Running

I ran tonight.

It's been a while. Back in high school, I enjoyed jogging in the evenings. Had me some good running shoes, light and airy with good padding in the sole, extra thick in the heel. And I ruined my legs. Shin splints like crazy. I had to give it up. In a way I was saddened by this, but running had become an endurance challenge. So I was a little relieved as well.

When my brother took up running, I cautioned him. After a few months, when he started running barefoot, I was perplexed, but he explained some things, and it made sense. Without shoes to reinforce all the incorrect mechanics of a heel-toe stride, the runner can attain a more natural gait, landing on the fore-foot (the ball of the foot), and then dropping the heel. This way, instead of the shock hammering the joints and bones, it is distributed evenly through the musculature of the legs. Your leg muscles are long and springy. Perfect for recoil. Perfect for running.

I'd always preferred going barefoot when indoors, and the last few years I have gone everywhere in sandals when at all possible (at first to help keep athlete's foot at bay, but now just because I love sandals), so I can understand feeling confined by shoes. But even sandals have padding under the heels and arches, so they still reinforce all the bad techniques.

Eventually I got curious. I wasn't ready to become a barefooter, but this minimalist shoe thing was intriguing. My brother told me about the huaraches made by InvisibleShoe.com. They are a more modernized version of the traditional running sandals favored by the Tarahumara--the Running People. The kit comes with a thin mat of shoe-grade rubber, about 4mm thick. Aside from about twelve feet of laces, that's it. No added support, no unnecessary padding. You cut out some soles, punch some holes, and lace up.

It took me an hour to make my shoes, and for the next couple weeks I walked in them when I could. I had no intentions to run in them, I just wanted something that would be as close to barefoot as possible, so I could work myself into a more natural stride.

And then tonight my brother said he was going to run in the park, and he invited me. I didn't want to, as it's been so long since I last ran any significant distance, but after thinking about it I decided to give it a try. If I just couldn't do it I could sit it out.

He told me to keep the strides short and my back straight (walking with a fore-foot stride already seems to promote a straighter spine), and then he set the pace. After a couple hundred feet I was puffing and wheezing, and we slowed to a walk as I caught my wind. My first thought was this was a disaster. I would never be able to complete the circuit. I'm just too out-of-shape.

As we walked, however, I realized something. Aside from breathing hard, I felt fine. My lungs were not burning, nor were my trachea or throat, and most of all, my legs felt fine. The calf muscles were tightening, but that was it. After a hundred or so feet, I was ready to run again. We repeated this until we had made a complete lap.

The huaraches held up great. The laces got a little loose, but I still haven't found that sweet spot when tying them. That will happen the more I wear them. I did pause to completely re-lace them at one point, switching to an over-the-ankle method that had seemed too loose before. I was startled at how well that method worked now. Still a little too floppy, but again, once I get the laces figured out that should go away.

After the first lap I sat at a bench and sipped water. I told my brother I would wait on him if he wanted to run another lap. I knew it couldn't have been much fun for him to wait on me to catch my breath every couple hundred feet. While waiting, I realized something. I could have gone another lap. The only reason I did not was my left foot was feeling just a little odd (a knot would periodically work up in the muscle under my arch, strangely more noticeable when I was not running).

As we left the park, I thought. This run had not been like the runs I had done way back when. Then, I had fought for every step. This was very natural, relaxed. This "new" way of running was not about pushing yourself to a better time or longer course. It was simply about enjoying it while you were doing it.

Right now, my feet are barely sore (no pun intended). My calves will probably be lumps of rock in the morning, but I don't think that will be so bad. They'll toughen up. As far as aches go, I get worse daily at my job.

Best of all, my shins feel fine.

ADDENDUM: October 14, 2010

About a week after that run in September, I finally kicked off the shoes. And I realized I still had a lot to learn. While running with my brother, I still had atrocious form. I was bouncing all over the place, slamming down on my feet and exerting about three times the necessary energy.

