M.K. Alexander's Blog, page 7
April 8, 2018
Learning Russian in 1957
To be a proper time traveler, one must master more than time and space, one must master many languages...
Grigori pointed to the store. “Magazin,” he repeated over and over until I echoed the word. Then he thrusted three coins in my hand.
“Rubles?” I asked.
“Da. Troika.” He held up three fingers, “Troika,” he repeated slowly.
It probably meant three.
“Vodka,” he said and pantomimed drinking from a bottle.
I understood that.
“Butylka.” He held up one finger and then motioned to the store again. My mission was clear enough.
The village market, or what passed for a mall, was really like a series of shops all connected along one side of the town square. Over time, I learned it was operated by a single family. They had the only refrigerator in town. There was a general store with a few items: dry goods, soap, clothes, medicines. There was another section that was a grocery store with canned goods mainly. The shelves were generally bare, and the few pitiful items that were there might sit for weeks at a time: dusty boxes and tins filled with unidentifiable products. The butcher shop was almost always empty, certainly devoid of meat, except on Tuesdays when there was line for sausages.
The shop doubled as a community center; maybe what could be construed as a cafe or restaurant. It had a few rickety tables and chairs where people would often sit for the day drinking tea, or to eat something from the bakery next door. Today it was just a half liter bottle of vodka for Grigori. Mission accomplished.
I didn’t learn till later that pretty much everything in the village cost a troika, three rubles, goods and services. Fix a fence? A troika… Mend a sweater, a bicycle, a broken window or a leaky faucet— a troika… A taxi ride to the next town over? Bus fare to Moscow? It was no coincidence that a troika would buy you a half liter bottle of government vodka.
Note:
A short excerpt from Red City, the fifth book in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series, due in early May.
Grigori pointed to the store. “Magazin,” he repeated over and over until I echoed the word. Then he thrusted three coins in my hand.
“Rubles?” I asked.
“Da. Troika.” He held up three fingers, “Troika,” he repeated slowly.
It probably meant three.
“Vodka,” he said and pantomimed drinking from a bottle.
I understood that.
“Butylka.” He held up one finger and then motioned to the store again. My mission was clear enough.
The village market, or what passed for a mall, was really like a series of shops all connected along one side of the town square. Over time, I learned it was operated by a single family. They had the only refrigerator in town. There was a general store with a few items: dry goods, soap, clothes, medicines. There was another section that was a grocery store with canned goods mainly. The shelves were generally bare, and the few pitiful items that were there might sit for weeks at a time: dusty boxes and tins filled with unidentifiable products. The butcher shop was almost always empty, certainly devoid of meat, except on Tuesdays when there was line for sausages.
The shop doubled as a community center; maybe what could be construed as a cafe or restaurant. It had a few rickety tables and chairs where people would often sit for the day drinking tea, or to eat something from the bakery next door. Today it was just a half liter bottle of vodka for Grigori. Mission accomplished.
I didn’t learn till later that pretty much everything in the village cost a troika, three rubles, goods and services. Fix a fence? A troika… Mend a sweater, a bicycle, a broken window or a leaky faucet— a troika… A taxi ride to the next town over? Bus fare to Moscow? It was no coincidence that a troika would buy you a half liter bottle of government vodka.
Note:
A short excerpt from Red City, the fifth book in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series, due in early May.
April 2, 2018
Happy Easter Giveaway
Not being religious, I will say Happy Spring to all. Being a climate-change denier, I will just mention that it snowed here today in the northeast...
Otherwise,
Happy Easter belated, if you abide by the Gregorian calendar. Happy Easter to come if you're a Julian kind of person and adhere to orthodox dictates... Happy passover as well, belated.
What has all this to do with Low City, Book 3 in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series?
Not very much, except to say all these books are filled to the brim with easter eggs of a sort.
If you've read Sand City and/or Jump City, (books 1 and 2 respectively), here's a chance to win Book 3, Low City.
Yes, an amazon giveaway... yes, an ebook...
10 copies to be won by a random drawing.
Good luck and enjoy...
https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/120f6ab...
Otherwise,
Happy Easter belated, if you abide by the Gregorian calendar. Happy Easter to come if you're a Julian kind of person and adhere to orthodox dictates... Happy passover as well, belated.
What has all this to do with Low City, Book 3 in the Tractus Fynn Mystery Series?
Not very much, except to say all these books are filled to the brim with easter eggs of a sort.
If you've read Sand City and/or Jump City, (books 1 and 2 respectively), here's a chance to win Book 3, Low City.
Yes, an amazon giveaway... yes, an ebook...
10 copies to be won by a random drawing.
Good luck and enjoy...
https://giveaway.amazon.com/p/120f6ab...
March 25, 2018
Top Ten Time Traveling Animals
1. Dinosaurs
Though long extinct, these bothersome creatures are always intruding in our present. Why can't they stay on their side of the K-T Boundary? Lost in time, often resurrected, or otherwise transported.
2. Monkeys
More properly Simians, and hell-bent on taking over the earth from us, their cousins. Perhaps they’ll do a better job with the place than we have. Also see: Moneys— as in twelve of them.
3. Dogs
And this one in particular, named Peabody, and his boy, Sherman. I often run into them in the past, meddling with events they cannot possibly understand. Someday I’ll find this way-back machine of theirs and put a stop to them once and for all.
4. Butterflies
Effectively appearing out of nowhere and flapping their wings (usually on a Texas prairie) to wreak chaos on our weather systems, notably causing El Nino effects worldwide.
5. Bears
Bears of all kinds, brown, black, bipolar or otherwise, pandering to the past or the future… Even gummy bears, too often trod under foot.
6. Mice
Usually not by choice, these rodents are most often victims of diabolical experiments. The best laid plans sometimes go awry.
7. Lions
As in relation to witches and wardrobes.
8. Rabbits
Who seem to be perpetually running late, said Alice.
9. Cats
(excluding lions) Sometimes as companion travelers (as in carry-on luggage) or on their own; they like to think out-of-the-box, specifically Shrödinger’s box.
