Monthly Archives: May 2007

The Golem of Prague

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I’ve fallen behind on my resolution to write a brief bit about the books I read. Not a review, really, as much as things I thought of as a result of reading the book. Recently I read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon, and I have just finished Some Danger Involved, by Will Thomas.

The latter of those two follows a template you might find familiar: A man in victorian London becomesan assistant to an almost legendary yet enigmatic private detective. Detective Barker has assembled around himself an odd menagerie and the newcomer, Thomas, gradually discovers that each of them, even the little dog, has hidden abilities. As the story progresses, he even discovers some hidden potential in himself.

The story takes place at a time when Jews were being purged from large parts of Europe (see “Fiddler on the Roof”). The Jews have been moving west, but when they reach England there’s no more west to go. As always happens when there is a large influx of refugees into a country, the people that are already there resent the newcomers, accuse them of taking jobs, and so forth. So far, London has been reasonably tolerant, but things start to come unglued in the face of a rather horrible murder — a young Jew has been crucified. Things are heating up, but none of the usual suspects seems to be the one behind the trouble.

It’s a good story, with twists and turns, and while the prose reflects the mannered speech of Victorian England it does not weigh down the modern ear. There is humor and intrigue, but not so much suspense. The whodunnit element was pretty easy to untangle early on, when the bad guy makes a mistake that is glossed over at the time, but was pretty much a giveaway. There are a few distractor suspects, but none of them are developed that much.

The good news is that I don’t think the author really intended for the story to hinge on the dramatic revelation at the end. It is more of an adventure story than a mystery, and a quite enjoyable one.

As the Jews are discussing how to defend themselves, the subject of the Golem of Prague comes up. The Golem was, legend has it, a creature of animated clay, created by a rabbi to protect the Jews there during some long-ago pogrom.

Clay. Reading that, I realized something about another book I read, something that should probably have been obvious. In Kavalier and Clay, Joe Kavalier is a Czech Jew who is a talented artist and a passable escape artist as well. His greatest escape was getting out of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia and reaching New York, with a bit of help from the Golem of Prague.

In New York he shares a room with Sam Clay, his fast-talking fast-thinking cousin. Almost instantly Sam sweeps up the newcomer in grand plans, and they embark on a career making comic books. With Joe’s ground-breaking art and Sam’s ability to spew a compelling story out in minutes, their character, The Escapist, is a runaway hit. Joe never gives up trying to get at least some of his family out of Europe, and finds that as his comic books become more popular that he might even have the money to make something happen. He grows increasingly desperate, as it is clear that things are getting very bad for Jews in Prague.

As a side note, the first place I ever saw the word ‘golem’ was in a comic book. Like the Escapist, his job was beating up Nazis.

Stuff happens, lots of stuff, some good, some not. People change. Superheroes who wear their underwear outside their tights aren’t popular anymore. The golem reappears, but it has changed also, the magical spirit is no longer there, it is just a mass of clay. Where did that spirit go?

That’s what I figured out last night. I’m a little slow, sometimes.

This was a darn fine read, with the whole mixture of joy and sorrow and anger and uncertainty and just a bit of magic that adds up to life.

Note: if you use the above link to buy this book (or a Kindle, or a new car), I get a kickback.

Thanks!

Episode 23: Reunion by the River, part one.

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Our Story So Far: Um… heck, I’m not even sure myself. There’s this thing, something really valuable, and lots of people are willing to do just about anything to get it. One key to the location of this treasure might be a painting, and Charles Lowell has been hired to protect the person with that painting. He’s also been hired to recover it, and to keep it from being recovered. It was last seen in the company of Lola Fanutti (neé Meredith Baxter), widow of a major figure in the mob and herself a crack shot with a .45. Lowell has been through some difficult scrapes with Fanutti; perhaps the most dangerous was being alone with her in a hotel outside the city. Lowell’s faithful and spunky assistant Alice really doesn’t like Lola Fanutti. Paolo Fanutti, Lola’s former brother-in-law and the man most anxious to see her dead, recently beat up Alice, and Lowell isn’t going to let that slide. He has agreed to hand Lola over to Paolo, mostly because he’s pretty sure she’ll kill him.

As well as the Fanutti family, there is a ruthless and powerful man named Cello, a group that may or may not answer to Lola, and a secretive group of Spaniards known as the Blood of the Saint. That is also the name of the painting….

