The zen of shoveling snow

I live in Massachusetts and we've had quite a bit of snow. I've been shoveling a lot. My neighborhood is tight, without a lot of snow storage locations, so my piles are now well over my head.

I won't claim to like shoveling snow, but don't mind it either.  Until today the snow was light and fluffy (today is that dreaded thing forecasters call "wintry mix"). Shoveling, done right, is a nice workout. Just protect your back.

My wife bought me a great new shovel, a Garant, with an ergonomically curved shaft and a handle good for both pushing and lifting.  There's no name, but I think it's this one.  I love it.

There's been a lot of discussion about Tyler Cowen's ebook experiment, The Great Stagnation. I have it but haven't yet read it.  That's not going to stop me from commenting on it, however. It's, in part about large changes vs. incremental changes.

The Garant shovel is a good example of incremental improvement. Every angle on it, from the blade to the "Versagrip" takes a lot of snow shoveling experience into account. Its materials are both light and sturdy. We tend to overlook changes in materials over time, since they look pretty much like what they replace, while being cheaper, tougher, lighter, and often more attractive.

So, shoveling snow is still shoveling snow, but as my body ages, the shovels get better.  So far, I'm staying even.

What's a guilty pleasure? For me, Damages

What is a "guilty pleasure"? It's usually something kind of cheesy that you pretend is an occasional indulgence rather than the personal staple it really is. I think it's really something you like for one particular feature or other, while realizing that the creators didn't really do their jobs properly. But you like that thing so much that you're willing to overlook the other issues.

To me, the TV show Damages is like that. I tend to watch TV shows as long units, on DVD. Last week I finally caught up with the first season of Damages (partly because of a casual mention of the show by Catherynne M. Valente).  This is the one with Glenn Close as a barracuda litigator and Ted Danson as the loopy billionaire she's suing.

I had a great time with it. The acting is good, as is a lot of the dialogue the actors get to say. And, wonderfully, when you watch interviews with the actors, almost none of them have the same accent they have in the show. Several are not even Americans. It's like those Brits on The Wire that freak you out when you hear them out of their roles.

What makes it a guilty pleasure is the insane implausibility of the various crimes that are committed by one or the other side in a complex class-action suit based on Enron-like financial chicanery. Instead of the tedious documents such things actually depend on, everything starts to turn on people who witnessed various things that are, really, almost irrelevant. And they start getting killed in fairly obvious ways.

It's fun, but as George Clooney's character, Michael Clayton, told Tilda Swinton's Karen Crowder in Michael Clayton (a much more focused version of poorly conceived crimes in pursuit of a class action suit): "I'm not the guy you kill.  I'm the guy you buy." Almost everyone is. (BTW, the thing I most admired about Michael Clayton was the crooked teeth and other physical imperfections in the big stars, a startlingly effective way to make things seem realistic)

I would love to see Close's Patty Hewes played straight, with no criminal agenda or personal corruption. Because when she is just the incredibly focused boss, who only wants your work, and a lot of it, not your personal self, thank you very much, the character is incredible. There's a brief, almost throw-away scene, where a crucial ex-employee has realized he can't make it on his own and comes back with a list of demands and Patty reviews them: ("yes...sure...yes....") and then comes to the one she can't accept. Her brisk command of what matters and what doesn't really gave me a thrill--I've worked with people like this, and they are really something other than us ordinary mortals.

It's people like Patty that make businesses succeed. That, in point of fact, make this country great. When they stop pushing us timeserving shlubs around and give it up is when we all get thrown on the ash heap of history (a phrase from Leon Trotsky, himself an interesting possible model for the boss from hell). The world of non-corrupt but totally competitive business is almost absent from the works of every genre.

But, sure. When you start with a half-dressed woman running down the street covered with blood, you've got the hook you need. Who really cares that the reason she's covered in blood actually makes little sense?

Well, I do, actually. But it was still much more fun than most seasons of TV, and had a lot of fun revelations, cliff hangers, and reversals that kept me watching later in the night than I usually stay up.

 

Cycling sucks

Here, a cool video from the blog Copenhagenize (via Urbanophile):

also here.

There is one scene where people are fighting over parking spaces. Maybe that's not an issue in Copenhagen (hence funny) but often in Cambridge there is a shortage of places to park your bike.

Now, of course, the problem is climbing to the top of a huge snow mound to find a place to lock your bike.

But the point of the student film matches my experience: when people wonder how I can bike everywhere, I wonder how they can put up with all the various indignities inherent to city driving (and parking).