10. Cthulhu
(and his offspring) From the dim primeval past, he ever-promises to emerge in the near future, bringing disaster with him.
Honorable Mention:
Whales
As in abducted to the distant future
As in, “There be whales aboard, Captain.”
adapted from the Tractus Fynn feed:
https://twitter.com/TractusFynn
Though long extinct, these bothersome creatures are always intruding in our present. Why can't they stay on their side of the K-T Boundary? Lost in time, often resurrected, or otherwise transported.
2. Monkeys
More properly Simians, and hell-bent on taking over the earth from us, their cousins. Perhaps they’ll do a better job with the place than we have. Also see: Moneys— as in twelve of them.
3. Dogs
And this one in particular, named Peabody, and his boy, Sherman. I often run into them in the past, meddling with events they cannot possibly understand. Someday I’ll find this way-back machine of theirs and put a stop to them once and for all.
4. Butterflies
Effectively appearing out of nowhere and flapping their wings (usually on a Texas prairie) to wreak chaos on our weather systems, notably causing El Nino effects worldwide.
5. Bears
Bears of all kinds, brown, black, bipolar or otherwise, pandering to the past or the future… Even gummy bears, too often trod under foot.
6. Mice
Usually not by choice, these rodents are most often victims of diabolical experiments. The best laid plans sometimes go awry.
7. Lions
As in relation to witches and wardrobes.
8. Rabbits
Who seem to be perpetually running late, said Alice.
9. Cats
(excluding lions) Sometimes as companion travelers (as in carry-on luggage) or on their own; they like to think out-of-the-box, specifically Shrödinger’s box.
10. Cthulhu
(and his offspring) From the dim primeval past, he ever-promises to emerge in the near future, bringing disaster with him.
Honorable Mention:
Whales
As in abducted to the distant future
As in, “There be whales aboard, Captain.”
adapted from the Tractus Fynn feed:
https://twitter.com/TractusFynn
March 18, 2018
Stick Technology
There is an excellent story on the BBC Science page this week about early humans in Kenya’s rift valley, and their tool-making abilities. It’s still posted if you’re interested. The upshot: technology didn’t change much for maybe a million years, and then it’s like someone flipped a switch.
We made huge advances all in the matter of a few thousand years. We switched from large hand axes (stone) to small, and very sharp obsidian blades. It doesn’t sound speedy, but speaking relatively, I suppose it was.
A single line in the story struck me though: “Rather than shaping a block of rock into a hand axe, humans became interested in the sharp flakes that could be chipped off. These were mounted on spears and used as projectile weapons.” In short, a new technology mounted on a pre-existing one. Welcome to the Middle Stone Age.
But all this got me thinking about sticks (as in spears), not something that survives in the archeological record. From there it was easy to speculate that our distant ancestors probably had an extremely sophisticated stick technology that we know nothing about. If we’d been using them for tens of thousands of years, then we probably got pretty good at it.
There might have even been a stick specialist in the tribe, the person you went to when you needed the right stick for the job. And, it’s safe to say most sticks were handcrafted. Say, a stick that had been carefully prepared to fit exactly in your palm… or, perhaps wrapped with a piece of leather to make wielding it all the more comfortable.
Admittedly, my imagination went a bit wild:
short, thick sticks for clubbing things. Long, skinny sticks for poking things, hmm, like the fire that had been recently discovered. Curved flexible sticks for who knows what purpose, except that they made an awesome swooshing noise when employed properly. Sticks with prongs at the end (good for prehistoric marshmallows). Sticks for fishing, sticks for hunting, sticks for scratching hard to reach places. Sticks of all shapes and sizes. There’s no way to tell, but there may have even been a kind of stick shop back then, carrying only the most up-to-date models.
Let’s quickly browse through our imaginary stick mall: Hollow sticks (a big seller), old sticks, even retro-sticks; young sticks, soft and pliable. Sticks for walking upright, sticks for digging, for stabbing, or poking. Stout sticks, extra-long sticks, some from rare hardwoods; others, green and bendy. Sticks with branches on the end, good for sweeping up the cave… and of course, replacement sticks (even the best brands, elm, oak, and mahogany, break sooner or later).
In the end, we judge a civilization by what it leaves behind— that which survives the archeological record. What will we leave after a million years? What would our descendants find? Not a single stick, certainly; nor metal, plastic, or concrete… they would all have long since degraded to nothing. The answer is surprising: things made of stone, radioactive isotopes, a plethora of glass bottles, and a few space probes abandoned on the moon, or still drifting among the stars.
We made huge advances all in the matter of a few thousand years. We switched from large hand axes (stone) to small, and very sharp obsidian blades. It doesn’t sound speedy, but speaking relatively, I suppose it was.
A single line in the story struck me though: “Rather than shaping a block of rock into a hand axe, humans became interested in the sharp flakes that could be chipped off. These were mounted on spears and used as projectile weapons.” In short, a new technology mounted on a pre-existing one. Welcome to the Middle Stone Age.
But all this got me thinking about sticks (as in spears), not something that survives in the archeological record. From there it was easy to speculate that our distant ancestors probably had an extremely sophisticated stick technology that we know nothing about. If we’d been using them for tens of thousands of years, then we probably got pretty good at it.
There might have even been a stick specialist in the tribe, the person you went to when you needed the right stick for the job. And, it’s safe to say most sticks were handcrafted. Say, a stick that had been carefully prepared to fit exactly in your palm… or, perhaps wrapped with a piece of leather to make wielding it all the more comfortable.
Admittedly, my imagination went a bit wild:
short, thick sticks for clubbing things. Long, skinny sticks for poking things, hmm, like the fire that had been recently discovered. Curved flexible sticks for who knows what purpose, except that they made an awesome swooshing noise when employed properly. Sticks with prongs at the end (good for prehistoric marshmallows). Sticks for fishing, sticks for hunting, sticks for scratching hard to reach places. Sticks of all shapes and sizes. There’s no way to tell, but there may have even been a kind of stick shop back then, carrying only the most up-to-date models.