This episode has a little more thinking in it than its predecessors, as I wrote it in two hours instead of the traditional one. The lack of thought in constructing the narrative gives the whole thing only a little more structure than the TV show “Lost” (from what I hear they must write that thing with the same amount of planning and attention to continuity). And wow! Who thought Charlie would get shot last episode? When I started writing it, I certainly had no idea. But there he was, bleeding on the sidewalk, shot with a .45. I didn’t want to split Reunion up, but it’s taking a lot of words to get from bleeding on the sidewalk to a confrontation at the waterfront. That’s what happens when I pick a title for the following episode more or less at random.

To read the entire story from the beginning click here. Continuity issues are probably starting to pile up, but so it goes.

My ears began to work before my eyes did. I lay still, strange apparitions scattering back to the darker corners of my mind like cockroaches when you turn on the kitchen light. They’re not gone, but best forgotten, at least until the lights go out again. In the final lingering image I was staring down a gun held by Lola Fanutti. “Trust me,” I thought I heard her say.

“Oh, I trust you completely,” another voice said, a man’s voice from outside my head, and I realized that the first voice I had heard was not Lola’s, but Alice’s. I forced my eyes open.

Alice was there, talking to a dark-haird man in a suit. His back was to me, and I was still foggy; I couldn’t place him. Alice saw that I was awake and stepped to my side. Her hand was smooth and cool against my fevered brow. In her eyes was relief. “Charlie! Thank goodness! I was so frightened.”

I tried to say something witty, but my throat felt like the sahara during a dry spell. It probably wouldn’t have been funny anyway. Alice took a glass of water from the table by the bed and helped me drink. I reached up to guide the glass to my parched lips and that’s when I discovered that my right arm wasn’t working. That’s when I remembered being shot.

“It’s OK, now,” Alice said. “We’re safe.”

I was pretty sure Alice was wrong about that, but I didn’t have the strength to argue. I looked around for the man Alice had been talking to, but we were alone. I filed it under “potential hallucination” until I could think of the right question to ask. Trust me, Alice had told him. “Anybody see who did this?” I asked her.

Alice shook her head. “He got away.”

“It was a pistol, he must have been pretty close.”

“He was probably trying to hit Mr. Santiago. No one knew we would be there.”

“Whoever told Santiago how to find us could have told other people.”

Alice digested that. “Mr. Santiago did know a lot about what happened with Paolo Fanutti.”

“It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that Santiago would take you to his pet doctor.” Alice wasn’t looking that good; her face had had time to puff up and her bruises were in full bloom. She had bandages here and there where she had been stiched up. “How are you doing, anyway?” I asked.

“OK. They said the scars shouldn’t be too bad.” She traced her finger along one of the bandages on her face. “I must look horrible.”

“You look great, doll,” I lied. “A couple of scars just add character.” That’s what I told myself each time I collected a new one, anyway.

“Thanks.” It looked like she was about to start blubbering. “You think the guy was really after you?”

“There are plenty of people who want me out of the picture. There might be some in this building. Santiago seems square, but he’s got leaks of his own. We need to get out of here. Without Santiago knowing where we went.”

“I got you some new clothes,” Alice said. “The other ones were all bloody. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t let anyone see you,” I said to the closing door, though that seemed optimistic.

While she was gone I took stock of my condition. My right shoulder was bandaged and very stiff, my right hand was taped up as well. It seemed like a long time since I had broken it on the goon’s face. I paused, then looked around the room for any indication of what day it might be. How long had I been out? Lola was supposed to get the painting on Sunday. Had I missed it?

Alice returned with a suit that was considerably nicer than anything I had worn before. Shirt and tie were silk, and fit me perfectly, as far as I could tell. “I don’t suppose there’s any whiskey in the pockets,” I said.

I guess that’s not the reaction she was hoping for. Her look darkened and I clammed up and got dressed. She had to help me get my arm down the shirt sleeve and then into the jacket. She stood close to me while she tied on my tie, and I watched her eyes as she kept them resolutely fixed on her task. A little crease formed between her eyebrows when she concentrated. I was a little disappointed when she finished.

“Now a sling,” she said. She folded a large white bandage into a triangle and helped me settle my arm into it. When I was at a less-uncomfortable position she took the ends of the the bandage and reached up around my neck.

