As Long as They’re Skating

As the squabbling between millionaires and billionaires continues to threaten the hockey season, I’d like to share a little hockey anecdote from years gone by. Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was sitting at the bar at Callahan’s, across from Rose, the best bartender in the world. She’s a Pittsburgh girl. The Penguins were skating against… um… I don’t rightly recall. The game went into overtime. Some of the rest is a little fuzzy in my memory.

“Another beer?” Rose asked me as the teams took the ice.

“As long as they’re skating, I’m drinking,” I replied. During the second overtime period, I decided that out of solidarity I should drink one beer per period. Solidarity, brother! It brought down the commies in Poland, after all. Rose just shook her head and poured the next beer.

Ah, pride. I actually considered going home during the fourth overtime, but I had made a sacred pact with the hockey gods.

The game went into a sixth overtime. At this point, the guys had played nearly three entire hockey games. Things were getting sloppy, but there are no ties, and (thank God) no shootouts in playoff hockey. Puck hit net, we rejoiced with what little we had left, and I walked home.

fuego has his own story about that game, a different experience in a distant time zone. That morning he had arrived on the set of some movie or other in the Czech Republic or thereabouts. One of the other people on the crew said, “They’re still playing!”

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Things My Sweetie has Cooked on the Barbecue (so far)

Having your kitchen torn out is stressful. What do you do when your haven from stress is the kitchen? You fire up the barbecue. The light of my life has made:

  • Chocolate chip banana bread
  • Ginger mixed berry coffee cake
  • Blueberry chocolate chip oatmeal cookies
  • Double-chocolate cherry cayenne brownies

and we’re not done yet. (And by ‘we’, I mean ‘she’.)

A Big Day in the Muddleverse

Some time ago, a big-time Web-design site linked to my table of border-radius compliance. There was a huge rush to this humble bastion of the information age, and my host at the time, iPage, shut me down. Couldn’t have me chewing up valuable server time!

Yep, I was suddenly too successful, and at the peak of my ability to fix all the world’s ills they turned me off. I don’t work with iPage anymore, even though they keep spamming me with $1-for-the-first-year offers. No, thanks, jerks.

But how badly was I really hurt? Day before yesterday, the tweetoverse spasmed over the same page. Because I rule my server and rule my fate, all requests were handled gracefully and this humble blog had its biggest day ever. 30 hours later, things are almost back to the original baseline. Had I been cut off, the curve would have been steeper but the end would have been the same.

Will there be new friends as a result of this new onslaught? New pithy or insightful comments to my less-than-focussed observations? A new gizo or nano? I hope so. You guys mean a lot to me.

Traffic to this site over the past month.

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It’s Beer-Blogging Thursday, Dammit!

I try to set aside an evening each week to go to a bar, relax, and write up a couple of blog episodes. Thing is, I’ve been completely crushed at work (it’s the end of the fiscal year, and I work in the finance department). Finding time to sleep has been a challenge for a couple of stretches lately.

Yesterday my team released not one, but two software tools. A big day! One of those tools is perennially caught in the confusion of fiscal-year shifts, and so today was about last-minute fixes.

Still, I got out of work at a reasonable time, and drove through unreasonable traffic to reach one of my chosen beer-blogging havens. (They’re playing AmeriFootball on a Thursday. Huh.) Anyway, I carved out some space and set up the ol’ bloggin’ box… and proceeded to extend the custom-search feature in one of my work projects. It’s an elegant solution to a problem that had been haunting me, so it’s by no means time wasted.

But holy heck, here I am, at a time I’ve designated for doing pretty much anything but work, and I’m doing work. My head is completely over on the analytical side of my cranium, to the point that I’ve been dreaming about database queries. I’ve gotta unshackle the creative neurons, the ones that never fire the same way twice. Get out the heart-shock paddles! I need to reset my brain!

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Perhaps the Perfect Date Movie

Sitting here watching sports on television, I was treated to the preview of an upcoming movie. It’s a star vehicle for Kevin James; he plays a music teacher who, desperate to fund his school’s music program (American schools exist now with no music program! Really!), takes up ultimate fighting or something like that. Twenty years ago he was a solid wrestler. Now… not so much.