Let’s quickly browse through our imaginary stick mall: Hollow sticks (a big seller), old sticks, even retro-sticks; young sticks, soft and pliable. Sticks for walking upright, sticks for digging, for stabbing, or poking. Stout sticks, extra-long sticks, some from rare hardwoods; others, green and bendy. Sticks with branches on the end, good for sweeping up the cave… and of course, replacement sticks (even the best brands, elm, oak, and mahogany, break sooner or later).
In the end, we judge a civilization by what it leaves behind— that which survives the archeological record. What will we leave after a million years? What would our descendants find? Not a single stick, certainly; nor metal, plastic, or concrete… they would all have long since degraded to nothing. The answer is surprising: things made of stone, radioactive isotopes, a plethora of glass bottles, and a few space probes abandoned on the moon, or still drifting among the stars.
March 11, 2018
Lovecraftian...
Spontaneous Human Combustion
(an excerpt)
Two years ago I became involved with the now defunct Hudson Historical Society, and so began my sojourn into the unknown and mysterious. Under a privately funded fellowship, I was assigned to research the phenomenon known as “Spontaneous Combustion.” Before accepting the offer of employment, I was interviewed by Mrs. George Penelope Walters, the recently widowed and very wealthy matron of the Society. I found her to be an assertive woman of some fifty years, and her half century of life had given her the appearance of shrewd intelligence. After reading excellent letters of reference, she queried about my former occupations.
I had recently finished a position as a biological researcher, involved in the classification of over two thousand separate microbes. Mrs. Walters seemed well pleased by my scientific background, but questioned how I came to leave the work. I explained that the immense task of categorizing all the known microbes had been completed in less than three months, and that the pharmaceutical firm had released all their researchers. Her face could scarcely mask her displeasure, and so I hastened to add that my primary experience was gained while classifying War documents for the Smithsonian, over a period of five years.
It was my own face that betrayed emotion when Mrs. Walters explained the position more fully. It entailed the scientific inquiry of a historical phenomenon. A shocked expression must have crossed my visage as I slowly realized the preposterousness of what she was quite seriously proposing. I had assumed she meant spontaneous combustion to be the physical action occurring when cotton rag or paper burst into flames under certain chemical conditions. She corrected me by repeatedly stating, “People, Mr. Norton, not old rags and paper.”
My own mind reeled with the image of everyday folk bursting into flames, while inside some over-sized bell jar. I was, of course, confusing Abiogenesis, or rather mixing the two concepts incorrectly, and using human fodder.
I quickly confessed ignorance of the subject, but used the word “fascinating” in good context, and was accepted for the position. Mrs. Walters assigned me the title: “Historical Researcher,” at a rate of eleven dollars per day, including room and board. I soon learned that she regarded history as a science, but what had really spurred her on, were the two most recent occurrences of the phenomenon in question. I came to find both incidents had transpired at the same location, though some eighty years apart: on the Palisades, just south of the sleepy town of Sparkill. I was to research this historical precedent.
A pleasant year began as I settled into a small cottage by the Hudson River, some twenty miles north of New York City. My routine consisted of reading by morning in the cozy library; afternoons were spent ambling along the cliffs, an hour’s walk down river. Frequent excursions soon became necessary for further fact-finding. I traveled to the city mostly, but had occasion to visit many libraries in Boston, Connecticut, and further afield. Always returning to the cottage, I felt oddly drawn to the cliffs. Evenings would often find me walking the edge of the Palisades, but as the months passed, a growing fear of the night kept me indoors. The fear became so encompassing that I ceased to venture outside after sunset.
The research was tedious as I had little to work from. After my task of accumulating various materials from books, journals and newspapers, the initial feeling of absurdity, gradually gave way to unspeakable horror. After separating fact from fiction, as it were, I was confronted with two dozen accurate accounts of some genuine physical phenomenon. People, historical and otherwise, were in fact consumed by fire in front of eye-witnesses. I had dismissed forty or so accounts for various reasons: doubtful circumstance, or questionable witness credibility, but mainly due to the fact that most of the incidents could be explained by the effect of lightning. I have retained objectivity, in the tradition of science, and here list the general similarities and differences between genuine occurrences:
In most cases, the victim was always ten or twenty yards distant from the nearest witness. In all occurrences, there was little left of the victim. He or she was reduced to a heap of smoldering ashes within seconds. On more than one occasion, however, charred clothes and intact skeletons were recovered. It appears from various reports that the victim is consumed from the inside, and curiously, I can offer no explanation of this fact. Ninety-nine percent of all cases occurred out of doors, in the evening (at dusk) or chiefly, at night. Only one occurrence was reported in broad daylight. In almost all cases, local meteorological conditions were clear, somewhat cold, and with an accompanying wind, either before, during, or after the event. Mostly all of the occurrences took place in remote or isolated geographical areas. After careful study, I found no cultural. chronological, national, religious, or hereditary correlations whatsoever. Without prejudice, Human Spontaneous Combustion occurs sporadically all across the globe. Occurrences among the animal kingdom, such as in mules, oxen, cattle and alike have also been documented throughout the British Realm, and in our own southwestern states.
After nearly two years of work, Mrs. Walters and the Hudson Society published the list of twenty-four documented historical occurrences of Spontaneous Combustion, spanning some four hundred years of recorded history. Unfortunately, the cases which were of prime importance to the Society, proved to be the consequence of lightning or alcohol. In both cases the victims were notorious drunkards, and most probably slipped on the treacherous cliffs during one of the many storms that sweep up the valley. The published report was ill received by the membership. Mrs. Walters diverted her funds to more tangible affairs and the Hudson Society subsequently folded.
And so I was abandoned. With more than three thousand dollars and nowhere to live, I took small rooms on the east side of Manhattan and began my sojourn in earnest. I was determined to find the most recent occurrences. Reports from Kansas, where scores of cattle were found burned and mutilated, sparked my interest initially, but a follow-up visit indicated lightning as the probable cause. I scanned the newspapers daily, with little result, until I stumbled on the idea of checking the police reports of missing persons.
