for the most fiscally conservative of the financial publications, and after two years you collect your essays and letters into a book: "The Courage to Compete".
You also find your notariety isn't always positive in nature. Unions and anti-poverty groups begin quoting you--out of context, as far as you're concerned--as evidence of the soul-less nature of big business. Employers keep secret the fact that they've attended your 'slash and burn' business seminars.
You still keep consulting--it's your bread and butter--but you notice an annoying trend. Whenever word gets out that your company is doing an efficiency audit, or your vehicles show up at corporate offices, suddenly all the employees are on their best behavior. Video games vanish from break rooms, and lunches are suddenly 29 minutes, rather than 50. You find that most of the data your compile is tainted by this false work ethic that hampers your ability to ferret out the shirkers and the deadwood.
You hit upon a brilliant solution: You'll go undercover. You take a new approach; when you get a new client you send members of your team most comforable with that particular industry or business to work as new employees, who in truth are reporting daily back to you. Usually two weeks of research is all that's needed; employee theft, truancy and incompetence are all dealt with mercilessly.
You even enjoy the occasional foray into an undercover job yourself. You're still relatively young, and you delight in the pompous pronouncements of jaded, lazy corporate slugs who take you under their wing in hopes of keeping you unproductive and non-threatening. You even secretly tape some of their juicier cynical observations.
Just out of curiosity--you're not taping this interview, are you? Good.
Your ego will be your downfall. You'll make a lot of enemies along the way, but you drive a nondescript vehicle, live in a high-security residential complex, and have no kids to be targeted. In fact, you have relatively little social life because you find it a waste of valuable working hours.
You will, though, have employees who become friends of a sort. You'll come to rely on two of them--a guy you got to know in college and hired in the early days, and a ruthless girl you dated for a while and although that didn't work out, you respected her cutthroat approach to business.
Late in the fiscal year, as businesses realize there are some heads to roll when the financial report cards are shared with stockholders, is always your busiest time. This one particular time you're supervising the audit of a transcontinental trucking company, your male partner is overseeing a hospital analysis, while your female partner is running point on a major grocery chain's examination. You're up late working on your findings when your male partner gives you a call.
"I've found something pretty big," he whispers. I think I want you to come here and help me sneak some files out. At least bring the microcamera and we can get some proof before someone figures out they should've shredded all this.
You jump in your car and head to the hospital. It's almost midnight, and you part next to your partners car and flash your headlights. He opens a side door and lets you in. When you get up to the room the filing cabinets are empty. You look around, but nothing. You ask your partner what's up, but he smiles.
Seems your enemies have taken a page out of your book--work from within. Turns out he'd been working for the hospital union after they got wind of his audit and arranged a compromising blackmail situation. He soon saw their side of the argument, and he's being well paid to help arrange your tragic fall down an out of service elevator shaft.
Your funeral will be poorly attended, but it will be short, and very efficient.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Microbiologist
Hello, have a seat. Oh, yeah, I didn't see that on the chair, let me... Oh, you brought your own sterile wipes? I guess maybe I should keep a case of them around this office.
So, what career strikes your fancy? Microbiologist? Interesting--I have some definite ideas about how this might go:
You'll need to have really good science marks here in high school--you do? Well, that's just a start. Then you'll have to go to university, and not just for four years. If you want to get into real microbiology and not just be some public health inspector, you'll need at least a masters degree and probably a doctorate.
You'll get some on the job experience during lab placements while you're doing your many years of study. Money will be tight, and you'll be tempted to walk on the dark side a few times--shady characters offering you money to help them infect a rival at work during competition for a promotion, or shadowy agents of oppressive regimes looking for biological weapons to poison their own populace, and willing to pay handsomely.
You'll be strong, though, since you have your eye on the prize. When you finish, your work ethic and your intelligence get you a placement in a laboratory studying some of the more difficult 'superbugs' which are spreading due to the rampant inappropriate use of antiobiotics--yeah, I'm talking about your handiwipes, there.
It's lucrative, and you're paid well not only for your regular work, but also for the many hours of overtime you spend in the lab, working late all alone when it's just you and the custodial staff. You get to know a few of them fairly well, so it pains you when you notice they aren't quite keeping certain areas of the lab as clean as they should, and you have to report them. Seems fastidiousness wins over friendship with you. They hold grudges, though, and that will come back to haunt you later.
It's not long before your hard work and long hours begin to pay off and you're being published in prestigious journals. This helps motivate you to work even longer hours, and you have even less of a social life than you had in college. You have another reason, though, for staying so late--you notice little signs that your work is being tampered with. There's not enough to make any definite accusations, but you're sure the custodial staff is exacting their retribution for your earlier ratting them out, and hitting you where it hurts the most--your work.