Over the next several weeks, I suffered one frustration after another. Despite all the changes I was making, I still had a leaden soreness in my shins about twenty minutes after a run. Shin splints, my old enemy, had found me once again, and he was creeping up. Every video of runners I watched taunted. I was sure I was following the advice, but something was still wrong. I started reading the starter's tips at Barefoot Ken Bob's sight, The Running Barefoot. Even implementing them, the pain persisted.

Ultimately, it was a combination of two things. Watching a video of Barefoot Ken Bob running, and rereading a section of Chris McDougall's Born to Run. Seeing Ken Bob run, I realized he was taking much shorter strides than many other barefoot runners I'd seen. He didn't use the exaggerated movements I saw in many of the other videos. He was elegant in the simplicity of his motion. Rereading McDougall's book, I finally hit upon a passage that hadn't sunk in the first time. He stressed the importance of starting off slowly. Most runners do their slow runs too fast. If you get recklessly fast, your shins would start screaming at you. Aha!

With those two tidbits in mind (short stride, slow pace), I set out the next day. It felt almost awkwardly slow, but more importantly, there were no twinges from my shins. If I could run pain free, I didn't care if it looked like I was speedwalking. I smiled all through that quarter-mile run. When I finished, I waited for the soreness that had been returning a little more each time, but there was nothing. I felt fantastic.

Even better, though, was what I gradually learned the next couple of weeks. The slow pace was helping me figure out my form. Once I got the good form locked in, I could run any speed I wanted (well, almost; full-out sprinting can still be awkward for me). I can now also run in minimalist shoes without my stride being affected (though the bulk of my running is still barefoot, of course).

Easy, light, smooth, and fast. Those were the words of Caballo Blanco, the gringo disciple and friend of the Tarahumara, to Chris McDougall while going for a run in the Copper Canyons of Mexico. You start with Easy because if that's as far as you get, that isn't so bad. I think I'm finally figuring out Easy. And I have no intention of stopping there.

Ideal

Someone who keeps my hours is inevitably exposed to lots of late night television and the inescapable horrors therein: infomercials. The most odious by far are the diet/weight loss programs that bombard you with before-and-after photos. And my reason for hating these infomercials isn't due to self-esteem issues or anything like that.

It's the women.

It shows these skeletal waifs who I am expected to accept as attractive, though I could probably play their ribs like a xylophone. Frightfully thin, jump-around-in-the-shower-just-to-get-wet thin. And I don't buy it. For many of these women, the before photos are far more attractive. One woman bemoaned that she used to be a size sixteen. She complained how she always felt fat, but now she was so happy as a size three. They show the before image, and I think, "Damn! She used to look really good!" Lush body, full of curves, with the classic hourglass shape. Some women are blessed with a figure that bears a little extra weight proudly, even if the woman herself does not.

It's a complete and utter shame. Women should be made of curves, not angles.

Seeing all this size bullshit (and bullshit it is--why are most women so sensitive that they can't stand to see a measurement label on their clothes?), I realized that I don't really know how the whole sizing chart is broken down. So I Googled, and I found this. I thought about the measurements I generally prefer to see on women, and this is what I figured: my ideal woman falls within the range of sizes ten to sixteen.

Just one more bit of evidence supporting the fact that I was born in the wrong century.

My Old Nemesis

Mark this well, folks. It won't be too often you'll see poetry from me. The sophistication grieves me. It doesn't help that I naturally suspect pretension when faced with any form of poetry. Nor does it help that I have no capacity to judge poetry.

***

I love the places where breath shows in the crisp air,

the times when we dimly remember skins and furs

and mammoth-tallow campfires,

and looking up at brittle-edged stars.

You notice things, appreciate them,

like the press of a warm body against you,

heat like a line of fever,

scalding so nice.

You shiver, the little muscle-trick to bring warmth

and remind your blood to keep flowing.

You ignore the burn of ear and cheek and nose,

and you sniffle and snort and snerk,

and you pretend it's not a bother.

Because really, who braves the cold anymore,

who opens up to the bracing bite

and in surrendering, conquers?

Who cannot venture forth lest they be zipped,

head to toe?

Rejoice! Rejoice where others cringe!

Fling wide your arms and cast off your coat!

Let it fly in the northern wind.