I began with the most isolated rural areas, and consequently began a life of travel and ever growing terror. I learned to fear the night, as a child fears the dark. And, I have discovered a grotesque horror that prowls the night sky. A ghostly beast that stalks its victims, and lures them into a fiery oblivion. Beware the windy, lonely night!
—Benjamin Norton
January 18th, 1885
Boston, Massachusetts
(an excerpt)
Two years ago I became involved with the now defunct Hudson Historical Society, and so began my sojourn into the unknown and mysterious. Under a privately funded fellowship, I was assigned to research the phenomenon known as “Spontaneous Combustion.” Before accepting the offer of employment, I was interviewed by Mrs. George Penelope Walters, the recently widowed and very wealthy matron of the Society. I found her to be an assertive woman of some fifty years, and her half century of life had given her the appearance of shrewd intelligence. After reading excellent letters of reference, she queried about my former occupations.
I had recently finished a position as a biological researcher, involved in the classification of over two thousand separate microbes. Mrs. Walters seemed well pleased by my scientific background, but questioned how I came to leave the work. I explained that the immense task of categorizing all the known microbes had been completed in less than three months, and that the pharmaceutical firm had released all their researchers. Her face could scarcely mask her displeasure, and so I hastened to add that my primary experience was gained while classifying War documents for the Smithsonian, over a period of five years.
It was my own face that betrayed emotion when Mrs. Walters explained the position more fully. It entailed the scientific inquiry of a historical phenomenon. A shocked expression must have crossed my visage as I slowly realized the preposterousness of what she was quite seriously proposing. I had assumed she meant spontaneous combustion to be the physical action occurring when cotton rag or paper burst into flames under certain chemical conditions. She corrected me by repeatedly stating, “People, Mr. Norton, not old rags and paper.”
My own mind reeled with the image of everyday folk bursting into flames, while inside some over-sized bell jar. I was, of course, confusing Abiogenesis, or rather mixing the two concepts incorrectly, and using human fodder.
I quickly confessed ignorance of the subject, but used the word “fascinating” in good context, and was accepted for the position. Mrs. Walters assigned me the title: “Historical Researcher,” at a rate of eleven dollars per day, including room and board. I soon learned that she regarded history as a science, but what had really spurred her on, were the two most recent occurrences of the phenomenon in question. I came to find both incidents had transpired at the same location, though some eighty years apart: on the Palisades, just south of the sleepy town of Sparkill. I was to research this historical precedent.
A pleasant year began as I settled into a small cottage by the Hudson River, some twenty miles north of New York City. My routine consisted of reading by morning in the cozy library; afternoons were spent ambling along the cliffs, an hour’s walk down river. Frequent excursions soon became necessary for further fact-finding. I traveled to the city mostly, but had occasion to visit many libraries in Boston, Connecticut, and further afield. Always returning to the cottage, I felt oddly drawn to the cliffs. Evenings would often find me walking the edge of the Palisades, but as the months passed, a growing fear of the night kept me indoors. The fear became so encompassing that I ceased to venture outside after sunset.
The research was tedious as I had little to work from. After my task of accumulating various materials from books, journals and newspapers, the initial feeling of absurdity, gradually gave way to unspeakable horror. After separating fact from fiction, as it were, I was confronted with two dozen accurate accounts of some genuine physical phenomenon. People, historical and otherwise, were in fact consumed by fire in front of eye-witnesses. I had dismissed forty or so accounts for various reasons: doubtful circumstance, or questionable witness credibility, but mainly due to the fact that most of the incidents could be explained by the effect of lightning. I have retained objectivity, in the tradition of science, and here list the general similarities and differences between genuine occurrences:
In most cases, the victim was always ten or twenty yards distant from the nearest witness. In all occurrences, there was little left of the victim. He or she was reduced to a heap of smoldering ashes within seconds. On more than one occasion, however, charred clothes and intact skeletons were recovered. It appears from various reports that the victim is consumed from the inside, and curiously, I can offer no explanation of this fact. Ninety-nine percent of all cases occurred out of doors, in the evening (at dusk) or chiefly, at night. Only one occurrence was reported in broad daylight. In almost all cases, local meteorological conditions were clear, somewhat cold, and with an accompanying wind, either before, during, or after the event. Mostly all of the occurrences took place in remote or isolated geographical areas. After careful study, I found no cultural. chronological, national, religious, or hereditary correlations whatsoever. Without prejudice, Human Spontaneous Combustion occurs sporadically all across the globe. Occurrences among the animal kingdom, such as in mules, oxen, cattle and alike have also been documented throughout the British Realm, and in our own southwestern states.
After nearly two years of work, Mrs. Walters and the Hudson Society published the list of twenty-four documented historical occurrences of Spontaneous Combustion, spanning some four hundred years of recorded history. Unfortunately, the cases which were of prime importance to the Society, proved to be the consequence of lightning or alcohol. In both cases the victims were notorious drunkards, and most probably slipped on the treacherous cliffs during one of the many storms that sweep up the valley. The published report was ill received by the membership. Mrs. Walters diverted her funds to more tangible affairs and the Hudson Society subsequently folded.
And so I was abandoned. With more than three thousand dollars and nowhere to live, I took small rooms on the east side of Manhattan and began my sojourn in earnest. I was determined to find the most recent occurrences. Reports from Kansas, where scores of cattle were found burned and mutilated, sparked my interest initially, but a follow-up visit indicated lightning as the probable cause. I scanned the newspapers daily, with little result, until I stumbled on the idea of checking the police reports of missing persons.
I began with the most isolated rural areas, and consequently began a life of travel and ever growing terror. I learned to fear the night, as a child fears the dark. And, I have discovered a grotesque horror that prowls the night sky. A ghostly beast that stalks its victims, and lures them into a fiery oblivion. Beware the windy, lonely night!