Arisia: where I will be

I'll be at one of my home town conventions this weekend: Arisia.  My panels will be:

Fri 6:30 PM Boston as setting

Our shared world anthology Future Boston, recently popped back up, as me and other participants were interviewed by two fun staffers from the Boston Phoenix.  Both had been fans of the book in their youth.  So I'm probably just going to recycle whatever I said to them.

Fri 9:30 PM Conservatism in SF and Fantasy

I must be crazy to participate in this.  But as what passes for a libertarian here in Cambridge (that is, probably not recognizable as such elsewhere) I felt obliged to try to steer some kind of course between oppression by the nanny state and oppression by tradition and habit.

Sat 9:30 AM SF/Mainstream Convergence

Delia Sherman is unavailable, so I will be moderating this, and thus unable to pompously hold forth as much as I would like.  This is a noble sacrifice, which I hope the audience appreciates.

Vaccines, fiction, and the story of being a parent

I live in an urban area, around many educated parents. When my children were young, I was a bit appalled to find that some of them didn't vaccinate their children. The reasons were, to my rationalist mind, odd, even weird, based on a sense of purity, and relying on free riding on others who did vaccinate, not some kind of informed risk/gain calculation.

Parents of young children often desperately want some kind of objective metric of how well they are doing.  That's why they get obsessed with things like 100% fruit juice drinks (flavored sugar water, much like any other kind of sugar water), organic food (indistinguishable from conventionally raised equivalents), bike helmets (if you're not riding in traffic, I'm not sure it matters)...and whether you let your children get a vaccine shot. They used to swaddle them, or refuse to hug them, or put mustard plasters on their chest.

Because, really, you have no way of telling how well you're doing.

Not vaccinating (or feeling guilty because you did) is a way of regaining some control over the narrative of your child's life.  But you really have almost no control over it. The results are pretty much random. The steering wheel isn't connected to anything.

Now, make no mistake. Opposition to vaccination is a dysfunctional narrative, one that leads to a vaguely creepy glaze-eyed stance. If you talk to those folks on that topic for too long you begin to wonder how many people who go on a killing spree with an automatic weapon oppose vaccination...or were not vaccinated because their parents opposed it.  Why aren't sociologists paying attention to the things that are really worth studying?

Stalin vs. Trotsky (or Bukharin): how high the body pile?

I've recently listened to two interesting Econtalk podcasts, one with Paul Gregory about Nikolai Bukharin, and another with Robert Service about Trotsky. Both were Bolshevik leaders who were outmaneuvered and finally killed by Stalin.

Since Stalin killed millions of people in a continent-wide bloodbath, it has long been a matter of speculation as to whether leadership by either Trotsky or Bukharin would have changed things for the better. Sympathisers with communist ideals say things would have been way better with either of the other two, since Stalin perverted revolutionary ideals, while anti-communists say the entire system was brutal from its beginning and that violent mass terror was inevitable.

I think both are correct.  Aside from the fact that Stalin's dominance was not some kind of chance (he was brilliant, hard-working, and twisted, a patient and implacable force like Nemesis made flesh), I think that personalities and individual decisions did play a role. Violence was inevitable, but how much violence could vary widely.  The conjunction of personality and historic situation was stated most cogently by Arthur Koestler in Darkness at Noon.  Rubashov (a character based, in part, on Bukharin), in prison, is thinking about the man who put him there:

What went on in No. 1's brain? He pictured to himself a cross-section through that brain, painted neatly with gray water-colour on a sheet of paper stretched on a drawing-board with drawing-pins. The whorls of grey matter swelled to entrails, they curled round one another like muscular snakes, became vague and misty like the spiral nebulae on astronomical charts.... What went on in the inflated grey whorls? One knew everything about the far-away nebulae, but nothing about the whorls. That was probably the reason that history was more of an oracle than a science. Perhaps later, much later, it would be taught by means of tables of statistics, supplemented by such anatomical sections. The teacher would draw on the blackboard an algebraic formula representing the conditions of life of the masses of a particular nation at a particular period: "Here, citizens, you see the objective factors which conditioned this historical process." And, pointing with his ruler to a grey foggy landscape between the second and third lobe of No. 1's brain: "Now here you see the subjective reflection of these factors. It was this which in the second quarter of the twentieth century lead to the triumph of the totalitarian principle in the East of Europe." Until this state was reached, politics would remain bloody dilettantism, mere superstition and black magic....