“How’s your mouth?” I asked.

“My…? Oh!” She blushed and looked away shyly, conscious of her bruised lips. “It’ll be all right. They’re not sure about the tooth.” She turned back to look at me, and her lips were very close to mine. Her hands were still resting on the back of my neck. “I’m not supposed to… um…” We held that tableau for a terrifying second before she whispered, “we should go. Mr. Santiago will be coming to check on you soon.”

“Right,” I said. Alice held a coat for me and I slipped my good arm through the sleeve. She draped it over my other shoulder. I wasn’t going to be moving very quickly, but I was moving, and that’s all that mattered. The next move would be mine. I kept saying that, and one of these days I would be right.

I made an awkward attempt to help her into her own coat, really only making things more difficult with my left hand. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” I asked when we were ready to go.

She smiled a bit. “I hear black and blue is the new black.”

It hurt to laugh. “That’s the spirit, kid. Ready for the ballet?”

“Let’s go.”

We walked past the protesting sawbones and his pretty assistant, past a bulky but disinterested man reading a paper in the outer room, down a dimly-lit hallway, through a heavy wood door and onto the city street. The rain had stopped, days ago for all I knew. It was early afternoon and the sun was back in command. The air was gravid with the moisture from the rain; the streets were sweating, so were the buildings, the people and the cars. Everything except Alice.

I paused, triangulating on visible skyscrapers. I turned toward Jake’s. Lola would expect me there. So would Cello, but I didn’t think he had reason to kill me at the moment. There would be booze there. “What day is it?” I asked as we walked.

Alice hesitated. “Sunday.”

“Listen, I’ve got to meet with someone. Alone.”

“Her.“

“Yeah, her. I need you to back me up.”

“I didn’t do so good last time.”

I gave her an address. “Ask for Artemis. You ever shoot a gun?”

“Me? No.”

“We’ll leave that for another time, then. Get me a .38 – Artemis knows what I like. Get plenty of ammunition.”

“Where should I meet you?”

“Be at the diner tonight at eleven p.m.”

“Be careful, Charlie.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

It looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead she squeezed my good arm once, hesitated, and turned to head up the street. The man who was following us stayed with me. There wasn’t much else I could to keep her out of the fray. “Good luck, doll,” I muttered as I turned and continued toward Jake’s. I could taste the whiskey already.

Tune in next time for: Reunion by the River, Part 2!

Thanks!

Sweden 7, Slovakia 4

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I was composing sprots-journalism like thoughts throughout this game. The theme was the contrast between the Czech team and the Slovak team, both overmatched, but the games they played were very diffferent.

At least, that’s what I was going to say when the Slovaks led the Swedes 2-1. Although the boys in yellow and blue were on the attack most of the time, the red, white, and blue weren’t rolling over. Scrappy, tough counterpunchers, you could be having a tea party at their end of the ice only to turn around and discover that they’re sitting in your living room, reprogramming your remote control.

Not long after that, Sweden was up 4-2 and I was mentally erasing all that I had thought. The dominant team had arived.

Then it was 4-3 and the Slovaks were looking pretty tough. They’d figured out the Swedish forechecking and their swift strike had drawn blood. The Swedish goaltender faced relatively few shots, but could never rest — when the Slovaks took a shot it was often out of nowhere and consistently dangerous. There was a face-off at mid ice; the Slovaks surged and two seconds later had a scoring chance.

I love watching games with teams like that. There is never a moment that doesn’t hold the potential for something breaking out.

Then Sweden scored again, and it seemed that all was lost. I revised my story again.

While Slovakia never had the lead again, they were never beaten. When the jerks scored to go up 6-3 my brother wrote to me: ‘Not a good day for the slavs’. I had barely tapped out ‘Not unless you count the russians’ when the slovaks went bing-bang-boom and made the game interesting again.

The final goal, the swede’s seventh, was an empty-netter. The only thing that would make hockey better would be a tradition where the winning team just drops the puck behind the net rather than ringing up the meaningless empty-net goal. That would be classy.

I’m sorry the Slovaks didn’t win. They had the fire in their bellies, the hustle, the grit, the je ne sais quois of a championship team. In the end the Swedes were better, however. Now I think it’s between the Russians and the Canadians. The Russians looked awfully good today, and the tournament is in Moscow this year.