—Benjamin Norton
January 18th, 1885
Boston, Massachusetts
March 4, 2018
Occupational Hazards
Most indie-authors I know have at least two jobs: writing and editing, and, promoting and marketing. Make that four jobs… Not that they are all full time affairs, and the renumeration is barely enough to cover rent, even though I am handsomely paid around fifty cents per adverb.
Like most other writers, I have a fifth job to make ends meet. I am a Professional Walker. I make my living at it. Like many other pros, I began my career as an amateur walker, starting early in life by walking to school, up to the store (and back), along many a lonely beach, and the occasional sidewalk.
These days, mainly, I walk for rich people who don't want to, or don't have the time. (I don't walk dogs except for fun). Say you signed up for a Walk-a-thon and then realize you are already booked that day. That's when you call me. I charge up to $100 an hour— more, if I'm required to wear a name tag or impersonate you at any charity event. I've walked for some of the best: Captains of Industry, Hollywood Celebrities, even Minor Royalty. I've also walked professionally at various protest marches, and in small-town parades, from Alaska to Ohio.
Perhaps my most interesting engagement was a commission for an elderly woman in Delaware. She had always dreamed of through-hiking the Appalachian Trail but tragically lost her legs in a shopping accident. I donned a helmet-cam and started the trek on Springer Mountain, Georgia. As I headed north, she was with me every step of the way thanks to a streaming video uplink. She could also direct me via a headset from the comfort of her living room, often urging me to quicken the pace, or turn my head this way or that.
At one point, she asked me to do a complete about face and I must admit to becoming somewhat annoyed. Surprisingly, when I did turn around, I came face to face with a rather large black bear. I did not charge her for the subsequent running, which seemed to be the most prudent course of action at the time.
(Note: Product endorsements are alway welcome)
Like most other writers, I have a fifth job to make ends meet. I am a Professional Walker. I make my living at it. Like many other pros, I began my career as an amateur walker, starting early in life by walking to school, up to the store (and back), along many a lonely beach, and the occasional sidewalk.
These days, mainly, I walk for rich people who don't want to, or don't have the time. (I don't walk dogs except for fun). Say you signed up for a Walk-a-thon and then realize you are already booked that day. That's when you call me. I charge up to $100 an hour— more, if I'm required to wear a name tag or impersonate you at any charity event. I've walked for some of the best: Captains of Industry, Hollywood Celebrities, even Minor Royalty. I've also walked professionally at various protest marches, and in small-town parades, from Alaska to Ohio.
Perhaps my most interesting engagement was a commission for an elderly woman in Delaware. She had always dreamed of through-hiking the Appalachian Trail but tragically lost her legs in a shopping accident. I donned a helmet-cam and started the trek on Springer Mountain, Georgia. As I headed north, she was with me every step of the way thanks to a streaming video uplink. She could also direct me via a headset from the comfort of her living room, often urging me to quicken the pace, or turn my head this way or that.
At one point, she asked me to do a complete about face and I must admit to becoming somewhat annoyed. Surprisingly, when I did turn around, I came face to face with a rather large black bear. I did not charge her for the subsequent running, which seemed to be the most prudent course of action at the time.
(Note: Product endorsements are alway welcome)
February 25, 2018
Shattered Paradigms
A true story
It’s not easy being an empiricist these days. I cannot trust my own senses. I can no longer believe what I see, not since I learned how to use photoshop; not since I went to the movies either. It looks so real but it’s not. Digital effects…. so much for Phenomenalism.
My sense of taste is askew as well; corn-on-the-cob, tomatoes, and peaches do not taste like I remember. They were different, more delicious when I was but a lad.
And my sense of touch? I can’t tell the difference between faux fur and my cat. Is that silk or lycra? The thread count of my sheets remains an elusive, uncountable number.
My hearing seems intact, despite years of headphone use. It’s just that I can’t believe what I hear anymore. Fake news, eh? I hear the truth no longer. Maybe I’ve stopped listening… Only one sense has not changed in all these years. Something still smells fishy…
In my younger days, I was indeed a rational empiricist, straight out of the 19th century. I lay before the shrines of reason and logic. What could not be explained by science? The age of computers only solidified my reductionist tendencies. Cause and effect reigned supreme, Boolean logic could never fail. Wasn’t reality just like the Matrix, all and everything reducible to ones and zeros? I had no patience for the mystic realm… And the fuzziness of the quantum world held little allure.
That all changed in one single moment.
To set the scene: I lived in Boston for a good long while, well, Alston-Brighton, the outlaying districts of Beantown. At the time, I rented a downstairs apartment in a big house, very downstairs; that’s to say, it was a basement. Plenty of windows, plenty of light and not so far underground. I liked it.
But it was a weekend in New York City that began my conversion… My conversion to what? Hmm, I still can’t say exactly… I had a vivid dream during my visit to Manhattan. The next morning I told it to my hosts, a best friend and his wife. A strange dream to be sure, they agreed: I was standing in my apartment and it was raining inside. I could see water streaming down the walls as well…
Three days later, back in Boston, there was an axe at my door, knocking, splintering wood. It was freezing cold, three in the morning, firemen rushed inside. “Get out now,” one of them called out and shook me awake… I was in my skivvies and could grab only a winter coat. The house was on fire. Smoke filled the place.
The damage was done, the second and third floors were all but gone. A bit of the first floor remained intact, as did my basement apartment. The following day I was granted permission to survey the damage. I passed the splintered door to the kitchen and moved to the living room. It was raining, it was raining inside my basement. I held my hand out to catch the drips from the ceiling. I saw the walls with water streaming down. This was my dream, exactly. I expected to turn and find Rod Serling himself standing in the corner, beginning his narration…
None would believe this story, save I had two reliable witnesses in New York. My own world was shattered, my usual view of reality was gone forever. Causality meant nothing, before-and-after was now a mockery. Surely, I had traveled through time.