I'd say that there are two points at which personality played a crucial role: 1936 and 1941.  In 1936, at Stalin's direct order, political violence went from endemic to universal, and the political system from oppressive to psychotic.  It was a surreal spasm, like watching someone stab himself repeatedly with a kitchen knife. Huge swathes of the population were executed or sent to die in labor camps. After 1938 the level went down again, but never back to the earlier merely brutal level until Stalin's death.  After that, it dropped quickly, past brutal to just oppressive.

The second was Stalin's miscalculations that led to the German invasion of 1941.  Sure, Stalin kept things together after that and achieved final victory, but that was partly because he had killed any reasonable alternative to himself.  A leader not blinded by his own megalomania might have seen the warning signs and fought a war that was only destructive rather than devastating.

So, I don't see that Trotsky, Bukharin, or any other Bolshevik would have presided over some kind of liberal regime.  Still, absent Stalin, millions of people might have lived out their full lives, albeit under oppressive circumstances. Even in an awful situation there are many levels of awfulness, and it is worth distinguishing between them.



Torchwood and the surveillance society

I watched a couple of more episodes of Torchwood, which I was a bit disappointed by a few days ago.  I'd say it gets better, though Gwen is still nothing like a cop (or--let's be clear here--she is nothing like a cop like I have seen portrayed in other books, movies, and TV shows.  My actual contacts with actual police are limited to automotive contexts).  She lets a suspect escape in episode 2, and only a magic device saves the situation. In episode 3 she has clearly never even picked up a gun.  Now, maybe UK cops are still unarmed, but presumably they receive some training. She accidentally kills someone by having slow reflexes (and despite having been warned that something like it was going to happen).

But the main thing that strikes me in watching these episodes (and it really has been only these three) is the prevalence of surveillance, and the casual way in which it is accepted and used.  The Torchwood team has access to security cameras everywhere. They track suspects, rewatch tapes of incidents in dark alleyways, and can actually look at things that happened in a bathroom at a dance club the previous night. They get access to private medical records and discuss the contents with no sign that this might be even remotely confidential. The show portrays the UK as a place where privacy of any kind is unknown. From my other reading, that is pretty much the truth.

Again, I find the conflict between the Torchwood team's vision of themselves and the actual impact they have on the world to be the interesting story (particularly as they never actually figure anything out--they seem to run around for a while, and then store the alien gizmo away in a secure location without ever understanding how it works or where it came from).

As always, works that fail in some way are more useful to me than works that fully succeed.

 

Marketing blood donations

I give blood when I can. Not at the absolute two-month interval, but maybe two or three times a year.  I hate it, but I do it.

From my research (i.e., a quick Google search):

According to this CBS News story:

  • There are 111 million eligible blood donors in the United States, around 38% of the population.
  • Blood collection centers get 129 units of blood per 1000 eligible donors (presumably annually--article not specific)
  • The average donor gives 1.7 times a year

The article does not specify how many people donate in a given year. Dividing 129 units by 1.7 units per donor gives an average of 76 donors per 1000, or 7.6% of eligibles donating (feel free to check my math).

This Red Cross quick facts sheet says that "more than 38,000 blood donations are needed each day".  Right now, with 129 units per 1000 annually out of 111 million, it looks like we get a bit more than 39,000 daily donations.  So things are pretty tight, and blood doesn't keep. Incidentally, I could have used having these numbers more clearly stated.  How many people do donate in a year? Who are they?

So how do we increase the numbers?

Some people would never be willing to donate. Perhaps many people.  But there's a lot of space between my estimate of 7.6% of eligible donors actually donating and the theoretical maximum, even if that's only 15% of eligibles.  More per donor is one way to go, following the same principle that leads charities to call you if you gave in the past--you really are more likely to in the future than someone else.

And it has gotten easier to find out about drives in your area, though the Red Cross has a long way to go in making that system user friendly.

But giving blood is not a cultural imperative, like minimizing your carbon footprint or recycling or other barely useful or entirely useless things like that. That doesn't make sense. Blood has a real immediate benefit, unlike reusing milk jugs. It would seem a natural for a cultural revival.

Giving blood has to become cool. And it has to be visible. Some celebrities need to visibly donate. It needs to play a role in some popular TV shows. It probably needs some celebrity spokesperson.

I know this all sounds really cheesy.  But young people, particularly, need to get into the donation habit. It should be something college kids get together to do, two or three times a year. The Red Cross (or whoever is running the drive) should encourage group donations, with plans for what to do when one or more of the group is ineligible (and you can be ineligible for having had sex with someone in Africa a couple of decades ago, as one friend of mine discovered to his dismay). People who donate need to feel that same smug sense of superiority they get when they buy Fair Trade coffee.