Thanks!

Russia 4, Czech Republic 0

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I don’t know where those Czech kids have been playing, but you try those passes all the way across the ice against the Russians, and you’re going to get hurt.

So much for a Czech-US final (not that the US is a powerhouse either).

Thanks!

AiA: White Shadow – Episode 3

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Our story so far: Allison is an American high-school student who has transferred to a private prep school in Japan. Since the moment she was introduced to the class, not much has made a whole lot of sense. Some of the girls in class have befriended her, but the boys remain wary, for reasons she cannot understand. She is unaware that the entire class assumes she has super powers of some sort or another. She’s a transfer student, after all, and in this Japan transfer students always bring trouble. She is staying with distant relatives, who are becoming more distant all the time. Her “aunt” is completely uncommunicative, while her “uncle” is content to sit in front of his computer day in and day out. Allison spent last night with the girls who live at the old monastery, and while they are friendly, Allison suspects that they are all insane. There have been a couple of mysterious strangers, but let’s not worry about them, yet, all right?

If you would like to read from the beginning, the entire story is here.

Her uncle sat exactly as he had the night before, staring into the shifting patterns on the monitors, moving only occasionally to sip a thick liquid from a plastic cup. Allison hesitated. Had there been four monitors the night before? In the morning light some of the cables strewn around had an organic look, slightly shiny and slowly pulsating. A hum rose from the machinery, punctuated by the occasional menacing hiss. Her uncle’s clothes were stained; she suspected he had been wearing them non-stop for several days.

Allison made her own breakfast; her aunt was nowhere to be found. She reflected that even her poor attempts at cooking were better than anything her aunt had produced while she was in the house.

“’Bye!” she called out as she left for school, then wondered who she thought she was talking to.

Outside the fresh breeze carried what seemed to be a snowstorm of plum blossoms. They coated the ground and stuck in her hair. She looked around, searching for the source, but there were no plum trees nearby.

There was a boy waiting for her by her front gate. Allison recognized him from her class; he was one of the boys that seemed to spend most of their time huddled in some sort of serious conference. She knew it must just be paranoia when she got the feeling that they were talking about her, but she couldn’t help it. Now here he was, doing a horrible job of pretending to just be passing by.

She had heard his name before, she was sure, on that first confusing day, but the only boy’s name she had managed to retain was Seiji’s. This boy was taller, angular in an awkward way, and he peered at her through thick-framed glasses. A mild case of acne spotted his cheeks. “Allison!” he said louder than necessary. “You live here?”

“Uh, yeah…”

“What a coincidence! Hahahaha!” His laugh was awkward, his arm behind his head, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

Allison racked her brain for any clue what the boy’s name might be. There was no hope. Maybe she could fake it until she could ask Ruchia. “Um… Hi! Do you live nearby?”

“Yes! Uh, well, that is, no. I was just, er, making a delivery.”

They stood for an awkward moment, then the boy said, “Are you going to school now? I could walk with you.”

Allison tried to conceal her surprise. Other than Seiji’s sarcastic comments, none of the boys in class had even spoken to her. She was beginning to think she must have some sort of horrible deforming disease the way they avoided her. Maybe this guy would be the start of turning things around. He seemed nice enough, anyway, even if he was watching her with a slightly unsettling intensity. “All right,” she said.

“Great!” They stood there for another awkward moment, then Allison started walking. The boy fell in next to her, but he was unable to say anything. He seemed a little less nervous, though.

They had taken only a few steps when the front gate of the house next to Allison’s rattled and there was Seiji. He blinked, looking from one to the other. “Hello, Kaneda,” he finally said. “Hello, Allison.”

“Kaneda, Kaneda, Kaneda,” Allison mumbled to herself, committing the name to memory, then, louder, “Good Morning, Seiji.”

Kaneda had become so nervous Allison thought he might melt down. “Oh! Seiji! Good Morning! I was just in the neighborhood to make a delivery!”

“Is that a fact?” Seiji asked with a flat voice.

“Do you live here?” Allison asked.

Seiji looked at her with mounting suspicion. “Yeah…”

“I live right there. We’re neighbors!”

“Neighb… k-k-k-k-k” Nothing more came from Seiji except a choking noise from his throat.

Allison was annoyed. “Jeez, Seiji, is it that terrible?”

