There is a tree in my backyard, and I’ve never climbed it. There was a time earlier in my life where that would have been unthinkable. Gotta climb trees, after all.
But somewhere between then and now I passed from being a climber of trees to a non-climber. I didn’t notice when it happened, but I do appreciate the shade.
A coupe of days ago I punched the time clock at the end of the day and transitioned from coding to writing… and kept coding. Yesterday, the same thing. Today, so far it’s mostly been coding.
It’s not a bad thing that there’s something I’m working on at Apple that has taken root so deeply in my brain. If your database isn’t normalized, what tools can you offer at the just-above-driver level to make it as easy as possible to keep data consistent, without degrading write performance? It’s a very small part of my job, but chasing questions like this is geek nirvana.
But now — right now — I’m gonna finish a draft of Knives 40.
She was probably as old then as I am now, but better-preserved. A friendly smile and a big hat, a twinkle in her blue eyes, her voice with that perfect Kentucky lilt. We were in line to place our bets for the Derby. It was crowded in that line, and I moved to block people from jostling her wide-brimmed hat. Then I saw the badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck, clashing with the classic pink rose of her dress.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The adventure really starts long before that, when Mikie asked me if I wanted to join him and his father Mike and another man named Art at the Kentucky Derby. Mike and Art were old friends, and the Derby was a tradition for them. Usually, I think, they treated clients to the experience, but this year it was Mikie and me.
It started fairly early in the morning, at San Diego International, when my party got a warning that if we got too hammered off Bloody Mary’s we would not be allowed on the plane. (Or was that the Las Vegas Trip? I think that was the Las Vegas Trip. Never mind.)
The thing to understand about the Kentucky Derby is that, except for television, it is not a singular event. The races build up for four days or more, and the parties in town and in the infield of the track also pick up in intensity. Also important to note: certain parts of the stands cost more to sit in than others. Our section, apparently, was on the swankier side. We shared our little area with a very nice, very wealthy guy with a stunningly beautiful younger wife. There was no doubt on either side what had attracted each to the other, but it was an honest relationship, I think, and the fact they seemed to genuinely love each other was a bonus for both. They joked and laughed as he threw tickets to the concrete beneath our seats for bets he lost. My curious forensics discovered most bets in the hundreds of dollars.
His big bets he was making offshore, and he was annoyed that the cell signal at the track was getting overloaded. That’s how long ago it was.
We were staying at some Sheraton or another, which had a shuttle to the track. The place had an absolutely typical hotel bar, except this particular hotel bar had Heather. A pixie with a quick smile and an honest streak that only a great bartender can pull off. She hated mint juleps. They are labor intensive, and the asshats who drink them when they come for the Derby are the same asshats that don’t tip well.
I got on well with Heather, but Art was a charmer and Mikie has a certain something. She started spending extra time around us.
There wasn’t much in the way of actual good beer at that bar, but at one point I found myself sitting next to the only other person there who seemed to care about the taste of the beverage he was consuming. We talked for a bit; I didn’t get his name. But he was a good guy.
Perhaps it was the second night in Louisville that Mikie found the karaoke bar. It was a good bar that happened to be doing karaoke, and I perused the list and chose… Nirvana.
When I do Nirvana, it can go two ways: awesome or horrifying. There is no in-between. That night, Kurt Cobain borrowed my pipes and I was fuckin’ wailing. As far as I remember. Then suddenly POW I was on the floor trying to keep singing while not spilling too much of my beer and dudes were slam-dancing while I shouted (around laughter) “I AM STUPID, AND CONTAGIOUS! YEAH!”
Best karaoke night ever. Except maybe full-bar Bohemian Rhapsody. Or all-you-can-drink night in Las Vegas… But those are other stories. All with Mikie. So there you go.
Anyway, back in Kentucky, I was a little shaky the next morning. It was probably the day before the big day by then, and the stands were getting full and our high-roller pals were getting serious. I also learned to recognize the badges some people wore. They were the badges that would give the owners access to the winners circle if their horse won. Each badge had a number (the number of the race that day) and a name. So a badge with a big 8 and the name “No Hope” would mean that the bearer owned the horse “No Hope” that would be running in the 8th race that day.