What characterizes a blood donor? I answer a lot of questions about drug use, etc., when I donate, but no one collects any demographic information from me to establish a target market for increasing the donor pool (potential customers probably have a lot in common with current customers, "customers" in this case being donors). I presume there are skews in income, race, etc.  I presume the number per thousand is different in different areas. Does anyone collect that information?

So the Red Cross needs some innovative marketing. No escaping it.  Who is going to provide it?

 

Do we really love bad literature?

The argument may not be as old as "literature", but it certainly must be as old as narrative: which is the part of the story that gives it real value?  Is it the suspense in the narrative? Is it the style, the interesting ways in which the words interrelate? Is it how vivid the characters are? Is it how entertainingly you describe acts of sex or violence?

Over at Salon, Laura Miller (author of the fun The Magician's Book: A Skeptic's Adventures in Narnia), revisits this ancient non-controversy (let me ruin the suspense: it's the punctuation).  Edward Docx (whose name was probably perfectly reasonable before the advent of Word 2007) apparently wrote a denunciation of those who read Stieg Larsson and Dan Brown, one I am not going to read before rendering judgment on it.

Most such screeds go after the easy target: genre. It's not turgidly written literary novels or academic post-modern exercises that get the laser pointer on their foreheads. It's suspense novels, mystery novels, science fiction novels.

Why? Because a genre is an agreed-upon set of conventions that let you take certain aspects of the novelistic work as given, so that you can focus on those that of more interest to your readers. And your readers are the ones who determine what you do and how you do it. If you come from outside a genre you might get irritated at these conventions, and interpret them as restrictive rather than liberating. Interpreting the genre as restrictive leads you to interpret that authors as restrictors, and the readers as codependent victims in a sadistic game.

And, of course, genre restrictions can be tiresome. Do we really need another whore with a heart of gold, or cynic hiding the heart of a self-sacrificing idealist? Genre doesn't generally like ambiguous characters with situation-dependent personal traits.  Those lead to the kind of work that genre has specifically excluded.

Genre is a labor-saving device, and only the wackiest grad student would think that "labor" is what most readers are looking for.

Sometimes, of course, they are.  And given the right cookies, some readers can be interested in slippery narrative techniques or sentences with endless dependent clauses. But there are plenty who can't.

Truth in advertising:  I am allergic to clunky prose and often can't read perfectly fine and popular books in my own genre (science fiction) because I find their sentences and their characters uninteresting. I think a bit of spark in your prose is perfectly OK. Sometimes I feel guilty about this covert mandarin attitude, but usually I don't.

But to a genre reader, the prose is the window through which the events of the book are seen.  If the prose calls attention to itself, it's like dead bugs on the glass. What is "transparent" varies from reader to reader, of course, and seemingly clear prose from previous eras is anything but.  I presume Dickens read like...well, not like Dan Brown, who really is appalling...but like Michael Crichton or Suzanne Collins to his audience. Now you notice his emotion-manipulating characters and long sentences.  You would not have at the time he was churning them out.

So its legitimate to call for, and hold yourself to, higher standards.  But you have to know what all the parts do before you start monkeying with them.  Complaining that the blades of a fan are too plain and clunky, and would look much better with the four winds engraved on them, misses the fact that a fan's purpose is to blow air, and you can't see any artwork on the blades when it's in operation.

I love a good sentence.  But if I love a good sentence, is writing science fiction really the best way to create one? The jury's still out on that one, I think.  But I will continue to try to create them.

SF TV vs. regular TV: the case of Torchwood

Even in my youth, I didn't much care for SF movies and TV shows. This should have been a warning sign as to the course of my future career. Even sophisticated writers and readers of SF usually like things like Battlestar Galactica or Firefly.

But that doesn't mean I don't try such shows on occasion, just to keep up. A lot of people I talk to liked Torchwood, the British Dr. Who spinoff. So I decided to give it a try. And a real try, which means that the fact that I thought the first episode was terrible, and the first part of the second even worse will not keep me from watching one more, just to see if I can figure out what all the fuss is about.

But as I watched, I had a whole bunch of ideas on how I would have rewritten the show, which is both dumb (the show was popular, and clearly my changes would have made it less so), and fun (rewriting while watching ensured I actually enjoyed watching the show, and I can use my ideas somewhere else).

(Spoilers follow, for those who are reading this, haven't watched the show, and still might)

Gwen is a cop in Cardiff, Wales. She is hanging around a crime scene, where the body of the victim of a serial killer is lying out in the rain. And I do mean "hanging around". She never actually seems to be a cop, and never does a lick of work throughout the entire episode. She sees a team of young, high-status people stride in and bring the corpse back to life for two minutes. She decides to figure out who they are and what they do.