Kaneda said, “Seiji, I thought you lived over in…”

“Not anymore.”

“Did you move after—”

“We don’t live there anymore! That’s all!”

Seiji’s outburst left them all standing in silence for a moment.

“Well, somebody got up on the wrong side of bed this morning,” Allison said. “Come on, Kaneda, or we’ll be late.” She turned and strode off toward the Academy, Kaneda hurrying to catch up. Seiji stood for a moment longer under a little personal cloud, before he too turned and trudged toward the school.

He did not see the shadowy figure emerge from the bushes after he left, or notice the mysterious figure as it followed him up the road.

It was quieter than usual when Allison and Kaneda arrived in class. As they walked in the door a knot of boys wheeled around and stared at him openly, their faces portraits of hungry curiosity. Allison felt herself turning red.

Kaneda seemed unaware of the scrutiny. “Hey, guys!” he said. “Where’s Yoshiki?”

“Haven’t seen him,” said Kouta. “I’m a bit worried. You know how he likes those games…”

Shinta looked over to where Rei was sitting. “Hey, Rei, you were hanging out with him yesterday after school, weren’t you? Uh… Rei?”

So intent was Rei on the gameboy he held that he did not hear his friends. They exchanged an uneasy look. Kouta looked over the intent boy’s shoulder at the game. Rei was not moving, not even his thumbs, he was simply staring in mute fascination at the screen of the game. “Hey! Rei!” Kouta called out. “Oi!” He passes his hands in front of Rei’s eyes. Nothing.

“White Shadow,” Kaneda whispered, then glanced at Allison guiltily, as if regretting letting her hear the phrase.

Without warning Shinta grabbed the game out of Rei’s insensate fingers. For a moment nothing happened, then Rei began to tense up, tilting his head back, then arching his entire back and clawing at the air with crazed crooked clawlike fingers. His eyes began to bug out, bloodshot, pupils so small they were almost invisible. “Reset! Reset!” he screamed, then toppled to the floor.

“Stupid!” Seiji called out, pushing into the group. He tore the game from Shinta’s surprised grip and held the screen in front of Rei’s eyes. “Come on, Rei,” Seiji urged, “focus!” Seiji slapped Rei, hard, then a second time. Rei’s breath caught and his eyes focussed on the game. With a desperate grab he tore the game away from Seiji. He curled on the floor, staring at the screen once more, openly weeping.

Seiji inspected his hand, injured when Rei took back the game. “Call the Institute,” he said. “They need to come and get Rei before his batteries go dead.”

“Not the hospital?” asked Allison. “What’s wrong with him, anyway?”

Seiji looked at her with deep suspicion. “You really don’t know?”

“Have you ever been to the Institute?” Kaneda asked coyly.

“What institute? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As usual, she added to herself.

“Stand aside, please.” the deep voice was oddly distorted, like it was coming through a small speaker. Allison turned to find three big men standing behind her. At least, she assumed they were men, it was impossible to tell for sure who was inside the bulky rubber suits. The suits had hoses and backpacks and dials and it was impossible to see through the tinted face shields. On each suit was a number and the logo that read “Biological Computation Institute”. They each carried a weapon and they moved with military precision.

The students stepped back and the Institute men gathered up Rei without any wasted movement or commentary. As swiftly as they had arrived, they were gone, and class began to return to normal.

“Will he be all right?” Allison asked Seiji when they sat down for lessons.

Seiji paused for a moment before answering. “The Institute is trying to find a cure, but so far all they can do is keep the victims alive.”

“Victims? Of what? What’s this White Shadow thing?”

“It’s a kind of computer virus. Do you know much about computers?”

“I’m pretty good with them.”

“Really? Hm. Well, this computer virus is different. It doesn’t just infect the computer, it gets into people’s brains. It resonates with their nerves and causes the brain to release chemicals. Before long the brain becomes dependent on the signals; the natural chemicals in the brain are way more powerful than heroin and once you pass a certain limit you can’t stop looking at the patterns or you’ll die.”

“That’s terrible! Why would someone make something like that?”

“So, just how good are you with computers?”

“You think I did this?”

“Nooo…” Seiji said, but he didn’t sound very certain.