Fill your lungs and rejoice,

and watch your breath in the crisp air.

My pipe of briar, my open fire, a book that's not too new

Anyone who knows me personally will know also that I tend to gravitate towards the archaic. I prefer things of timeless style. Hence, my propensity toward wearing fedoras (not the stingy little trilby hats worn by today's wippersnappers), ivy caps in tweed patterns, and replica-WWII aviator jackets. Given all this, my newest fascination probably won't surprise too many.

About a month-and-a-half ago (the week before Christmas), I bought my first pipe. I'd been curious about it for awhile, but I never really planned on making the step. As far as smoking went, I was generally opposed, mostly out of my loathing for cigarettes. I had tried cigarettes before, and I found them somewhat disagreeable. The tobacco was so chemically treated that it left a residue in my mouth, the smoke was too harsh, and the only effect of the nicotine was to irritate my throat. I gave it an honest try, but decided it was not for me. (I'd almost decided the same for cigars, but I found that actual hand-rolled cigars are quite pleasant, whereas the machine-made ones are almost as bad as cigarettes.) Another reason was that I enjoy singing, and I know too many people who have affected their voices for the worse due to cigarettes.

With all this, I probably never would have considered pipes had I not started reading the Wheel of Time series. It presented the idea of smoking a pipe as an occasional treat, something indulged in every so often, but not done to excess. It made sense. I reasoned, with all the pollutants in the air and chemicals in our food, how much worse, really, would an occasional pipe be? (I've since read a study by the Surgeon-General's office which stated that a person smoking one pipe every two to three days actually has the same, if not better, life expectancy of the average non-smoker. Go figure.) And I didn't even have to worry about what the smoke would do to my voice. You don't inhale pipe smoke.

So I bought a pipe. I've bought a few more since. I've tried a few different kinds of tobacco. English blends seem to be my favorite; the smoky flavor of latakia is a true delight. And through the trial, I've discovered the differences between smokers. Those who smoke cigarettes always seem so harried to me. They get the nic fix their bodies crave and then they move on. Cigar smokers are more relaxed; there is technique required in properly smoking a cigar, and it teaches patience. Smoking a pipe, however, goes even further. It is a ritual. Fill the pipe (many different methods to choose from, three-pinch being most popular), perform a charring light, tamp down the tobacco, perform a true light, and then sip gently at the stem. Maybe you have to relight a few times; finishing a pipe can take an hour or more. Once the pipe has been smoked, you can refill or you can break the pipe down and clean it. The entire endeavor is calming, relaxing. It's a shame that it has fallen so to the wayside. Most of the time, when I go into a tobacco shop and ask for pipe tobacco, the clerk will point at a solitary bag on a barren stretch of shelf. Even then, it isn't really pipe tobacco. It's a bag of Roll Your Own cigarette tobacco--the companies label this stuff as pipe tobacco to avoid taxes.

So one more tally to mark me as an old fogey. I don't really care. In fact, I prefer it. There is vast, rich culture out there for those who are not afraid to fall behind the times. One more thing before I go. One of my managers asked me to carry a case of cigarettes from receiving up to the tobacco counter. Before I left on the errand, she asked if I smoked. "A pipe," I said. She shook her head. "I should have known."

"To walk peacefully with oneself in the woods. To boil one's coffee and fill one's pipe, and to think idly and slowly as one does it." Knut Hamsun

Further Misadventures

Sometimes my lunch breaks get a tad predictable. Whenever I'm stuck on a shift that only allows me thirty minutes to eat, I go for the quickest, cheapest stuff I can get. My current favorite is Asian chicken bites from the deli and a chow mein bowl. Because I had run out of chopsticks, I had to buy another packet (I swear, this is leading up to something).

When I got to the checkout lane, the girl there asked me if I really preferred chopsticks to plastic forks (my ability to eat with chopsticks has awarded me celebrity/freak status in the associate lounge). I said that yes, I liked using chopsticks. I paid for the items and, feeling it would be rude to walk off without saying anything else, said, "Chopsticks are fun."

She shook her head, saying, "I just don't think I could get the hang of using them." She closed out the register and began to walk away. Then she stopped. "I do like a big stick, though." Her friend at the next register started laughing.