It’s not easy being an empiricist these days. I cannot trust my own senses. I can no longer believe what I see, not since I learned how to use photoshop; not since I went to the movies either. It looks so real but it’s not. Digital effects…. so much for Phenomenalism.
My sense of taste is askew as well; corn-on-the-cob, tomatoes, and peaches do not taste like I remember. They were different, more delicious when I was but a lad.
And my sense of touch? I can’t tell the difference between faux fur and my cat. Is that silk or lycra? The thread count of my sheets remains an elusive, uncountable number.
My hearing seems intact, despite years of headphone use. It’s just that I can’t believe what I hear anymore. Fake news, eh? I hear the truth no longer. Maybe I’ve stopped listening… Only one sense has not changed in all these years. Something still smells fishy…
In my younger days, I was indeed a rational empiricist, straight out of the 19th century. I lay before the shrines of reason and logic. What could not be explained by science? The age of computers only solidified my reductionist tendencies. Cause and effect reigned supreme, Boolean logic could never fail. Wasn’t reality just like the Matrix, all and everything reducible to ones and zeros? I had no patience for the mystic realm… And the fuzziness of the quantum world held little allure.
That all changed in one single moment.
To set the scene: I lived in Boston for a good long while, well, Alston-Brighton, the outlaying districts of Beantown. At the time, I rented a downstairs apartment in a big house, very downstairs; that’s to say, it was a basement. Plenty of windows, plenty of light and not so far underground. I liked it.
But it was a weekend in New York City that began my conversion… My conversion to what? Hmm, I still can’t say exactly… I had a vivid dream during my visit to Manhattan. The next morning I told it to my hosts, a best friend and his wife. A strange dream to be sure, they agreed: I was standing in my apartment and it was raining inside. I could see water streaming down the walls as well…
Three days later, back in Boston, there was an axe at my door, knocking, splintering wood. It was freezing cold, three in the morning, firemen rushed inside. “Get out now,” one of them called out and shook me awake… I was in my skivvies and could grab only a winter coat. The house was on fire. Smoke filled the place.
The damage was done, the second and third floors were all but gone. A bit of the first floor remained intact, as did my basement apartment. The following day I was granted permission to survey the damage. I passed the splintered door to the kitchen and moved to the living room. It was raining, it was raining inside my basement. I held my hand out to catch the drips from the ceiling. I saw the walls with water streaming down. This was my dream, exactly. I expected to turn and find Rod Serling himself standing in the corner, beginning his narration…
None would believe this story, save I had two reliable witnesses in New York. My own world was shattered, my usual view of reality was gone forever. Causality meant nothing, before-and-after was now a mockery. Surely, I had traveled through time.
February 18, 2018
Interview with a Beaker
Some weeks ago, I caught up with the beloved muppet, Beaker, star of stage and screen in the 70s, 80s, and beyond. Currently retired and confined to a derelict hotel in an undisclosed Brooklyn neighborhood, he generously agreed to tell us about his career and future plans. As of this writing, the HuffPost has so far declined my invitation to publish.
Q: So, is it true you never uttered a single word on camera?
That’s right, it was written right into my contract. I wasn’t allowed to say anything intelligible… Meep.
Q: Well, thanks for speaking to us now…
Sure, happy to do it for my fans.
Q: What first got you interested in science?
My mom used to date Carl Sagan.
Q: Carl Sagan, really?
Well, Lego-Carl Sagan. Helluva guy, has a handshake like a vice-grip.
Q: Tell us about your mom…
She was called Lamb Chop. I come from a long line of sock puppets.
Q: Your parents actually named you Beaker?
I’m not sure about my dad, I was a test tube baby.
Q: And what’s it like being a puppet?
I don’t get much privacy, I’ll say that much.
Q: How about your boss, Dr Bunsen Honeydew? Did you get along?
For a guy with no eyes, he was always looking out for me.
Q: And this was at the Muppet Lab, a division of the Monsanto Chemical Company?
That’s right. Genetic research… We were trying to create new puppet-based life forms.
Q: Were you successful?
Sure, just ask Fozzie Bear or Gonzo…
Q: We’ve heard a lot about the infamous cast parties. Are you saying Oscar was trashed most nights?
I’d use a different word, but yeah, pretty much.
Q: And Miss Piggy?
I’ve said too much already. Kermit is going to be like all crazy frog jealous.
Q: Can you tell us about the meth lab?
That was Kermit’s idea. I won’t say anything else unless my lawyer is present.
Q: When was the last time you slept?
1987— why?
Q: What’s your biggest regret?
Oversleeping on the day of the Star Wars casting call. I would’ve made a great Yoda.
Q: How did you survive after the Muppet Show?
It was tough. Did some local dinner-theatre, and I was lucky enough to get a few cameo roles on Farscape.
Q: Can you tell us about your next project?
An audiobook version of War and Peace. Should be out soon… I’m still perfecting my Russian accent.
Q: And how do you make ends meet nowadays?
Well, I’m not proud about it, but I sold some of my hair to then-candidate Trump.
Q: You’re saying part of you ended up in the White House?
Not the best part… Meep.
Adapted from the feed:
https://twitter.com/TractusFynn
Q: So, is it true you never uttered a single word on camera?
That’s right, it was written right into my contract. I wasn’t allowed to say anything intelligible… Meep.
Q: Well, thanks for speaking to us now…
Sure, happy to do it for my fans.
Q: What first got you interested in science?
My mom used to date Carl Sagan.
Q: Carl Sagan, really?
Well, Lego-Carl Sagan. Helluva guy, has a handshake like a vice-grip.
Q: Tell us about your mom…
She was called Lamb Chop. I come from a long line of sock puppets.
Q: Your parents actually named you Beaker?
I’m not sure about my dad, I was a test tube baby.
Q: And what’s it like being a puppet?
I don’t get much privacy, I’ll say that much.
Q: How about your boss, Dr Bunsen Honeydew? Did you get along?
For a guy with no eyes, he was always looking out for me.
Q: And this was at the Muppet Lab, a division of the Monsanto Chemical Company?