From the roof the Emergency Committee watched Allison and Ruchia eating their lunch beneath a tree in the yard below. It felt strange to Seiji to have a meeting without Yoshiki or Rei, but they all had to face the grim truth that they would probably never see their friends again. People didn’t come back when a place like the Institute took them.

Allison was mixed up in this somehow, he was sure, but her innocent act seemed genuine.

Kouta took charge as usual. “Kaneda, you walked to school with her?”

Kaneda nodded smartly. “Yes.”

“Did you see her teeth?”

“No. I was just starting to charm her when Seiji here showed up and with his usual tact and wit put her in a bad mood that lasted all they way to school. Boy, was she pissed off.”

“Nice move, Seiji,” grumbled Naota.

“You’re blaming me? The girl’s impossible!”

Kaneda interjected, “It turns out they’re next door neighbors.”

Kouta turned on Seiji, a sparkle in his eye. “Reeeally?”

“…” Seiji muttered.

Kouta returned to business. “So we still don’t know if she’s a demon.”

“She’s good with computers.”

“Interesting. Perhaps she’s a killer robot after all.”

“Or some sort of hyperintelligent mutation,” suggested Masashi.

“I bet the Institute made her,” said Bando.

Seiji nodded. “I’ve never heard of a demon that’s good with computers. I don’t think we need to have Kaneda be nice to her anymore.”

Kaneda smiled. “You know, I still think I should. She might be a demon from a technologically advanced realm. I owe it to the school to stick with her until she smiles. Only after I see her teeth will we know for sure.”

Seiji’s voice carried a hint of anger. “Really, Kaneda, that’s not necessary.”

“Oh? Does it bother you?”

“Of course not! I just don’t want you wasting your time!”

“Well, it’s my time to waste if I want to.”

Kouta intervened. “Look, we have to work together on this. Kaneda, you continue to be nice to her.”

“Can I be nice too?” Masashi asked.

“Certainly. Seiji, we need you to begin surveilance of her home. Report any suspicious activity.”

“Surveillance? You want me to peek in her windows?”

“We need facts, Seiji. Does she display superhuman strength when no one is watching? Can she see in the dark? Do her eyes glow? Plus, we need to see if she has wings, and if so, whether they are feathered or leathery. Horns? Are any parts of her made of metal? Is she anatomically correct? Scales? Corporate tattoos or serial numbers? In short, gentlemen, we need to see her naked.”

“I volunteer!” all the boys called out at once.

All the boys, that is, except Seiji. He knew what would happen to a boy who saw the transfer student naked. It would be painful, embarassing, and ongoing. Whoever the poor sap was would be publicly humiliated before the entire school, and his reputation would never recover, unless…

Seiji resolved to never, ever, see Allison naked.

Thanks!

I’ll never forget what’s-her-name.

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There’s a new bartender at the Little Café near nome. I first saw her a couple of days ago. The place was empty when I got there, and I sat at my customary table (lowered back to a more dog-friendly level), plugged in, and set to typing. (Some days it’s writing, others, typing.)

As I worked the place began to fill up, and a few of the arrivals were faces I recognized but had not seen in two months. Happy greetings were exchanged and I went back to work. That didn’t last long, however, as the place was getting crowded and I was getting very, very tired. It was time to go home before I fell asleep in the café.

When I paid, the new bartender said, almost shyly, “May I ask? You are Jerry?”

Hey! I’m famous! I assured her that everything she had heard was nothing but a pack of lies, paid my tab, and left. Forty meters up the street I realized I had not asked her what her name was. I was too wrapped up in being spoken of. ONE person has heard of me and already I have the superstar’s inflated head.

Last night I was back at LCNH watching hockey and writing during the intermissions. There was a rambunctous table full of hockey fans, and the vibe of the place was good for watching sports. The bartender was not so much a hockey fan, but we did occasionally exchange smiles over the antics of the more rabid viewers. Then other friends showed up, writing was done, and fun was had by all.

As I left I apologized for not asking previously and got the bartender’s name.

If only I could remember what it was.

Thanks!