Fortunately (?) my brain had shut down before I could say that I always did believe in the adage "Speak softly and carry a big stick."

In Which My Co-Workers Shine

Yesterday was mighty stupid, folks. To familiarize yourself with the inner workings of retail, you should know that some stores have an unloader team. It is their job to unload trucks. This is what they get paid to do. Every now and then, someone among their ranks proves himself as a valuable human being, and as such he is transferred to a different department (the use of "he" is not my chauvinism shining through; there are rarely ever any female unloaders). However, those who end up being unloaders for the entirity of their retail career do so for a reason. They are automata. They will stand around staring into space until prodded into action. Many of them are dumbasses. Some are downright fucktards.

This is their story.

Yesterday, we had to unload the frozen/dairy truck. This, in hindsight, is what allowed all of the stupidity in the first place. Things were moving along smoothly for about five minutes. We were placing the third pallet into the meat cooler when the guy I was helping started drifting toward the left. This would not have been so much of a problem, except that there was a laden cart right where he was trying to go. "Turn to the right," I said. Immediately, the pallet swung towards the left. "The right," I said again. "There's a cart over here". The pallet turns even more to the left. "The right!" I shouted. Yes, I was shouting at that point. The pallet turned even more determinedly to the left. I stood back, as the gap between the pallet and the steel bins was narrowing, and I did not care for my position between them. I looked the guy in the eye and said, "No, your other right!" Finally, he stopped. He pulled the pallet back. He straightened it up. And he once again steered it to the left. I walked away. It was only after I thought about it that I realized he probably thought he was turning toward the right. In order to push the pallet to the right, the handle on the jack has to be turned to point left, and vice versa. But I don't care. Bastard was still turning left.

Now, before this whole thing started, I had to re-arrange some items in the freezer. There was a pallet in the very back that I had to work (and wasn't able to get around to; go figure), so when the truck came in, I pulled it out of the freezer, so I could keep it toward the front. Now, I was not the last person to load a pallet in last night. That fell to one of the unloaders. In passing, he told me he had the last one, so I went about logging the truck, which involves recording time of arrival, as well as temperature of the pallets. After that, I still had things to do in dairy. Fast forward about an hour. I suddenly remember that I had to remove a pallet, and I had the sinking suspicion that the unloaders didn't put it back into the freezer.

And I was right.

Cursing, I found a jack and was about to return the pallet, when I opened the freezer door and looked in. There was still a jack under one of the pallets. That is a big no-no. Each jack operates on a pneumatic lift. If the air inside the lift is frozen, it compresses to such a point that the jack is no longer useable. So, cursing vehemently, I grabbed the jack, pulled the trigger to release the lift, and tried to remove it. Tonk! It wouldn't come out. I held down on the trigger to see if the jack was just being slow. Tonk!

Crap. I went to get Gary. Gary and I puzzled over it for a minute, before he decided it would be best to just remove the pallet and examine it outside the freezer. Once outside, it took a few minutes, but he was able to remove the jack. He pushed it back in, and then out, three times, making sure it was clear. He pushed the pallet back into the freezer. And then I heard, "It's stuck again!"

"The jack?!"

"Yep."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

So, out came the pallet, again. This time, when the jack came out, I used a different jack, from the other side of the pallet. Into the freezer. Tonk! My jaw dropped. I looked back at Gary. Gary was doubled over, laughing. Yet again, out with the pallet. This time, suspecting the problem was not the jack, I dropped to the floor and started looking under the pallet. After a minute, I came up with a block of wood. It had been catching under the jack, keeping it from lowering enough to be removed. A simple answer to a vexing problem. I started laughing, but I was still pissed off. It had taken us about fifteen minutes, and I felt dumb, but what really angered me was the knowledge that the other guy had given up without even trying.

I looked at Gary and said, "I either need a smoke or a drink. Don't really care which."

The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

So.

I want to kick my uncle's ass. Or maybe hit him with my car.

My uncle has been through some hard times. He's a recovering alcoholic, has two divorces under his belt, and he's separated with his third wife. He lost one job, but was able to find another.