They seem to be leading her on, by leaving obvious clues.  They build a "secure" facility on the top floor of police HQ (which must have a lot of unused office space to make this possible), where they keep a homicidal alien beastie.  The security door consist of a sheet of plastic with a slit cut through it. There isn't so much as a Keep Out sign. Gwen and a workman investigate.  The workman gets his throat ripped out by the alien. Our professional cop runs away without trying to help him, and doesn't report the death to anyone. The "show Gwen a cool weird thing" facility seems to vanish completely after this.

Then she follows a car to a city plaza, where she wanders around for a while. She eventually disguises herself as a pizza delivery person and gets into the super secret headquarters, full of cool alien stuff. The leader takes her out for a beer, tells her a lot of stuff about the operation, and then gives her a drug to give her amnesia. He does explain that they weren't interrogating the dead guy because they were interested in finding the actual killer: they were just practicing their resurrection techniques.

Later, by chance, she learns what the murder weapon used in three murders looks like. This gives her some vague flashbacks, enabling her to go back to the vicinity of the secret headquarters. The murderer comes out, waves the murder weapon, confesses to everything ("monologuing", as they call it in The Incredibles), decides not the kill Gwen with the weird stabbing thing, and fumbles in her purse for a gun. Gwen stands and watches. The murderer finally pulls a big pistol out of the purse and points it at Gwen, who starts to cry.

A miracle occurs, and she is saved. Because she is so brave and clever, she is offered a job in the secret organization, Torchwood.

She starts off the next episode by making a really dumb mistake. But no one mentions the murderer, who was a friend and part of their team, or worries that they may have serious organizational problems.

OK, fine, she's a lame character, someone who needs everything explained to her so that we viewers understand it. But she is so lame that it's a wonder she could ever hold a job. Even though she makes fun of her boyfriend at one point, implying that he's the dumb one. Look at how many fingers are pointing back at you, Gwen....

But consider an alternate approach, one I genuinely think is more appealing. She is a cop, a decent cop. Some outsiders intervene in a crime scene, one she is responsible for, and the higher-ups allow it. And these outsiders do something mysterious. She's curious, but she also has a murderer to catch. She checks them out in her spare time. Her geeky boyfriend (a charming character, actually) has some information, an old colleague or someone she has arrested on occasion has more. She tracks these guys--they are overconfident, and their security isn't as good as they think.

Their organization is in deep trouble. It harbors a murderer, and the staff has been misusing the alien technology in their care.  This is great suspense-generating situation. As its stands, the writers use it all just to get Gwen into Torchwood, kind of like Tom Canty in The Prince and the Pauper using the royal seal to crack nuts.

Another murder occurs. She knows they will be there to check it out, and sets a trap for them. And she is beginning to suspect there is a connection between them and the deaths. It really is only one of them, not the group, but she figures this out only after doing them some damage and getting into serious conflict with them. Someone senior in her organization warns her off (don't they always?), because the Torchwood unit has some powerful protectors. This doesn't stop her.

Eventually, she finds the killer at the heart of Torchwood. This revelation can't just be a casual thing, as it is in the current show, with all the emotional impact of someone in another department getting laid off. A person they worked closely with and trusted turned out to be a serial killer. And they never knew, until this dumb cop showed up and started checking things out. This has to have serious emotional aftereffects.

Maybe she pressures them to bring her in. She must have ambitions, or fears, or something else that makes her accept this job, even knowing how dangerously mismanaged this organization has been.

There is a lot of sex and violence, so Torchwood is described as "adult" science fiction. Actually, "adult" should mean things like sophisticated narrative and subtle characters.

Anyway, that was how I got through the first episode.  I have a fun idea for the ending of the second episode, so I'll skim to the end to see if it's true. If not, I have another possible plot to use.

It's just light entertainment, you say? Why am I getting so hot under the collar about it? Because it's only a little harder to do it right. If science fiction aspires to be a genre of interest to adults, it will need to.

 

 

Tip gets snipped: part two of the sad end of The Marvelous Land of Oz

Yesterday we went into my boyhood crush on General Jinjur, in probably more detail than you wanted.

Today we deal with the most searing element of Baum's The Marvellous Land of Oz: the revealed real identity of Tip.