Under Reconstruction

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Some of you may have noticed a mention in the “What’s New” box up there that I’ve been having a wee bit of trouble with the blog. The executive summary is this: it broke. iBlog, the software that maintains all the episodes, generates all the interconnected pages and whatnot, took a powder. I tinkered around with it for a while with no success, and I held little hope of getting any meaningful help as the company that makes it is waist-deep in releasing a major upgrade to the program. The sensible thing, therefore, was to move this monster to the new software, so that any further problems I had would be things the developer really wants to hear about.

iBlog 2 is really much better than its predecessor, but there are still some rough edges. Three categories didn’t make the transition successfully, so I had a pile of episodes to cut and paste into the new version by hand. One feature of the new version is much more direct handling of fonts and stuff; unfortunately all those episodes were made with the assumption that there wasn’t any of that stuff, so it all had to be stripped back out.

Anyway, things are getting back to normal here, whatever that is. Let me know if you spot anything strange or if yo miss something that used to be there but isn’t anymore.

Thanks!

Driving Topless

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A few events have converged to lead to this episode of little consequence; first, I just had the pleasure of logging a few thousand miles of top-down driving fun, third (chronologically), my sister just wrote an article in her blog about the singular pleasure of the experience, and second, I was recently ribbed for coming to a gentle stop at a yellow light while driving in Southern California.

In her blog Carol Anne mentioned that one feels more connected to the world when the top is down. This is undeniable, but it has effects on the driver that go far past what you might expect. Convertible drivers, by virtue (I believe) of their less-insulated state, are more courteous drivers. That’s not just the random assertion of a convertible driver, it’s based on Science. That’s right, there’s been a study. I can’t link to it, but I heard about it from the Actual Scientist. I think I did, anyway; my recollection is vague, but I’m pretty sure Click and Clack actually spoke to the individual involved. That’s NPR right there. Unassailable.

In any case, the Actual Scientific Study (a Master’s thesis, as I recall), involved driving around, stopping at traffic lights, and then not moving for ten agonizing seconds after the light turned green. The conclusion: drivers of convertibles were far less likely to honk their horns during those ten seconds. Someone got a Master’s degree for that.

There are lots of rude things that people do in cars that they would never do anywhere else. If everyone had no top on their cars, the roads would be much more civil. Heck, you might even have a nice conversation at the next traffic light. They’re good places to hang out.

Thanks!

An open letter to Eddie Bauer

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Dear Mr. Bauer:

I wish to lodge a complaint about a piece of luggage I recently purchased, which proudly bears your signature. The bag is, I am afraid, a testament to the times in which we live, long on promise yet somewhat wanting in execution.

There is no denying that we live in a miraculous age, an era of personal mobility undreampt of only a century ago. That I can, between the time I awaken and the time I go to sleep, find myself a third of the way around the world is nothing short of astonishing.

We are also in a materialistic age, a time when we are owned by our possessions rather than the reverse. In such a time as this not only are we mobile, but our belongings must be as well. It is odd, upon reflection, that we put wheels on entire houses before we put them on suitcases, but whoever thought of the roller bag has earned a special place in my heart.

Recently I was nine time zones from home and I experienced a dramatic surge in the amount of stuff I needed to carry. I’m sure you’ve been through a similar dilemma more than once: My faithful backpack, my partner for tens of thousands of miles, just wasn’t up to the task. It was time to find a new bag, one with wheels, that was capable of managing all the material I had accumulated.

Far from home but still in the moderately civilized country of California, land of my birth, I made my way to Target. There in the luggage aisle I was confronted by a variety of choices in many colors and styles. My eye was drawn almost immediately to your product. As a man who has been here and there in his time, I was impressed by the design of the thing, with a rigid lower section and a softer upper. Perfect! Protection for more delicate items, and smushable on top. Lots of pockets (some of them of rather odd sizes, like the one useful perhaps for a fishing rod or a pool cue but not much else), plenty of straps, and nice large wheels. I hesitated when I saw the price, but I figured that a bag like that would come in handy more than once.

Thus enters into our little drama ‘perceived value’, the assumption we as consumers have drilled into us that a higher price implies higher quality. We are left with little else to go on, as we stand in the department-store aisle, bombarded on all sides with sometimes ridiculous claims of durability or innovative construction. Your product was no stranger to this propaganda, and I of course paid it little heed, but what is left? I purchased the bag based on its features and a hope that paying more would get me more.

I packed up all my stuff, discovered room to spare, and was quite happy. The bag was a stable roller, stood up straight, and the multi-layer design did a remarkable job of limiting cargo shifting during transport. I had, I told myself, made a good choice.