That’s right. Genetic research… We were trying to create new puppet-based life forms.
Q: Were you successful?
Sure, just ask Fozzie Bear or Gonzo…
Q: We’ve heard a lot about the infamous cast parties. Are you saying Oscar was trashed most nights?
I’d use a different word, but yeah, pretty much.
Q: And Miss Piggy?
I’ve said too much already. Kermit is going to be like all crazy frog jealous.
Q: Can you tell us about the meth lab?
That was Kermit’s idea. I won’t say anything else unless my lawyer is present.
Q: When was the last time you slept?
1987— why?
Q: What’s your biggest regret?
Oversleeping on the day of the Star Wars casting call. I would’ve made a great Yoda.
Q: How did you survive after the Muppet Show?
It was tough. Did some local dinner-theatre, and I was lucky enough to get a few cameo roles on Farscape.
Q: Can you tell us about your next project?
An audiobook version of War and Peace. Should be out soon… I’m still perfecting my Russian accent.
Q: And how do you make ends meet nowadays?
Well, I’m not proud about it, but I sold some of my hair to then-candidate Trump.
Q: You’re saying part of you ended up in the White House?
Not the best part… Meep.
Adapted from the feed:
https://twitter.com/TractusFynn
February 11, 2018
Pull Over, Do Over
I’m not talking sweaters here, I’m talking police tactics. Most of us at one time or another have been pulled over by a traffic cop, a state trooper, or an unmarked Dodge Charger with tinted windows and no bumper-stickers (hint: that’s the big give away). Flashing blue lights is another sign.
If you are pulled over, it probably wasn’t for running a red light. They have cameras for that. No police intervention required. Your fine and processing fee show up in the mail, along with a nice photo of your car. Or if you’re like me, it’s automatically deducted from your debit card once a month or so. Oh wait, maybe that’s EZ pass.
No, if you’re pulled over, it’s probably for something more serious, speeding, or worse, an un-signaled lane change. They probably don’t know about your mother-in-law’s body in the trunk. Not yet anyway.
“Where’s the fire?” no cop ever asked me.
“Oh, your wife is in the backseat ready to give birth… Off you go then… and congratulations.” That’s never happened either.
It used be: “License and registration…” then,
“License and registration and insurance card.”
Now it’s: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
What a tactic! Ten seconds into the encounter and you’re asked to incriminate yourself.
“What happened to my Miranda rights?”
“Who?”
“The lady with the fruit salad hat.” There’s a hissing sound, like a leaky airbag, and a plastic woman inflates right next to me in the passenger seat.
“Who’s that?”
“Carmen… she helps me navigate the HOV lanes.”
Best to plead the fifth.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Best you don’t answer that question, no matter what. “No, officer, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Be polite though. Things can escalate quickly. What was a misdemeanor at first could just as easily become a “reckless endangerment” felony. Or, firearms might be drawn.
Do over. Let’s try that again.
“No, officer… Was I driving too slow?”
Uh-oh, here comes the flashlight. Empty beer bottles in the backseat, a bottle of painkillers on the dash. Two crates full of counterfeit Rolex watches under the floor mats.
The worst part is the waiting. They leave you at the side of the road to check their onboard computer. Flashing lights are still strobing and a seizure is imminent. The things that race through your mind… My uncle said it was okay to use the car anytime; I probably should have asked permission though. Maybe he’s talking to Flo or that stupid insurance lizard…. I’m beginning to just suspect they’re watching You Tube videos, stalling for time. Uh-oh maybe it’s a credit check, or they’re on the radio to ICE. Where’s that green card gone? Not that it matters— it expired two years ago, like my license.
Finally, a ticket, sort of… The officer unfurls a computer printout that reaches to the ground, then helpfully explains my payment options. It seems less about public safety and more like an economic transaction. You’re hardly worth the effort if you’re only doing nine miles an hour over the limit. A low ROI, monthly quota or not. Fees generated to the state. Government sanctioned highway robbery. Despite an entire civilization based on automobiles and highways, remember, in the end, driving is a privilege not a right.
If you are pulled over, it probably wasn’t for running a red light. They have cameras for that. No police intervention required. Your fine and processing fee show up in the mail, along with a nice photo of your car. Or if you’re like me, it’s automatically deducted from your debit card once a month or so. Oh wait, maybe that’s EZ pass.
No, if you’re pulled over, it’s probably for something more serious, speeding, or worse, an un-signaled lane change. They probably don’t know about your mother-in-law’s body in the trunk. Not yet anyway.
“Where’s the fire?” no cop ever asked me.
“Oh, your wife is in the backseat ready to give birth… Off you go then… and congratulations.” That’s never happened either.
It used be: “License and registration…” then,
“License and registration and insurance card.”
Now it’s: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
What a tactic! Ten seconds into the encounter and you’re asked to incriminate yourself.
“What happened to my Miranda rights?”
“Who?”
“The lady with the fruit salad hat.” There’s a hissing sound, like a leaky airbag, and a plastic woman inflates right next to me in the passenger seat.
“Who’s that?”
“Carmen… she helps me navigate the HOV lanes.”
Best to plead the fifth.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Best you don’t answer that question, no matter what. “No, officer, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Be polite though. Things can escalate quickly. What was a misdemeanor at first could just as easily become a “reckless endangerment” felony. Or, firearms might be drawn.
Do over. Let’s try that again.
“No, officer… Was I driving too slow?”
Uh-oh, here comes the flashlight. Empty beer bottles in the backseat, a bottle of painkillers on the dash. Two crates full of counterfeit Rolex watches under the floor mats.
The worst part is the waiting. They leave you at the side of the road to check their onboard computer. Flashing lights are still strobing and a seizure is imminent. The things that race through your mind… My uncle said it was okay to use the car anytime; I probably should have asked permission though. Maybe he’s talking to Flo or that stupid insurance lizard…. I’m beginning to just suspect they’re watching You Tube videos, stalling for time. Uh-oh maybe it’s a credit check, or they’re on the radio to ICE. Where’s that green card gone? Not that it matters— it expired two years ago, like my license.