I told you already, I was in the high-roller section.
At this point, gambling-wise, I’d been doing OK but not great. I have a system for betting on the ponies, if you can believe that. I study the racing form, do the numbers, balance risk and reward, and go place my $2 bets at the window. When I won my tiny jackpots I always left a tiny tip, so the window people were OK with me, even though I was pretty much an obstacle to the real flow of cash.
The night before the Derby tension was definitely ratcheting up at Heather’s bar. Then Mike Sr. went AWOL for a while and Mikie was losing his shit and Art was as calm and confident as ever, even as he told me stories I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have heard. I sat at the end of the bar with The Only Other Good-Beer Drinker for a while, before retiring.
It occurs to me now — I don’t remember my hotel room at all. At all. I probably shared it with Mikie. Maybe all four of us? It’s a blank. Intellectually I have to recognize that I slept at points on that trip.
Race Day. We take the shuttle to the track early, and a steady stream of mint juleps ensues. There are a lot of races that day; the track squeezing all it can out of the big crowd. I place a few bets, drink some juleps (no doubt from a big julep-vat), and study the form. I find what I’m looking for.
Funnicide, I think the horses’s name was. We called him Fungicide. A long shot, but not silly. The favorite that day was Empire Maker, a fine steed, Triple-Crown whispers following in his wake. But Fungicide had the exact profile in the racing form that I looked for. Each workout better than the last. Peaking at the right time. “Fungicide’s gonna win,” I told my group. Turns out they listened.
Almost time for the big race. I was standing in line with the high rollers who don’t bet offshore over the phone. Maybe they want a souvenir ticket. Fungicide was going to win, but Empire Maker was a beast. The easiest exacta ever. I was poised to rake in dozens of dollars. Dozens!
Her hat brim brushed me and I turned around to find her smiling apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Then someone else brushed against her hat and I used my right hand to very gently grant her space. There was another man behind her, large, probably on her payroll, but I was in the right place to do the right thing.
She gave me a little smile and we chatted a little bit, before I saw her badge. The number was 10. The Derby. She had a horse in the Derby. When I made that discovery I was neither gushing nor coy; there’s even a chance I was pretty cool. “I’m going to put a bet on him right now,” she said. “Will you?”
“Absolutely!” I said, or maybe something more suave than that. (For the record, I did put a bet on her horse to win. He did not do well.)
It’s hard to tell, actually, with a genteel Southern woman, whether she likes you or if she’s just tolerating you. In every case she will be polite. But I think… I think she liked me. Sometimes I wonder what might have been, had I protected her hat a little longer. But when it was my turn at the window I turned my back on her and that is all that ever happened.
Fungicide won. Fungicide beat out Empire Maker and won the Kentucky Derby. A titanic upset.
On the shuttle from the track back to the hotel, the mood was ugly. “Who the fuck bet on Funnicide?” someone shouted. In that angry space I just shut up.
Back at the Sheraton, things were different, too. My good-beer buddy was a celebrity; people asking for pictures with him. Everyone else was pissed off. Heather confided in us, “I may be smilin’, but it’s fake.”
“Who the fuck bet on Funnicide?” the lament came again.
“I did,” I said. “I got the Exacta.” I was more than a little proud of that. There was a some quiet around us then.
“I got the trifecta,” Art said softly, with a knowing smile. He had called the race 1-2-3. Put me right in my place. And it’s safe to say his bet was somewhat larger than mine. It paid for his trip, he told me later. Hopefully my research justified what he spent to host me there, as well.
One wave of anger after another washed through the bar, almost starting fights, but finally the last wave passed and carried with it the anger, leaving exhaustion. Good Beer Guy was still at the bar, and I sat next to him. By then I had learned that he was part of the cartel that owned Empire Maker. We didn’t say much; we just sipped our beers. “You never know,” I said at last, and he nodded. But I had known.