Well, he's down in Louisiana on a construction job. He'd been going to AA meetings, but he relapsed last week. He hasn't left his trailer in about four days, he's been calling my grandma every five minutes. He says that he's sick, but he sounds like he's drunk, and he's being irrational and belligerent. I tried talking to him last night, but he just told me I was boring, and said he was going to kick my ass. Then he told me he was just joking. And then he tried to pick another fight.

And now my grandma is making a twelve hour round trip to bring him back, when he probably STILL won't leave his trailer. She wanted my cousin to drive with her, then she wanted my brother to, and then she wanted me to drive with her. She was able to get someone from the church, a lady who is accustomed to long-distance drives. As far as I'm concerned, my uncle can stay down there.

He's 50, and acting like he's 5.

No One Can Hear You Curse

The last couple years have found me delving more and more into comics.  You see, I’ve never been a fan of super-hero comics.  The DC and Marvel universes are just too daunting: there are so many characters that I could never keep track of them, and the origins of either continuum are so far back that catching up is completely inconceivable.  Being a fan of either would be more of a chore than a hobby.  Super-hero comics become vehicles for the iconography. 

So when I discovered Dark Horse and Vertigo, I was overjoyed.  Here are two publishers where appreciation of story is evident.  Mike Mignola’s Hell-Boy, published by Dark Horse, is extremely gratifying, reminiscent in many ways of Conan, which is also published by Dark Horse (and was, in the 70s and 80s, handled by Marvel, showing that it wasn’t always about super-heroes for them).  Vertigo has such gems as Y: the Last Man and classics like Watchmen and V for Vendetta.  Also worth noting is The Walking Dead from Image.  All these, and far more, have illustrated to me (pun only slightly intended) the versatility of the comic book in telling a story.  It’s a medium that is often under-appreciated. 

Lately, I’ve been buying a lot of single issues.  The Unwritten is a good comic that is still only in singles (also by Vertigo), but the comics that I’ve been particularly excited about are more franchises from Dark Horse: Predator and Aliens.  Aliens has held an interesting story line involving a Synth (or Artificial Person, if you wish) protagonist who is on a mission to rescue a surveyor colony from a xenomorph (alien) infestation—even though the colonists, driven mad by the strange ruins of an ancient city, killed his crewmates.  I was very much enjoying this story. 

Until issue #4. 

You see, this particular story arc was only allotted four issues to be completed.  This is not something I am accustomed to.  I have purchased volume after volume of graphic novels, where many arcs are allowed to carry on as long as their respective momentum will allow.  (Indeed, many volumes are compiled around specific story arcs, and usually contain about six issues.)  I’ve seen the four-issue plan implemented before, and it always seems too constricting to the story.  Such is the case here.

(Turn back if you don’t want the story spoiled.)

The end of issue four sees the protagonist, Mr. Sereda, leading the colonists in search of the last member of the expedition, Andrea.  Andrea is, in a way, Sereda’s salvation.  Rescuing her can redeem him for allowing his crew to die.  He is quite willing to face hordes of monsters to find her and bring her back.  And then, after an ambush by the aliens, Sereda finds Andrea dead, with pretty much no preamble, from a gruesome wound consistent with the alien chest bursters.  Andrea had been previously shown battling the xenomorphs rather effectively.  She’d survived a long time on her own.  And now we find her dead, without having seen how she fell.  It is a shock, which I’m sure was the intent.  However, this is the kind of shock that sets you back on your heels, distancing you from the story.

Following this is a jarring transition: suddenly Sereda and the colonists are on his ship.  They are laying down in the cryosleep chambers, and the ship is achieving escape velocity to leave the planet.  I stared at this page, flipped back and forth through the last few pages.  Then I set the issue down on my lap and thought, “What the hell was that?”

This is, unfortunately, the answer: it was a disappointing end to what had been a satisfying story.  I sincerely hope this will not be the standard.

Technorati Tags: comics,aliens

Ya Know...