So, with only a few feet of carefully-selected cuts to choose from, I’m thinking this is an excellent date movie. It’s the perfect Kevin James script. A regular guy in way over his head for reasons we can all appreciate and maybe even cheer for. He’s just doing his best. I’ve seen only one 30-second preview, but our main guy takes a beating. This is what will make this a great date movie. There won’t be too much blood, so the distaff element will say, “he took a pounding for a cause”, while the Y-bearers will say, “he took a POUNDING for a cause, and WON!” Because, come on. He’ll win. Maybe not the big fight, but he’ll save the music, and he’ll get the girl.

Good chance for a cameo by maybe Phil Collins or, better, Mike Ness at the end comforting the bleeding and beaten music teacher and saying, “I got your back.” He loses the fight but wins the larger battle.

Kevin James probably isn’t on a lot of women’s short lists, [I’ve written this part several times now, and not nailed it. Let’s just say that I’m a guy and I don’t find Kevin James to be a hypothetical competitor for my hypothetical reproductive effectiveness when civilization falls] so guys can appreciate an earnest guy winning in the end.

So, based on thirty seconds of exposure I’ve built the movie, perhaps optimistically, into a great date flick. It’s formula, but there’s a reason the formula exists. Done well, it provides a chance to cuddle happily with one’s sweetie and root for the guy to win his love. That’s not a small thing.

The Real Significance of the Return of American Football

Well, American-style football is back, which means the summer is over. Birthdays notwithstanding, I feel my ageometer tick over in the fall. Another summer gone. I think it goes back to school, when summer was when you really lived. It’s like you got to retire for a couple of months each year.

It’s probably due to my time in San Diego, when seasonal variation was so muted, that I came to measure the decline of summer by the start of football season.

My ultimate house would be on great crawley treads, and would oscillate north and south as the seasons progressed. If summer never ends, I never get older.

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Why You Haven’t Heard Much Here Lately

Below the studs, beams and ducts, is good ol’ dirt.

Our Living Room

Our Living Room

Our Kitchen

Our Kitchen

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Two Plugs in One!

I’m a little late on this one, but there are still issues left of the third Poetic Pinup Revue. I have to say, it’s pretty awesome. We’re learning as we go, and it shows.

The current Poetic Pinup Revue

There’s some work in this issue that I really like. Of course, that’s always true, but this time the bar seemed higher. Maybe it was the theme, “Bridges and Things that Burn Them”. That brought out some good stuff.

To get your very own big, majestic, heavy love-fest of poetry and imagery, drop by the current issue page at PPR.

One important lesson we learned this time around, one that is obvious in retrospect: When you make a saddle-stiched magazine, you don’t just need an even number of pages, you need a multiple of four. This issue comes with two empty pages for your notes and poetry inspired by the other, print-cluttered pages. At last! A magazine that leaves a little space for you!

When I put it that way, I’m tempted to put blank pages in every issue.

The Editor of PPR spends a lot of time hunting for the right material, haunting places online where artists show their work. She looks forward to the day when she won’t have to — enough submissions will come in that she can spend her time crafting the magazine. But there’s something to be said for this method (as long as someone else is putting in the legwork); There are a lot of talented people out there who don’t bother to submit their work, especially to print markets. Are you one of them? Some of you that read this are, I bet. Toss us some work! The worst that can happen is that we say “no, thanks” in a respectful manner. The best writers (or photographers, or painters, or…) are the ones who hear “no thanks” the most.

An aside on the subject of “no, thanks”: Even the best artists go downhill when they’re not afraid of rejection anymore.

So seriously, if you or someone you know is talented with words or pictures, send them to the upcoming issues page at poeticpinuprevue.com. If any of the upcoming themes inspire, it’s a short trip from there to the submissions page.

Up next: Contumulation & Carrying On. Think about what comes after all this noise we call life, or perhaps how we deal with the noise when someone special is gone. Very close on that issue’s heels: Food for Thought. Art about that which sustains us. This one even has recipes! Click the link above to see the completely awesome covers for those and the following issues.

Another thing we learned this time (the second plug at last!) is that MGX Copy down San Diego way is pretty dang awesome. We use them because their prices are easily the best we found, but when we got this last issue and there were problems with the pages, they cranked out an entire new batch for free. No hassles, no pushback; we took pictures of the flaws and they sent a sincere apology and a rush-order redo. So, if you want quality and service for a great price, I highly recommend MGX. They’ve done right by us, and we’re hardly a big account.