As many of you no doubt know, I have taken many the picture of Harlean Carpenter (who is a fiction). You can see a bunch of them over at Poetic Pinup, but there are some shots that will never show up there. Four whole shoots worth, in fact.
You see, a while back someone suggested that it would be fun to make a deck of playing cards with pictures of Harlean on them. We thought that was a capital idea and got right on it (roughly three years later).
Here’s a look at promo photos taken during the three shoots we have in the bag so far:
Those shots won’t be in the actual deck, but they do give an idea what the cards will be like. You will note that each photo includes a number of small objects, from one to thirteen. Because fictitious or not, Harlean takes her themes seriously. I’m really looking forward to the clubs set this weekend – Paleolithic, baby!
The page over a Kickstarter explains it all better than I can, but I’ll give you a brief rundown – 52 fun pinup photos + jokers, high quality printing, plastic case. You can get extra-special cool stuff if you pony up a bit extra.
Some of the proceeds go to Toys for Tots, so this is also a chance for you to shine a droplet of sunshine into a kid’s life.
You would make me all sorts of happy if you (yes, YOU), were to pop on over and buy a pack. And whether or not you decide this awesome pack of cards is for you, please, PLEASE spread the news.
Thanks for your support! You all are awesome.
Bernie has proposed a bill in the Senate, and damn near every Democrat who hopes to run for president next time around has jumped on to support it. The ones with anything to lose have been a little more cautious, but they all agree this proposal is a great way to start a conversation. And that is certainly true.
Among Democrats, support for the idea is very strong until the idea of increased taxes to pay for it is mentioned. Because let’s face it, taxes would have to go up to pay for it.
But consider this: My health plan is already taxpayer-subsidized. If you have a company health plan, you are taxpayer-subsidized as well. Your employer doesn’t pay taxes on your benefit. That’s money out of the government coffers to make your health care cheaper. The ones who need support the least benefit the most.
That’s bogus, even though I benefit. It’s backwards from the ethic I embrace, that those doing well look out for those who need a leg up. I am embarrassed that my health care is subsidized while others go without any care at all. You should be, too.
So when people ask, “how do we pay for it?” — a legitimate question — point out that the government is already subsidizing health care for everyone with a job. The ones who need it least.
In about twenty hours, the spacecraft Cassini will plunge into the atmosphere of Saturn and destroy itself, to protect any potential life on Saturn’s moons. Can’t have Earth-life-tainted space junk floating around out there.
Cassini’s mission has been an astonishing success — with an emphasis on astonishing. It found things that turned some of our notions on their heads, and revealed a small moon with a liquid water geyser(!). It’s going to take a while to figure that one out.
I’ll not go into all the details; there’s actually a pretty nice write-up at fivethirtyeight, and you can get real-time updates straight from NASA.
The scientific instrument I most appreciate is the plain ol’ camera – Cassini sent home some beautiful images. Here’s a low-res markup of one of my favorites: A shot of Earth taken through the rings of Saturn.
The universe is still filled with mystery; we’re barely out of our own back yard and everywhere we turn we find things that astonish us. As we struggle with the trials of having a lot of sentient creatures packed onto the rocky parts of the surface of one small planet, we would do well to take a breath and look up, and be awestricken by what we see.
I am not a rabid fan of the sport, but I do enjoy catching the occasional NFL game. Yet while I no longer have a team to pull for (the San Diego Chargers abdicated that position), the two teams that play nearby seem to be doing all they can to NOT draw me into their fandom. The Raiders, well, they’re the Raiders*, and also they are leaving town in a couple of years. No point jumping on that wagon, even if they might do well this year.
Then there’s the 49ers. I didn’t watch the game today, but I monitored its progress now and then. I saw one sequence that sent me the clear message: “we don’t like our fans.”