Sometimes I'll get hit with this feeling out of the blue: I miss my grandpa. I don't think about him a whole lot anymore, but that's true of all of us who've lost loved ones. Even though you loved that person very dearly, you eventually move on.

That's what made this so poignant. I was at work, and it just popped into my head. I wish Buck were here. Not here at work. You know what I mean. It wasn't anything in particular. Just a sudden, strong feeling.

My favorite story about him is from over twenty years ago. Our street started off as the private drive of one of our neighbors, until it was annexed by the county. Our neighbor, Mickey (yes, Mickey), was trying to put up a gate so no one could use the road. Buck told him that if Mickey put up the gate, Buck would tie it to his truck and pull it down. They start arguing, until Buck picks up a shovel and says, "I think you best get off my lawn."

I miss my grandpa.

Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Market

Okay.  This is a work story.  I don’t especially like telling work stories, certainly not here, but this is funny, so I’ll make an exception.

We had just finished unloading a Frozen/Dairy truck (which entails pulling 2000-pound pallets across the store to one freezer or another), and I’m headed back up to my work area.  When I get there, one of the Assistant Managers, Daniel, is signing off on the Produce checklist.  He asks me if I would mind going back to Grocery Receiving and grabbing a clipboard from Marilyn’s workstation (the Claims/Receiving desk).  It’s the only clipboard back there, he says, with the date 10/19 on it.  Then he says something about crunchy French bread.

I say sure, I’ll go back and get it.  I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with the crunchy French bread.

When I get back to Marilyn’s desk, I have no trouble finding the clipboard.  I don’t see any crunchy bread, French or otherwise, so I ask one of the Support Managers, Fritz, if he knows anything.  He points to the back hall leading to my department.  It’s to the left, he says.  I walk up the hall, keeping my eyes peeled for any crunchy French bread on the left.  I see nothing.  I shrug and keep walking.

When I reach produce, I see no sign of Daniel.  I ask Michael if he had seen where he went.  Michael points past Produce, to Bakery.  So I go to Bakery.  Once again, no sign of Daniel.  So I ask Jerry, who is doing the closing clean-up.  Jerry points over his shoulder.  He went through that door, he says.  I don’t know which direction, just that he went out through that door.

I’m still holding the clipboard, unsure what to do with it.  Should I leave it in Produce in case Daniel comes back?  Or should I page Daniel and ask him what he wants me to do with it?  I have given up on the crunchy French bread.

Finally, I just decide to go back to Grocery Receiving.  If Fritz is still back there, I’ll ask him.  Sure enough, ol’ Fritz is still there.  I hold up the clipboard and tell him Daniel had wanted something done with it, and did he (Fritz) know what that was.  Where is this clipboard supposed to go? 

Oh, he says, that goes on Marilyn’s desk.

Ba-dum bum.

Lost and Found

What kinds of things do you usually leave at Wal-Mart? Maybe you leave your pen on the counter. Maybe you forget to pick up a bag as you leave the checkout lane. On a really bad day, maybe you leave your purse or wallet or whatever in the shopping cart. Many, many things you could leave behind. But some things you would remember. For instance, you wouldn't be likely to leave your child, right?

Right?

Your heir, your legacy, your progeny, your scion. The person who decides whether or not you go to the nursing home. You wouldn't leave your helpless, infant child all alone as you LEAVE THE STORE. Would you?

I didn't think so.

But someone did today.

Today, a lone child was found (appropriately/ironically enough) in the Infants department at Wal-Mart. Said infant was taken immediately into custody by management, as the parents were tracked down. Fifteen minutes after the baby was discovered, the family returned to the store. It had taken them THIRTY MINUTES to realize the baby was missing.

The police were called in, and management pulled the security tapes for review. It was determined that the child had been completely alone for fifteen minutes before the entire incident was reported. The family actually left the store not realizing who was missing. Astonishingly, the grandmother was the last one with the child. One can only wonder what seemed so important to her that she abandoned the kid.