Finally, a ticket, sort of… The officer unfurls a computer printout that reaches to the ground, then helpfully explains my payment options. It seems less about public safety and more like an economic transaction. You’re hardly worth the effort if you’re only doing nine miles an hour over the limit. A low ROI, monthly quota or not. Fees generated to the state. Government sanctioned highway robbery. Despite an entire civilization based on automobiles and highways, remember, in the end, driving is a privilege not a right.
January 28, 2018
Elementary, my dear...
The Elementary Educated Writer
I knew I was to be a writer since first grade. Well… that’s almost true. It’s hard to remember everything that happened back then.
I do recall the Class News: “Today is Wednesday, January 24th. It is sunny and cold. Mrs Shears had puppies again…”
We copied something like this from the blackboard every morning. It was more about penmanship than content, making sure q’s didn’t look like g’s, all on double-lined, dashed paper. I had a lazy streak in me, or nihilist bent at an early age. It seemed a pointless exercise. Every day was the same, punctuated only by the holidays on the calendar.
Weeks later, humiliation, shame. I had given up on completed the assignments. Recess beckoned instead. A nearly empty notebook, half finished news: “Today is…” A visit to the principal’s office. Moved from the back row, away from Greg Moles and Michael Luciano, the bad boys. Moved to front, and a better influences, Jane and Ivy on either side. They kindly helped me every day. Gold stars now… By the end of high school, a mad and tawdry affair with them both. I still keep a journal to this day.
Second grade passed in a blur. I have no memories whatsoever. Perhaps some unknown trauma, perhaps I was learning how to read properly.
Third grade: career decisions. First, cursive writing, script. Faster than printing, it was said. It’s not. I passed barely. I reverted to printing again by sixth grade and never looked back. Race you, if you want— two hundred words right now in that notebook…
The other choice: music, a recorder, sort of like a flute. Notes on the staff… I failed. No musical ability at all. Weird though, I spent most of my life as an aspiring musician. A songwriter and recording artist. I still struggle with notes on the staff. I still play out.
Fourth grade: times-tables. Mr Laufenburg. Bulging eyes and veins in the neck; wooden ruler slammed down on the desk, millimeters away from your knuckles. Came home, crying. I know my multiplication-tables pretty well. Arithmetic still causes me anxiety.
Fifth grade, first big test: “Whales have teeth, true or false?” True of course. No, false! Anger, tears, lots of yelling. Back to the principal. Parents called in. Whales have baleen. Sperm whales, killer whales do not exist. Jacques Cousteau was a liar. We haven’t learned about them. No outside knowledge, please.
Sixth grade: pull-up champion of the school, only because I didn’t weigh anything. Academic state of mind? Highly suspicious, skeptical, but still curious. First thesis, five pages with footnotes. Reference: Half the Britannica, volumes A-L, Azores to Lilliputians…
Fast forward about a decade: Beat reporter, stringer… late at night, empty office, my own key to get in. Fresh from the Planning Commission. An ATEX terminal. Black screen, orange type, never before seen commands and indecipherable functions. Impatient editor on the phone: give me 40 lines in 15 minutes… Blinking cursor… Blinking cursor…
A week later I got a check in the mail. I was now a professional writer.
I knew I was to be a writer since first grade. Well… that’s almost true. It’s hard to remember everything that happened back then.
I do recall the Class News: “Today is Wednesday, January 24th. It is sunny and cold. Mrs Shears had puppies again…”
We copied something like this from the blackboard every morning. It was more about penmanship than content, making sure q’s didn’t look like g’s, all on double-lined, dashed paper. I had a lazy streak in me, or nihilist bent at an early age. It seemed a pointless exercise. Every day was the same, punctuated only by the holidays on the calendar.
Weeks later, humiliation, shame. I had given up on completed the assignments. Recess beckoned instead. A nearly empty notebook, half finished news: “Today is…” A visit to the principal’s office. Moved from the back row, away from Greg Moles and Michael Luciano, the bad boys. Moved to front, and a better influences, Jane and Ivy on either side. They kindly helped me every day. Gold stars now… By the end of high school, a mad and tawdry affair with them both. I still keep a journal to this day.
Second grade passed in a blur. I have no memories whatsoever. Perhaps some unknown trauma, perhaps I was learning how to read properly.
Third grade: career decisions. First, cursive writing, script. Faster than printing, it was said. It’s not. I passed barely. I reverted to printing again by sixth grade and never looked back. Race you, if you want— two hundred words right now in that notebook…
The other choice: music, a recorder, sort of like a flute. Notes on the staff… I failed. No musical ability at all. Weird though, I spent most of my life as an aspiring musician. A songwriter and recording artist. I still struggle with notes on the staff. I still play out.
Fourth grade: times-tables. Mr Laufenburg. Bulging eyes and veins in the neck; wooden ruler slammed down on the desk, millimeters away from your knuckles. Came home, crying. I know my multiplication-tables pretty well. Arithmetic still causes me anxiety.
Fifth grade, first big test: “Whales have teeth, true or false?” True of course. No, false! Anger, tears, lots of yelling. Back to the principal. Parents called in. Whales have baleen. Sperm whales, killer whales do not exist. Jacques Cousteau was a liar. We haven’t learned about them. No outside knowledge, please.
Sixth grade: pull-up champion of the school, only because I didn’t weigh anything. Academic state of mind? Highly suspicious, skeptical, but still curious. First thesis, five pages with footnotes. Reference: Half the Britannica, volumes A-L, Azores to Lilliputians…
Fast forward about a decade: Beat reporter, stringer… late at night, empty office, my own key to get in. Fresh from the Planning Commission. An ATEX terminal. Black screen, orange type, never before seen commands and indecipherable functions. Impatient editor on the phone: give me 40 lines in 15 minutes… Blinking cursor… Blinking cursor…
A week later I got a check in the mail. I was now a professional writer.