The Niners were behind 23-0, well into the 4th quarter. (For those not up on the jargon, time was running out, and they were getting their asses kicked.) They moved the ball downfield through steady performance only to come up 4th-and-one deep in enemy territory. (It’s late, but for the moment at least, they are not sucking — but it’s time to make a big decision.) The game is essentially over, but there’s a chance to make some noise. One yard? It’s actually the kind of thing their steady-but-not-flashy quarterback is pretty good at. Yet rather than go for it and perhaps spark a great comeback, the coaches take the safe route, wave the white flag, and kick a field goal so at least they don’t have a zero on the scoreboard. Now they’re only down by 20 points!
Fine, whatever, you’re cowards. Better luck next week.
But then, THEN, when the other team had the ball, the Niners called time out.
You have already surrendered! Why are you doing this? If you thought there was any hope, you would have tried to score a touchdown on your previous possession. Why are you wasting everyone’s time prolonging a game you have no intention of trying to win? Why do you hate us so much? That part of the game is called “garbage time” for a reason.
The rule change: When a team attempts a field goal when they are losing by more than the minutes remaining times four, they forfeit all their remaining timeouts, and spiked balls are intentional grounding (which they should be anyway). Additionally, the other team cannot use its timeouts unless the score narrows to less than that margin. Let’s just get this thing over with. We’ll call it the “surrender rule.” Or perhaps, the “show the fans a little respect” rule.
_____
* The Raiders are just another football team. I don’t dislike the team as much as I dislike the fans. In fact, there are a few players on the Raiders who quietly make a huge positive impact on their community, and I respect them tremendously. And to be honest the fans in Oakland are working hard to remove the stigma of violence that surrounds them, while still being hardcore fans. What I really hate are the Raider fans in Los Angeles. I hate them a lot. But “The Night I Put a Curse on the Raiders” is a San Diego Super Bowl story for another day. (For the record, I formally lifted the curse at the start of last season.)
This site will be offline for a little while this afternoon; the server upon which it resides is going to be moving from one Mysterious Bunker Somewhere Near Las Vegas to a different MBSNLV.
I’m not sure how long the system will be down before it gets plugged back in and the new DNS info propagates through the Web-Tubes.
See you on the other side!
Moved!
The move is complete. You may carry on as you were.
Apparently there is a special event of some sort here in Cupertino on September 12. A big announcement. I work at Apple but let me tell you now — I have no idea whatsoever what the event is all about. If I cared enough, I suppose I could look back through history and see when iPhone announcements have been made in the past. But honestly I don’t care enough to check. I’ll find out the same way y’all will.
Do the bookies in Las Vegas do an over/under for use of the word “incredible” in an Apple show? They should. There’s a lot of incredible shit going down. And if it is an iPhone announcement, you know that it will be Apple’s “best iPhone ever.” WELL I SHOULD HOPE SO.
What I will be watching for is a look at the new subterranean theater. Like the rest of the new Apple campus, it was built with a “fuck the shareholders, let’s make it… um… incredible” ethic. As a shareholder, I’m on board. I like that the new facility cost bazillions of dollars extra because everything had to be just exactly right. It is an expression of what we aspire to as a company. Getting it exactly right. We don’t always succeed, but
To be honest, I also like that I will not be a guinea pig in the new building while they find out if all those computer simulations of natural air flow through the main building actually reflect reality. They took some risks on that building, to be sure.
No matter how special this event actually turns out to be, it will be the first Apple show in the new place. It will be the first in a theater designed from the ground up to be a place to announce products, including an area to allow the invited guests to interact with those products after the presentation. There really is nothing else like it, and I’m looking forward to catching a glimpse.
Let’s say I want to watch a video to learn how to cut curved sections into paving stones. This is a natural thing to turn to YouTube for, since watching people using the tools communicates more than text ever could. While viewing a video with a promising title, here is a bunch of stuff I could do without. All these comments can be generalized to improve ALL YouTube How-To content. Because almost all of it is terrible. The best ones spend only about 1/3 the time on topic.
So! Stuff I DON’T want:
Content – Information I simply don’t need
Editing – Annoyances standing between me and what I want to know
Quality – Sure would like to see what you’re doing there…
Credibility – Are you serious?