The whole time that management and the police were going over the tapes, the family sat outside the office, arguing over who was at fault. "I left him with you!" "Naw, I left him with you!" Finally, there was an official judgement. As the grandmother was the last person to be with the child, she was the one considered legally responsible. So she was carted off to jail. In the meantime, the child was taken from the mother. I'm not sure how custody will be resolved. It seems that this runs in the family, though: the grandmother had, in her time, had several children taken from her due to the same cases of neglect. One of the children was the mother of the very child they abandoned today.

Hey, for some families, it's freckles that get passed down.

More Experimentationalegalismitis

Windows Live updated recently, and it included this Writer program that publishes to all of your blogs.  My understanding is that it can publish to multiple blogs simultaneously.  That’d be cool.

Well, then.

Did something earlier today I never really thought I'd do. Deleted Jen's number from my phone. Since fall of 2000, she'd been one of my closest friends. For the last few years, she was my best friend. After she graduated, I probably called her five times a week. So taking her off my phone is a big deal. I didn't want to, but it's been a year and a half, and she's made no move to get in contact. Seeing her at Katie's graduation cemented the fact that she's not interested in talking to us. And at this point, I'm not sure I really want to talk to her again. Ever. A year and a half of silence is a pretty big "Fuck you", and the feeling's beginning to be mutual.

Only thing is, I can't decide whether this is giving up, or facing facts and moving on.

Hell Yes

An Eventful Week

This past week, I finally upgraded my PC. Now working with 2.4 gigs of RAM, an NVIDIA GeForce 9600GT video card, and a BFG 550 watt power supply. I picked up Sins of a Solar Empire, as it's the game that actually drove me toward the upgrades in the first place. Fun game. You build fleets of star ships and colonize worlds in an effort to build up an empire. You can zoom out to see lightyears of space, or you can zoom in so close that you see the hull panels on an individual ship and hear the drone of its engine.

But what I have been obsessed with since Sunday night is Penny Arcade Adventures: On the Rain-Slick Precipice of Darkness. I've had Episode 1 for over a year now, but haven't been able to play it on my PC. Now that I have the new hardware, however, I've played through both episodes. Started Ep. 1 Sunday night, finished it Monday afternoon. Immediately, I downloaded Ep. 2, and before going to bed, I had gotten to the last stage of the game. I beat the final boss last night. Episode 3 cannot be released soon enough. In the meantime, I'm trying to find another PC game to try. Sins is fun, and I love real-time strategy, but I'm really wanting an action title, preferably a first-person shooter/adventure.

And then there's Trine. Dear Lord, I want to play that.

While at Wal-Mart last night, I heard a tornado siren that had cleverly been concealed in a small child. From thirty feet away, you could still hear the intake of air as the kid drew in the preparatory breath. The scream could strip your soul right out of your body.

As the creature's parents carry it farther into the store, I utter the words "Sweet Jesus" and look to the end of the aisle this hellish promenade had just passed. In doing so, I lock gazes with a thirtyish woman. The widening of her eyes bespeaks her shock and, perhaps, horror. Then, as I turn away, I notice the swell of her belly. I realize she is pregnant, and I think, "Best of luck, lady. You just saw what you have to look forward to."

Notes

This is more for public record. I'm logging some ideas I've been discussing on forums, in reference to a kind of "Barbarians in Space" story:

I was watching too much Star Trek and reading too much Conan the Barbarian.

For the most part, I'm dealing with a cast of characters who prefer close range weapons, and who scrounge together the parts for kinda hodge-podge equipment. I want something like vibroblades as a counterpoint. For me, the tech isn't really all that important. I'm not all that tech-saavy. It's more like an old adventure story. Creating a bunch of new tech gets in the way of that for me.

Things like axes fashioned from obsolete plasma cutters. Warhammers made from old piston hammers, if I can figure out the mechanics. I'm serious about the hodge podge thing. Vibroblades will be expensive, more like war trophies to this crew.

The Dork Knight

Daniel came over to swim for a bit. And by "swim", I mean, we more or less stood around in the pool having increasingly inane conversations. And because I am the mosquito magnet of any group, I'm constantly having to swat the little bastards away from my forehead.

That's a very inconvenient place for mosquitoes to alight.