You mention your suspicions to your supervisor, and all it gets you is a visit with the employee 'wellness' coordinator, who suggests you might want to use some of the 12 weeks of vacation time you've built by not taking a day off in over four years. You explain that work relaxes you, but you also realize that you can't confide in anyone in the lab--they see your accusations against the janitors as the paranoia of a workaholic nearing a breakdown.
You throw yourself back into the research with more vigor, and the grant money and accolades you bring your employers silences any suggestions that you are working too hard. Then one day it happens--the event that changes your life.
There's a technician visiting the lab--apparently a genius who designs electronic scanning and montoring devices that assist in the early detection and identification off a wide variety of diseases and conditions. He's working with some incredibly delicate sensor equipment; your employers have purchased a unit he designed and he's there to set it up for them.
You come back from your lunch break and he calls you over and asks if there is a foreign radio station nearby. He's got some headphones in his hands and asks you to listen. Very faintly you hear the sounds of voices, speaking in some sort of language you don't recognize. There are, however, a few words you can pick out, and for some reason one strikes you as familiar. You tell the tech expert you can't help him, then ask him pointedly to remove his equipment from your table. He's not even supposed to be in this part of the lab, and he'd put his sensor pickup very close to your sample of c difficile baccillus which had just came in from Syria--a troubling and potentially deadly new strain that your were being asked to examine.
You put on your biohazard gear and take the sample into the appropriate area of the lab, and while you are reading the background on it, you recognize one of the words you just heard. It's Aramaic. The sample's abstract description includes some of the names for the condition it creates, and the word you heard means "danger".
You immediately go back to the technician, but he's leaving--says the sensor pickup is probably defective and he'll bring you a new one. You convince him to leave the problem sensor behind, and take it back to the sample and try to hear more. Sure enough, there are other words you notice, and you begin transcribing what you hear on the headphones that become your constant companion.
The next few months are tricky. You know that most of your colleagues feel you are mentally fragile, and without proof you dare not share your discovery--you'd be made a laughingstock. You build your vocabulary of Aramaic, and even take a university extension course on the language. You try to communicate with them, and eventually you are able to notice unusual patterns and even slight pigment shifts in your petri dish--signs, you are sure, of their attempts to respond to you. You even convince yourself that they are particularly fond of Mozart, and you play it in the lab nonstop.
Then disaster strikes. Another lab working on the same strain of bacillus from Syria has a hazmat breach, and two researchers die within 48 hours. Your lab receives instructions from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta that you are to destroy all samples of this dangerous material. You are horrified. Your little community is destined for the incinerator.
You offer to transport the samples to Atlanta yourself, but you are ordered to surrender your petri dishes for destruction.
You then break the rules for the first time in your life. Convinced you are the only hope for a world in miniature, you sneak your microscopic friends away and make a run for it. You are caught within two days, and the media paints you as some sort of double agent who was about to poison the water supply of a major city at the behest of some unspecified foreign regime.
When you are awaiting trial in a federal lockup, you are allowed few visitors, though the psych team from military intelligence meets with you every afternoon. Then, surprisingly, three of the custodians from the lab are allowed to see you. They bring a fourth man with them, and introduce him as Dagon. He's been working downstairs, as a custodian, a recent arrival from the middle east. You hadn't realized it, though, because his English was so good when you first met him as a "technician". He smiles, pulls a little lapel microphone out of his pocket, and tells you "good luck" in his native Aramaic. Then they all laugh and leave.
Your best bet is an insanity plea--you might get work in a sketchy animal testing lab after you serve five years in the pen. I see a painful death from an untreatable strain of rabies in your future.
What's that? No, I don't think you're an elephant--though you could probably lose a couple pounds... No, come back, I didn't mean...
Damn. He'll probably never forget that.
Hello, have a seat. Oh, yeah, I didn't see that on the chair, let me... Oh, you brought your own sterile wipes? I guess maybe I should keep a case of them around this office.
So, what career strikes your fancy? Microbiologist? Interesting--I have some definite ideas about how this might go:
You'll need to have really good science marks here in high school--you do? Well, that's just a start. Then you'll have to go to university, and not just for four years. If you want to get into real microbiology and not just be some public health inspector, you'll need at least a masters degree and probably a doctorate.
You'll get some on the job experience during lab placements while you're doing your many years of study. Money will be tight, and you'll be tempted to walk on the dark side a few times--shady characters offering you money to help them infect a rival at work during competition for a promotion, or shadowy agents of oppressive regimes looking for biological weapons to poison their own populace, and willing to pay handsomely.