Every damn second of a video about cutting curves in pavers should be about exactly that. That’s not to say you can’t have relevant side information — safety, tips for marking the curves to cut — but ultimately it’s not a video about you saving money by not calling a contractor. It’s a video about cutting curves in pavers. (Or it’s a video about breaking down a chicken. Or whatever.) Remember what you are teaching, and make your video 1/3 the length of your original “cut”. (Most aren’t cut at all.)
Apparently Thursday is the day to start NFL preseason games. I’m at a bar writing unit tests for my new project, and I have these observations:
1) People care an awful lot about the outcomes of games in which guys on your team who will be cut before the season starts play against guys on the other team who will be cut before the season starts.
2) The perfect football moment. A guy made a good catch. To celebrate he spun the ball on the ground like a top. The refs then took a full minute to penalize him for delay of game.
3) I’ve mentioned before that were I coach, I’d not be playing to win at all; rather I’d be digging deep holes for the team to see how my players respond. It would be a giant gut-check the whole night, an undying series of do-or-die moments. It’s only fair to the guys on the bubble to have a chance to show who they really are when things get tough. That’s what preseason is for, right?
But football is on the TV’s here and that means summer is coming to an end. To be honest, I welcome the cooler weather, but it’s this time every year when I consider that I will only know a finite number of football seasons on this lovely-if-frustrating orb. The players are younger, the announcers are older, and another summer is coming to a close. I love summer; my emotions have not forgotten the magic of summer vacation.
In my heart, I’m still that kid; in my soul, I have gathered a lot of wisdom over the years. In my knee, there is a constant reminder that things are changing and will not change back.
And so football arrives again, my knee saying “see? I told you so.” Time does what time does. And the referees delay the game to penalize players for delaying the game.
I was looking for something cool and fizzy to sip on the patio this evening, and the Official Sweetie of Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas suggested a Gin and Tonic, with some fancy tonic already cold in the fridge. I’m not ordinarily a G&T kind of guy, but the idea fit conditions perfectly.
Then she said, “Ooo! You want a lime? I’ll go out and pick you a lime.”
Image stolen from cnn article linked below.
Trump broke his own record this month for playing golf. For Trump, the best outcome for his presidency is impeachment; he has no interest in governing and now his Russia boondoggles are starting to surface. Being president, he has already admitted, is way harder than he thought it would be. As the castle crumbles, he’s working on his putts.
If he’s impeached, he can blame Washington insiders for his failure. He can go home early and rant and rave about how the system was rigged against him. If instead the electorate votes overwhelmingly for “not Trump”, it’s a tougher lie to tell.
But here comes John Kelly. Kelly had hardly finished accepting the job when he burned rubber to Anthony Scaramucci’s office to give him the heave-ho. That was a message to the rest of the staff, and it was a message to you and me. Guys with so little self-control that they make insane, profanity-laced rants about their co-workers (the word “cocaine” whispers across my mind once again) will not be tolerated. Well, one of them will, but no others.
Kelly comes from Homeland Security, which means he hates freedom. Your freedom, my freedom. Homeland Security is designed to curtail freedom. But you know what? He’s better than Trump. He’s a grown-up. (He probably also isn’t pals with one of the greatest enemies of our state.) Also, he’s better than Pence — as far as I know so far. So if Trump hits the links and leaves Kelly in charge, that might actually be a good thing in the short term.
In the long term, the harder Trump falls the longer it will take for the WWE Party to recover. It’s enticing, but this is my country we’re talking about. It would be nice if someone rational were in charge.
It occurred to me today, as I spent less than sixty seconds ordering a pizza, paying for it, and arranging to have it delivered to my home, that kids these days will never appreciate how rough it was back in the day. They’ll never know the difficulty of calling for pizza on the telephone, talking to someone who is in a loud environment and just wants to get the transaction done quickly, who may or may not get your order written down correctly.
THEN you have to give your address (even if you’ve ordered from them before), and all your payment information (even if it’s the same as last time). THEN you had to pay for the pie and tip the driver when it arrives at your door.
Man, what a hassle.