Check out Poetic Pinup Revue. It’s good and getting better. If you subscribe, you can even trace our meteoric rise.

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Ugly Cars

OK, to start things off, I’d like to go on record to say that the new Fiat they’re selling here is ugly. It’s lumpy and wrinkled, but lacking the charm of a shar pei. When the ads try to liken the lump of poo to an Italian supermodel, I just roll my eyes.

But the Fiat is a passive sort of ugly, the kind of ugly that mothers the world over look past.

When the Pontiac Aztec came out, I was stunned. My first encounter with one was in a parking lot; I walked a complete circle around the thing, laughing the whole time. I thought, naïvely, that I’d seen the pinnacle of ugly. Surely nothing could ever surpass it. I mean, come on. Presumably most auto designers want their cars to look good.

Except maybe the ones at Toyota. It started with the Prius, which is not an attractive vehicle. Aztec territory. Particularly offensive: the giant silvery tail light cluster. Two giant festering boils on the back end of every Prius.

The infection spread. More Toyotas inherited this horror, and then it caught on with Toyota’s other labels. Terrible designers at other companies picked it up, putting the awe in awful.

This isn’t to let the makers of big, angular red clusters off the hook. Still ugly, but easier to overlook.

All this in a time when technology allows designers to do just about anything with the tail lights of a car. If I were in charge of the VW, there’d be optional flower-shaped brake lights on the bug – and they’d sell. There is less need than ever before for giant plastic warts on the ass ends of cars. Yet on some vehicles these unsightly growths just keep getting bigger and uglier. I saw an SUV today, painted in a dark color, with giant silvery tumors on its ass so big I was tempted to chase it down to see who made the damn thing. But I had better things to do.

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Pardon the Dust – again


A warning sign I saw between Calgary and Edmonton.

I’m putting in a new comment system that hopefully will answer a couple of annoyances I found with the old. It may look wonky compared to everything else. I’ll probably just turn it on, see how things look, and turn it off again in a few hours once I know the effort it’s going to take to get it looking right.

In the meantime, leave a comment and tell me what you think!

Silver Lining

Traffic in the Muddleverse has been down lately, largely due to Google losing its love for my definitive treatise on over-easy eggs. (Seriously, though, there’s no better tract on that subject out there.) Another formerly-popular page has also sunk below the top-twenty fold: My episode titled ‘New York Sucks’. To be honest, I was surprised that my offering ever rose so high; surely there were plenty of other folk voicing the same sentiment.

Yet, for maybe two years, I was one of the top hits for the phrase ‘New York Sucks’. I learned during that time that idiot mouth-breathers occupied seats on both sides of the debate arena. There were some really cool responses as well, and I’m looking forward to my next venture into the hive. I think it’s going to be pretty awesome.

But now my little rant is off the radar, has been for some time, and I can breathe a sigh of relief.

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Wearing the Flag

I suppose the Olympics have always been an exercise in nationalism, despite propaganda to the contrary. I have quite consciously avoided the medal count page on my favorite sports sites, but let’s face it, that’s what people care about.

Then there’s the US basketball team, who recently pummeled some other hapless country to the tune of more than 150 points. In that game we demonstrated than we are better at basketball than some tiny nation, and that we are total dicks.

The rest of the world doesn’t see running up the score as such a big thing, but this is one of the things that’s supposed to make us better. Right? When you have the outcome in hand you think about those guys who will always talk about this game, a highlight of their lives, when they shared a court with the best of the best. Don’t shit on them. The trap: being condescending would be far worse than running up the score. But there has to be middle ground. Play loose, toss out a high-five when one of the other guys makes a good move. Maybe pass instead of shoot. Show a little respect, and have a little fun.

Which isn’t what I set out to say. This was intended as a grumpy-old-man episode about respect for the stars and stripes. It’s not a cape!

But if you’re going to wear the flag, or represent the flag in the arena, show a little class. The American Ideal is mostly a myth, but if you’re over in London with old glory soaking up the spilled beer on the table behind you, maybe that’s a good time to actually be who we say we are. A champion of the little guy. Someone who leads with a smile and is as trusting as he is trustworthy. Someone who will cheer for a great performance without regard to political boundaries. Always ready to help out a friend in need. While you’ve got our flag draped over your shoulders, be that ideal person, even if it’s just an act.