Tip, or Tippetarius (his full name is given only once, and then simply to be dismissed as too long--this is one of those things that starts obsessive exegetes speculating about hidden narratives, since it is never mentioned again) starts the book, and is its main point of view character. He is apparently orphaned, and being raised by a mean old witch named Mombi. The neighbors dislike her, and so Tip is left all alone. He does his best, eventually stealing some magic, bringing a pumpkin-headed mannikin to life, and fleeing old Mombi.

We follow him through many adventures, until, at the end, Mombi confesses a terrible thing: he is actually a girl, Ozma, the rightful heir to the throne.

Tip's response is completely natural:

"Oh, let Jinjur be the Queen!" exclaimed Tip, ready to cry. "I want to stay a boy, and travel with the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, and the Woggle-Bug, and Jack--yes! and my friend the Saw-Horse--and the Gump! I don't want to be a girl!

I'm with you, Tip. But, desperate for a legitimate heir, and buffaloed by the charismatic Glinda, all of his supposed friends instantly tell him to...dissolve his identity and become someone he does not remember being.

"Never mind, old chap. It don't hurt to be a girl."Comforting words, Nick, coming from someone who chopped himself up with his own ax and is now made of tin. Fine role model you turned out to be.

They all pile on, like Job's miserable comforters (Job never had a problem like this one). No one has any interest in "Tip". They've been imprisoned together, and shared dramatic escapes and adventures. None of that matters. Tip does not exist, as far as they are concerned. He is a figment. All of his needs and ambitions are merely the chrysalis for a royal butterfly. Who cares if he thinks he has a right to existence?

Stunned by the universal betrayal (remember, he was raised alone and has no other friends or relatives), Tip first waffles, wanting to try the girl thing temporarily. Glinda snapishly dismisses this attempt to straddle the issue, and Tip gives in.

As a result, he disappears and is replaced by

Ozma, fashion victim

Holy....! At least she could have been revealed as someone charismatic and compelling, like Jinjur, but, instead she's a female version of the Infant of Prague.  And Tip is gone, with no one to mourn his passing. It would at least be appropriate for Mombi to do so, since she is, in effect, his mother.  I feel an alternative narrative coming on...more news as it happens.

I can't express the gut grip this ending gave me as a boy. Tip is a girl? Nothing made any sense. Charming feminine rulers who, beneath their lovely veneer, were absolutely ruthless (Glinda: "We must lay siege to the city, and starve it into submission.") would do their best to crush me. And maybe my sense of myself was a complete illusion.

And if you think bookish ten-year-old boys aren't anxious about issues like that, think again. But the turnabout has, in the end, the effect of great literature: it affected me, and I still remember it.

I'd like to say that the ending causes you the reavaluate the book the precedes it, but it does nothing of the sort.  It's like one of those "twist endings" in a Hollywood suspense movie, where the main character is revealed to really be someone else, making a mockery of all previous events. It's just desperate plot doctoring by the fifth pair of screenwriters hired to do something about the miserable script, not something organic to the conception.

Somewhere, the wraith of Tippetarius still wanders, weeping for all the Jinjurs he will never get to meet. Spare a moment of thought for him.

Jinjur in chains: part one of the sad end of The Marvelous Land of Oz

My friend and colleague Jim Cambias (who, energetically, has two blogs, one with his wife Diane, Science Made Cool, one on his own, on literary topics, at Just the Caffeine Talking), has been Ozblogging, and recently did a series of posts on the second book in the Oz series, The Marvelous Land of Oz.

Reading Jim's entries got me to thinking about how affected I was when I read the book as a young boy, probably about ten years old. It was in an old green volume on the shelves in my house, and I think it was the first Oz book I read--in fact, I don't think I read the actual Wizard of Oz until I was reading them to my children, as an adult.

Marvelous Land is distinctive for two main reasons: the wonderful General Jinjur, and the psyche-scarring fate of Tip, a boy I followed throughout the narrative to his incomprehensibly weird end. It came as a shock I still remember.

First, the babe: Jinjur. She is described as being dressed in brightly colored silks in a "splendor...almost barbaric", and, more importantly, as "pretty enough...but [with] an expression of discontent coupled to a shade of defiance or audacity". She has promoted herself General and wants to seize control of the Emerald City. She has simply decided to do this, because the Scarecrow is a miserable administrator. She has no hereditary office. In a world where authority is either inherited or simply granted by Glinda, Jinjur's ambitions are rare.