At a certain point (it's after nine), a bat starts swooping in to scoop up sips of water from the pool. Immediately, we are fascinated by this bat. Daniel entertains notions of catching the bat. I merely beg it to return so I may use it as an emblem to fight crime. This, suprisingly, does not work. Eventually, I am struck by a far more prudent idea:

"Hey! Get back here and catch some of these damn mosquitoes!"

. . . .

Bad dreams.

Stupid dog.

Four hours of sleep.

Fuck.

Get a Grip

A month ago, when we went to Katie's graduation, I ran into one of my comic-shop buddies. It was a surprise, mostly because I had no idea he knew Katie, so I did something I don't normally do. I offered a handshake. And I regretted it. Dude had a dead-fish handshake.

I don't know exactly why, but every time I encounter someone with a limp grip, I feel just a bit dirty.

Anyway, I've been thinking quite a bit about this. Ultimately, I think most people would do well to learn the proper etiquette. Things like,

a) NO LIMP HANDSHAKES! There are a lot of people who judge character by the strength of your grip. I am one of them.

b) Don't overdo it. You don't want to come across as over-bearing. You want a firm grip, enough to let the other person know you're there, but you don't want to crush his or her hand. My general rule is to match the other person's grip.

c) Don't start too far away. With one arm stretched out in front of you, people will wonder when you'll start the goose-step.

d) Don't prolong it. One or two pumps of the arm, if you're old fashioned. Most of the time, though, just grip and release. And definitely don't hold the other person's hand through a conversation. For one thing, it's awkward. For another, people like me will start entertaining notions of chopping off your hand.

e) If you're a man, never--NEVER--offer your hand to a lady. It's presumptuous as hell. Some women don't shake hands. Some do. Always let them initiate it. And if shaking hands with a woman, same rules as before.

Those are just some very basic things. I could go on a bit longer, and there are others who could out-talk me on the subject.

Bet you didn't think a geek could shake hands.

More Fiction for Your . . . Something that Rhymes with Fiction . . .

I've been assaulting all my friends with this little site called Ficly. It's a community based entirely on short-short fiction. Have a story idea that'll use less than 1000 characters? Publish it. See someone else's story and really enjoy it? Write a sequel or prequel. It's a hell of a lot of fun, not to mention incredibly challenging. A thousand characters (including spaces) averages around a couple hundred words.

Here's a couple of stories I posted. Each one is close to the maximum allotted characters.

And yes, I've been on a bit of a sci-fi kick lately. Also, you may find the second one to be kind of a gross out.

Sweeper

May 12,

The ship had been drifting out-system for over a week after the initial mayday. It was one of those messages. The kind that ends in a scream, which itself ends in a gurgle. Our ship, a Sweeper class lovingly called Blood ’N Guts, was deployed. Even outfitted with the new drive, it took us several days.

When we reached it (its ID tag proclaimed it the Accretion), we hailed the crew, got no answer. We hadn’t expected one. Scans showed no life-signs. There were no heat sources, aside from the computer on the bridge. Life-support had automatically shut down when the computer registered its crew was dead. Before hibernating, it changed the distress signal to a warning signal.

The ship still contained atmosphere, so we popped it.

Now we wait. Standard policy is twenty-four hours. We have to let it get nice and cool in there.



Negative Pressure

May 13,

We found the first one in Medical Bay.

Whether patient or experiment, I’ll never know. He—no, it, always it—lay back on a gurney. Straps crossed at forehead, chest, and hip. Padded manacles locked down the hands and feet. It had been a feisty bastard. It craned its head to look at us, and the strap across its forehead peeled back the weakened flesh like a hood, exposing a crosshatch of fine muscle, a patch of yellow skull.

Don’t know how it sensed us. Couldn’t smell us or hear us. Couldn’t even see us—its decaying eyes had ruptured from the vacuum we had admitted to the ship. It opened its mouth, and though there was no air to carry the sound, I swear I could hear the moan.

I raised my pistol and shot it from three feet away. A bolt of plasma erased its face and boiled away everything beneath. It thrashed a bit, but even if it hadn’t been strapped down, the cold had stiffened its joints.

I watched it for a moment, then spoke into my suit’s radio. “Clear, Medical Bay.”