I’ll give you the cape if you live up to what it means.

A few guidelines for Americans visiting the games:
Don’t be loud unless there are Germans to drown you out.
As long as there’s no chance of losing, remember that it’s only a game.
When you meet a gold medalist in a bar, buy her a drink, and keep your opinion of rhythmic dance to yourself.
Heh. Rhythmic dance.
It’s the summer olympics. Hockey is… not hockey. But they still use the word.
Learn to say “thank you” in British. Use it often. Same with “please”. Even if you don’t learn any other words, you will do well.

Getting Over the Hump

Now, I didn’t get my degree in futurology from a major university, but writing that last episode about one specific medical breakthrough made me sit back and think about the larger picture.

Here’s the thing: There’s some bad shit coming down the pike, but there are also some good things. Let’s start with the bad:

There are more and more people on the planet, and they have to eat. While the human population shoots upward, our ability to produce food is under stress on several different fronts.

  • Nitrogen burn — a huge chunk of farmland is at risk of becoming sterile as a result of modern agricultural practices. The nitrogen in fertilizer comes from the atmosphere and doesn’t go back. It’s building up all over the place, and is starting to affect things.
  • Running out of phosphorus — this critical mineral is in short supply. This article put the timer at 50 years. We might find more in the meantime, but China is buying all it can now.
  • Water — some of the most productive farmland in the world gets its water from the ground. The supply is finite.
  • Water, part II — changing climate patterns are likely to put too much water in some places, and not enough in others.

I had a few more, but you get the idea. Keeping everyone fed for the next few decades is going to be tough. War and pestilence will follow where food is a problem.

2050 could be pretty ugly. If sea levels rise, there will be a lot of displaced people. (I say save San Diego and kiss Miami goodbye. Topologically, it makes sense.) Agriculture will be maximally stressed. It’s going to take everything we have to get past that hump.

But it is a hump. This is just number-crunching, but so far every group of humans that has reached a certain average lifespan has stopped reproducing so much. There’s good reason to believe that after around 2050, the human population will start to decline for the first time in history.

This leads to some new problems — or at least adjustments. Consider the American Social Security system as an example of something that happens all over the place (although, most times there’s less lying about what’s actually going on). Young folks pitch in to support the older folks. THIS IS NOT A BAD THING. (Although with Social Security we’re told we’re saving for the future, and that’s patently false.) Young folks looking after the ones who came before is admirable. The problem comes when there aren’t enough young folks to carry the load anymore.

Answer: redefine “old”. By 2050, working 75-year-olds will be typical (I originally used a bigger number, but pulled back). If I were king, I’d start sliding the retirement age three months each year, starting now. I’m not king, however, and it will probably require a few major nations to default and a million pensioners to die of starvation or exposure before it is politically possible to start this adjustment. Naturally, the pension hump comes at the same time the food supply is at maximum stress. But it’s a hump, and on the other side is the recognition that people will be productive for a lot longer. There’ll still be young’uns, they’ll just be sixty years old.

And come on, young at sixty? That’s not a bad thing. You might have to delay retirement a decade or two, but you’ll still have a better retirement than folks did in 1935, when retirement age was set at 65, and the average lifespan was 62.

So, that’s two humps we have to get over. There are others. We will have to make a pretty big transition on our energy sources in the future. Bad people will have access to some really scary shit. Robots might take over (they will do this by making us so fat and lazy we don’t bother to reproduce).

But on the other side of the hump is a population gently shrinking to what the planet can comfortably support, humans productive and healthy far beyond original design parameters, and a world that does not, as ours does now, run at a deficit. Once everything runs out, we’ll have to learn to live on a budget. There will still be strife, and greed, and misunderstanding, but just get us to the year 2100 without an abrupt population correction, and I think we’ll be all right.

(Note to readers digging this episode up on Our Benign Overlord Google (may it always reign in peace) in the 23rd century: get your bitch ass in your time machine and tell me if I was right.)

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Penicillin – and What Comes Next

We’ve heard about the super-killer bacteria, the ones resistant to penicillin and all the derivatives. Nasty, nasty, little guys. But consider: those super-baceria are as dangerous as every damn infection anyone ever got one hundred years ago.