The artist, John R. Neill, went to town on her. Here is her glamor headshot:

Giving the Gibson Girl a run for her moneyBut to truly appreciate her, you have to see her in action. Here she is on a giant emerald commanding her army of knitting-needle-armed women to seize control of the Emerald City:

Kick 'em in the cobblers!Despite the multicolored beauty of her outfit, Jinjur is underappreciated and gets only a single color panel in the book. Here, the team of characters who we've been following, Tip, Tin Woodman, Scarecrow, Wogglebug, and Jack Pumpkinhead, try to oust her from her palace. Jinjur, as you can see, can do languid as well as she can do frenetic:

"You are very absurd creatures"

(An actual, and accurate, quote from Jinjur in the book)

But all good things come to an end. After several conflicts, the heroes finally call in the big guns: Glinda. And Glinda invades with her army of Stormtrooper Rockettes, and wins the day, as we know she will.  Jinjur, the only person in the book (or in most of Oz, for that matter) with ambition and goals, is deposed. Fortunately, our fascination with this mercurial, high-maintenance, easily bored usurper is rewarded with an image of her held in bondage by Glinda's Rockettes:

Man, I hate blondes

Oz turns out to be way more fun than you remember.

The concept of a media tie-in is far from new, and all these gals are ready for an "authorized performance" kickline somewhere in the sticks. Most Oz books, in fact, read like musical comedies without the songs, and got modified in a variety of ways for the stage. The final movie version had the advantage of almost four decades of road-testing. While Arlen and Harburg wrote original songs, they benefited from knowing what concepts had worked on stage in the past.

But Jinjur, delectable though she is, is only a side issue, particularly here at the dramatic conclusion, because it is here that we learn that Tip, the spunky, interpid young lad we've been following, is actually....

Let's wait until tomorrow to find out the horrible truth about Tip's hidden identity.

Where I am now--middle aged and laid off

One of my points of (minor) pride has been that I have a regular job, not one of these squishy vague freelancer things that all the other writers have.

Well, I have to give thatparticular pride up. I am now a freelancer myself, with a technical marketing communications business and, so far, a couple of clients.

How did this happen?

Well, like many people, I did not like my job. And...I really didn't like my job. But no other job I could find to look at looked a lot better. My company had some serious issues, like the absence of any real business plan, but nothing psychotic or deranged. Just bad behavior. Nothing unusual. Over years in the workplace, you're going to run into a lot of bad behavior. If that makes you insane...you'll be insane.

I'm temperamentally unsuited for fulltime employment. I can't sit still and do the same thing for that long. But I've done it, and done it successfully, for more than a decade. When it comes to that, I'm temperamentally unsuited to marriage and parenthood as well. Mary, good wife that she is, occasionally thanks me for doing a such a good job despite my natural inclinations. Almost everythin I accomplish is in some sense contrary to my nature.

So, not liking my job, and not seeing another that appealed, I did start to think about doing what I do, marketing communications, as my main source of income. I have an engineering degree, I worked as an engineer for years. Surely someone must need a good writer with a technical background?  Add in my healthcare marketing experience, and it seemed like a reasonable bet, particularly in Boston's market.

So, evenings and weekends, I thought and schemed and planned. I wrote a new web site, I put my portfolio together, I even got a client by jumping on a chance conversation and turning it into an opportunity, though I didn't have much time to do the client's work.

But I lacked the nerve. I couldn't just leave. The outrageous (and non-tax-deductible) health care premiums alone were enough to deter me. Then there's that pesky mortgage and those hungry children....

My job finally saved me the trouble of making a decision. Having their own problems (that unfortunate lack of a business plan), they eliminated my position and laid me off. So now I am thrown into it willy nilly. If I find a suitable fulltime position I'll take it, but meanwhile I'm trying to add clients while continuing to work on my fiction.

So I've lost the pride that comes with being able to torment yourself 9-5 five days a week in exchange for a salary, health insurance, and a 401(k). I'll have to replace it with an amorphous spread of tasks and client prospecting, and the pride of eating what you kill. I'll keep you posted on how I do.

 

The mysteries of pizza boxes

Last night we had pizza delivered, as, I suspect, many people do while preparing themselves for Thanksgiving.

All pizza boxes have a whole range of carefully printed choices on the outside, with boxes (or open circles) to check: extra cheese, sausage, meatball, mushroom, pepperoni, peppers, onions, anchovies, etc.

My question: as anyone ever seen any of these things checked? Or is merely decorative, or vestige of some now obsolete practice? Someday soon, I suppose, your phone will tell you what's in each box, useful if you're handling a large crowd. But I suspect these notations will remain, because otherwise it's just a flat cardboard box.

Hope you enjoyed your pizza, and have a good Thanksgiving.

What killed Tycho Brahe?