Now, of course, in retrospect, I know a little more about roller bag dynamics, and I will be able to spot the deficiencies in the next roller bag I buy. Unfortunately, that purchase will be occurring much sooner than I would like.

When I noticed the fabric already showing wear in areas where it covered some of the rigid frame of the bag, I was a little annoyed. This was far too soon for that sort of failure under normal use. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world, and the bag was otherwise performing well.

Let me interject here that my definition of ‘normal use’ in a bag that size includes the ability to pull it up a curb. In a real-world, encumbered situation, no one is going to stop, juggle belongings, hoist a large bag up six inches, reconfigure all their stuff, and carry on. A bag that size, with nice big wheels rated for highway speeds, is going to encounter some bumps and must be able to handle them gracefully. Some (but by no means all) of the abovementioned wear is due to the lack of a skid plate covering the lower inches of the bag. I know now to look for such a feature, but as I was at the time transitioning from a backpack, it was not a feature I knew to look for at the time I purchased your luggage.

It was not long after that, less than an hour of my arrival back in Prague, that the “lug” was officially put into “luggage”. I was pulling the bag up a three-inch step when, with a snap, one of the wheels came off. In a moment the bag went from being a fairly nice roller bag to a major pain in the ass. I have not had the opportunity to check yet, but I imagine that much of your competition includes plastic protectors that prevent the edge of a step or a curb from getting up behind the wheel where it can exert undue transverse force. (If they haven’t, you can use that idea for free. You’ll leave your competition cold in your tracks.) Another thing on my “don’t buy a roller bag unless it has this feature” list.

I am considering a trip to the hardware store, to bolt the wheel back on and add the missing features. This is made a bit difficult by the distance between me and my tools, but for all that the materials and durability of the bag are wanting, the design of the cargo space is really quite nice. It is clear that your designers were more interested in the “showroom experience” of the bag while neglecting crucial real-world elements of the user experience. As a result you succeeded in getting my money, but failed utterly in gaining my loyalty as a customer.

Instead you have become a metaphor, an example of the forces at work making the world just a little more shoddy each day, an example of a good idea undermined by corners cut, then thrust onto the market and sold with the power of a name. But what will happen when that name loses its power? Just like my bag, the name Eddie Bauer itself could get frayed around the edges, and eventually lose a wheel. Another name will rise to replace it, maybe better, probably not, but it will not be your name. Someone else’s signature will grace the next bag I purchase, and I doubt I am alone.

I am not asking for any sort of redress; I bought a bag, it turned out to suck, I’m swallowing my medicine and looking for a better product in the future. Returning the luggage would require hauling it back over the Atlantic Ocean, which will be difficult since it only has one wheel. I just thought it would be worthwhile to let you know about the situation.

Also, I’m glad you don’t make airplanes.

Yours,
Jerry Seeger

P.S. Please note that I have also posted this letter to my Web site. I will happily publish any response you give as well, so my tens of loyal readers can read your thoughts on the world economy, the quality of products, travel, the importance of protecting brand names, or whatever else it might strike your fancy to discuss.

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Thanks!

The Routinity of Things

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Episodes in which I comment on the routine nature of air travel are themselves becoming routine, and now I am looking out on a sunny afternoon in Amsterdam, with aircraft puttering around out on the tarmac. From here the taxiing airplanes seem oddly purposeless, like sheep drifting around in a pasture.

I’m traveling heavy this time, laden with electronics of various descriptions. My carryon includes two laptops, a very large camera, a wide-angle lens, and an external hard drive (complete with pirates). In my checked bag is another hard drive, various electronic gizmos used in the movie industry, cables and AC adapters. The brand-new MacBook Pro (never even started up) is pretty obviously a tax dodge, but luckily Czech customs cares not at all about things like that. (Watch this be the one time they do care.)

There was exactly one screaming baby on the flight from there to here, and that baby was seated directly behind me. She didn’t just cry, she wailed for thousands of miles, only to fall asleep just before the plane touched down. Fortunately my movie on demand thingie started working, and there was an option with subtitles. Pan’s labyrinth was pretty good.

There’s something about the breakfast snack served on airplanes that unfailingly gives me heartburn. The dinners I cope with all right, but whatever the mystery ingredient is in those breakfasts, it kills me, every time, on every airline.

And that’s about it.

Thanks!