I mentioned once to friends that if I were to travel back in time to live in an earlier age, the thing I would miss most is dentistry. One of those assembled brought up antibiotics. To our generation the very idea of an infection is far less malign than what our great-grandparents knew. We worry about cancer today because we don’t die of starvation or infection first.

But now antibiotics are becoming ever-less effective. We just overdid it, and the nasty little guys still standing just give penicillin the finger. Are we foolishly squandering one of the greatest tools we’ve ever developed to improve the human condition? Absolutely. Antibiotics have to number among the seminal achievements of technology.

But check this out: There are viruses that attack specific bacteria. For instance, there’s a virus that attacks tuberculosis. Seriously! Now, that virus may not be gnarly enough to completely wipe out TB in a human, but that seems like a pretty promising start to a new way to fight infection. It also strikes me as poetic to fight germs by getting them sick.

Yeah, the fact that we can now imagine a world with home build-your-own-virus kits can be a little worrying. Let’s just make sure we’re afraid for the right reasons. Often when you hear about genetic engineering, hand-wringers focus on the possibility that a created life-form that was supposed to be benign mutates into something evil that destroys the world. I’m not saying it can’t happen, mind, but it’s far more likely that a virus that’s already dangerous to humans — flu or chicken pox or even the common cold — will make that leap than some organism who just hasn’t been practicing at hurting people very long. The viruses already inside us would require a much, much, muchmuchmuch smaller mutation to get to wipe-out-humanity status, and they have a way to make a living even if they don’t get the whole mutation in one jump.

No, the reasons to be afraid are twofold: One, bad people will have the technology to make a lot of people sick. They will start with flu and do it right. Two (and this is my own personal hand-wringing unsupported by any actual research), the therapy might work too well. Every once in a while humanity wipes out a pest only to discover it filled an important niche in the local ecosystem. Kill all the mosquitoes and suddenly beetles are eating your crops. (I have a very vague recollection of a chain of events somewhat like that, but don’t go quoting me here.) We could wipe out some bacterium only to discover that it had an important role in the world that we never guessed at.

But you know what? I’m pretty stoked about this. It will be a long time before the our buddies the bacteriophages are cheap enough to change the world health outlook, but a long time isn’t as long as it used to be.

Here’s an article that talks about other applications of custom viruses, and revives my hope of getting out of brushing my teeth.

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The Adventure Looms – and the Goodbye

It’s Wednesday night; on Saturday morning my pilgrimage to Kansas begins. I look forward to this time every year—my chance to hang with the Kansas Bunch, to revel in pure writing energy. This year is dramatically different, mainly for the journey.

I’ve never needed the company of the Kansas Bunch more dearly than I do this year. My first time I was living in Prague and I chose maximum intensity for the workshops and learned an enormous amount. Chuck was my roomie that year, and I hope to hell he’ll be back this time around. He always leaves me with a massive reading list.

I won’t go through the whole litany of names. It’s the Kansas Bunch, and I’m one of them. There’s a special slot for people like me, a sub-bunch called repeat offenders. I rejoin the ranks of the repeat offenders this year with an edge of despair. I’m still working on the same story as last time. And the time before that. That’s not the recipe for success.

And how am I preparing for the workshop? I’m tweaking the first novel I wrote, long ago, getting it ready to shop around (again) to people who pay for stories. The Monster Within still chokes me up at points. Kind of embarrassing when you’re editing at a sports bar. It’s petty intense at points. However, that’s not the story I’ll be asking the kansas Bunch to help me with. That story is rusting in the weeds.

But this year, it’s not just a trip to Kansas. I’ll be taking the most wonderful dog in the world to her new home. I’m not good at goodbyes, and fortunately the ritual is lost on the canine of our species. At least I have the honor of several days in a small car with the best dog in the world; my sweetie must go cold-turkey.

The pup herself is enthusiastic about any activity that involves a motor vehicle. Chiquita loves the road. She’s a dog that way. As am I. But somewhere in Oklahoma I’m going to say goodbye to a good friend. I’m going to fight not to blubber in front of strangers. I’m going to hand over Squeaky Fuzzy Monkey and a little piece of my heart will follow along.

It’s vanity, I know, but I hope that someday when I’m down Texas way I’ll see the girl again, and that she’ll remember me. It’ll be hard to tell; she loves everyone she meets.

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