You'll be strong, though, since you have your eye on the prize. When you finish, your work ethic and your intelligence get you a placement in a laboratory studying some of the more difficult 'superbugs' which are spreading due to the rampant inappropriate use of antiobiotics--yeah, I'm talking about your handiwipes, there.
It's lucrative, and you're paid well not only for your regular work, but also for the many hours of overtime you spend in the lab, working late all alone when it's just you and the custodial staff. You get to know a few of them fairly well, so it pains you when you notice they aren't quite keeping certain areas of the lab as clean as they should, and you have to report them. Seems fastidiousness wins over friendship with you. They hold grudges, though, and that will come back to haunt you later.
It's not long before your hard work and long hours begin to pay off and you're being published in prestigious journals. This helps motivate you to work even longer hours, and you have even less of a social life than you had in college. You have another reason, though, for staying so late--you notice little signs that your work is being tampered with. There's not enough to make any definite accusations, but you're sure the custodial staff is exacting their retribution for your earlier ratting them out, and hitting you where it hurts the most--your work.
You mention your suspicions to your supervisor, and all it gets you is a visit with the employee 'wellness' coordinator, who suggests you might want to use some of the 12 weeks of vacation time you've built by not taking a day off in over four years. You explain that work relaxes you, but you also realize that you can't confide in anyone in the lab--they see your accusations against the janitors as the paranoia of a workaholic nearing a breakdown.
You throw yourself back into the research with more vigor, and the grant money and accolades you bring your employers silences any suggestions that you are working too hard. Then one day it happens--the event that changes your life.
There's a technician visiting the lab--apparently a genius who designs electronic scanning and montoring devices that assist in the early detection and identification off a wide variety of diseases and conditions. He's working with some incredibly delicate sensor equipment; your employers have purchased a unit he designed and he's there to set it up for them.
You come back from your lunch break and he calls you over and asks if there is a foreign radio station nearby. He's got some headphones in his hands and asks you to listen. Very faintly you hear the sounds of voices, speaking in some sort of language you don't recognize. There are, however, a few words you can pick out, and for some reason one strikes you as familiar. You tell the tech expert you can't help him, then ask him pointedly to remove his equipment from your table. He's not even supposed to be in this part of the lab, and he'd put his sensor pickup very close to your sample of c difficile baccillus which had just came in from Syria--a troubling and potentially deadly new strain that your were being asked to examine.
You put on your biohazard gear and take the sample into the appropriate area of the lab, and while you are reading the background on it, you recognize one of the words you just heard. It's Aramaic. The sample's abstract description includes some of the names for the condition it creates, and the word you heard means "danger".
You immediately go back to the technician, but he's leaving--says the sensor pickup is probably defective and he'll bring you a new one. You convince him to leave the problem sensor behind, and take it back to the sample and try to hear more. Sure enough, there are other words you notice, and you begin transcribing what you hear on the headphones that become your constant companion.
The next few months are tricky. You know that most of your colleagues feel you are mentally fragile, and without proof you dare not share your discovery--you'd be made a laughingstock. You build your vocabulary of Aramaic, and even take a university extension course on the language. You try to communicate with them, and eventually you are able to notice unusual patterns and even slight pigment shifts in your petri dish--signs, you are sure, of their attempts to respond to you. You even convince yourself that they are particularly fond of Mozart, and you play it in the lab nonstop.
Then disaster strikes. Another lab working on the same strain of bacillus from Syria has a hazmat breach, and two researchers die within 48 hours. Your lab receives instructions from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta that you are to destroy all samples of this dangerous material. You are horrified. Your little community is destined for the incinerator.
You offer to transport the samples to Atlanta yourself, but you are ordered to surrender your petri dishes for destruction.
You then break the rules for the first time in your life. Convinced you are the only hope for a world in miniature, you sneak your microscopic friends away and make a run for it. You are caught within two days, and the media paints you as some sort of double agent who was about to poison the water supply of a major city at the behest of some unspecified foreign regime.
When you are awaiting trial in a federal lockup, you are allowed few visitors, though the psych team from military intelligence meets with you every afternoon. Then, surprisingly, three of the custodians from the lab are allowed to see you. They bring a fourth man with them, and introduce him as Dagon. He's been working downstairs, as a custodian, a recent arrival from the middle east. You hadn't realized it, though, because his English was so good when you first met him as a "technician". He smiles, pulls a little lapel microphone out of his pocket, and tells you "good luck" in his native Aramaic. Then they all laugh and leave.
Your best bet is an insanity plea--you might get work in a sketchy animal testing lab after you serve five years in the pen. I see a painful death from an untreatable strain of rabies in your future.
What's that? No, I don't think you're an elephant--though you could probably lose a couple pounds... No, come back, I didn't mean...
Damn. He'll probably never forget that.
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