The History Blog notes that Tycho Brahe's remains have been exhumed in Prague (and will be reburied on November 19, 2010). They want to investigate whether Tycho got either chronic mercury poisoning (through medication or his experiments) or acute mercury poisoning (i.e., was murdered).

The story on Tycho's death always was that he held his pee too long at a reception for Rudolf II, which sounds like a story a third grader would make up.

The researchers also hope to see if they can find traces of his famous fake nose, to see if they can establish what it was made out of.

None of the results will be particularly earth-shattering, I suppose. Still, minor mysteries like this have an odd fascination.

On my childhood visits to the Adler Planetarium in Chicago, I found myself interested in some old wooden models of of his observatories Uraniborg and Stjerneborg (Maybe Stjernborg), which he had built on his island of Ven. I remember them being startlingly detailed. This didn't teach me a thing about astronomy, or even about the state of observational astronomy c. 1600, but they had a magical feel to them, of a kind of dark mystery--particularly Stjerneborg, which was mostly underground. Even the room they were kept in was dark.

I haven't been back to the Adler in years.  I wonder if they are still there?

 

A history of sinister Lunar conspiracies

Via the invaluable, if vowel-challenged BLDGBLOG, I have finally found out about the supersecret Unified Lunar Control Network.

It turns out this is only the latest in a series of Moon-girdling conspiracies.  In the past, the innocent Lunarians have been tormented by the AMS Lunar Control System, the DOD Selenodetic Control System, the heinous Kiev Lunar Triangulation, and the citrus-based Clementine Control Network. This history of Lunar conspiracies was extensively documented in one conspiracy buff's Chronology of Lunar Control Networks.

Unfortunately, this noble fighter for freedom disappeared during an eclipse and was never heard from again....

Is it really hard to balance the federal budget?

There is a lot of discussion about how politically impossible it is to keep ourselves from destroying our economy by increasing our long-term government deficit to unsustainable levels. Everyone has an interest, no one wants to reduce entitlement programs like Social Security and Medicare, and, in general, our financial meltdown in the next couple of decades is, as they say, "baked in".

Today's NY Times has an interesting interactive graphic that lets you play with possible budget cuts and tax increases to close the gap.

I had no trouble at all doing it.  In fact, I found that I had proposed a bunch of tax increases that I could roll back. If I didn't roll those back, I presume I could be running a substantial budget surplus by 2030. My "new" taxes arenow just Bowles-Simpson loophole reduction with an overall tax rate decrease, which would make sense anyway, out of a concern for simple fairness and transparency, and a small carbon tax (I actually favor a revenue-neutral carbon tax, with corresponding reductions in payroll taxes, particularly for low-income earners who are disproportionately affected by higher energy costs--but that wasn't one of the choices).

Almost everything suggested seems relatively easy. Do we really need to entertain ourselves by maintaining a gigantic, contrary-to-Founding-Father-principles standing military? Do we acknowledge that Social Security and Medicare cost huge amounts of money, or do we pretend we get them for free? Do we pay special interest groups to deform our economic production?

Any particular cut might injure our personal interests. But the need to make the totality of cuts is in all of our interest. Can we actually manage to do it?

Give me a laptop and an interactive chart, and I can do it today.

Biking by Google

A few months ago Google Maps added bicycling to its methods of conveyance.  When it first started, its recommendations seemed a bit old-ladyish to an experienced urban bicyclist.  It would take you to a bike path in preference to any other way.

Bike paths are seldom the way to get anywhere in a hurry. If they are smooth and well-laid-out, they are crowded with pedestrians, dog walkers, and wildly weaving bicycling children as padded up as NFL linebackers. Otherwise, they are creased with roots and frost heaves, with gravel patches and potholes concealed by slick fallen leaves, and make sudden right angle turns before mysteriously vanishing in the middle of nowhere.

But the essence of Google is consistently getting better, and so it has. Today I went to have lunch with my old boss, Liz (catching up + looking for work) out in Burlington, a Boston suburb known almost entirely for its vast mall.  Google maps found me a route that did, in fact, take in some bike paths.  I almost rejected it, but than decided to try it. The other routes into Burlington are gigantic multilane monstrosities, way worse than any urban street.

The Minuteman Path, allegedly one of the most traveled rail trails in the entire country, was pretty well empty in the middle of a cold November day.  And the previously unknown-to-me bike path from Lexington to Burlington was, in fact, fairly creased, but snaked along in quite an engaging secret way, behind houses and along a stream, spitting me out just a couple of blocks of traffic horror on the Middlesex Turnpike away from my destination.

I may not accept the advice, but it's nice to have a resource for finding secret ways to survive the suburbs.