I Have a Dog Named Gus

A Vision of Happiness (Pt 1)

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 02:33:00 +0000

I wanted to slaughter every sesquipedalian-slinging pretentious fuck that came through the bookstore doors and bought the new edition of 100 year old books. "The author is dead!" I would say. "Go find a used book suppository." And they didn't get that joke because they hadn't seen that movie. So it goes.
For them, the act of owning the book, the art, was more important than reading it, looking at it. If you sold 10 Moby Dicks in a week, 1 would get read. They would bring it every day to the coffeeshop and thumb through it, as if they would chance upon greatness like they did on the genetic lottery for their parent's trust funds.
Always. Every day is exactly the same. And now you know that this one won't.
It started with on a beach. More accurately, it started with a glimpse of a woman on the beach. And, even more accurately, it started with a glimpse of part of a woman on the beach. A disembodied arm had washed up on the shore. The hand was palm down, stuck in a claw shape like a kafkaesque insectoid being. A scorpion. I'm a Scorpio, but don't you believe that I believe in that. Just a coincidence. That in an of itself wasn't that unusual, back in the that time, that time before we had the order we have now. And I mean the time when I was orderly.
So, no. A disembodied arm was not a normal thing. I don't even think it was ever a normal thing, save from the remnants of Kublai Kahn's fleets or a battle like at Lake Trasimene. Though such bloodshed being normal is anathema to me.
Usually.
In any case. I was on the beach, where dirt meets water. I don't know why I was there and I can be hardly blamed for not remembering considering that I had just found the arm of a woman. And I could tell it was a woman, due to the delicate nature of her hand and its adult size yet hairless and feminine appearance. I know I know, one could shave one's arms. And that's possible, but the presence of that light hair on the pale skin belied that it was not a shorn arm, but rather an arm of a woman. These are all generalizations, I know I know.
So I brought it to work. I had intended to bring it to the authorities but as I stood outside the police station I knew that I had fumbled. I should have called the police with my mobile before picking it up and carrying it to them, like I was some kind of domesticated dog bringing a dead animal--a rabbit, for example--as a gift to the family.
My heart is filled with failures. It is a crowded heart. This is one of them. I could outline them all but like the voices tell me over and over again but that is not the purpose of this narrative. You are not reading this to get to know me or my neurosis. I am reasonably sure that you are reading this despite that. You are reading about the arm. The asset of my narrative is this arm. That is what it is.
I shouldn't have brought the arm to work. But the shells were talking and told me to. The shells on the beach. I cannot be blamed for their insistence. It was for the best as I might be late for my shift and the boss said "Don't be late again or I'll steal your glasses and never give them back." I wasn't egregious with what I had absquatulated. I brought it in plastic bag so that any fluids would not leak and soak through the backpack that I carried everywhere. I double bagged it. And, for the record, it did not leak. It wasn't hermetically sealed, no no. Not at all like that. Just that there was no blood or whatever fluids or bile that she may have contained.
No, the story doesn't end with some co-worker discovering the arm. The story doesn't end like that. No-one found the arm. I just brought it to work which we all know and have discussed as being unwise. Have we? Unwise, then, I am. Though compelled.
Pt 2 to come.

Uncovered

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 00:49:00 +0000

Need a new cover. Hmm. edit: I realize this was indulgent. Trying this on my Kindle.

Abashed Hawking of an eBook

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:30:00 +0000

Well, here we go. I know what happened this Christmas. You got one of those neat Kindle thingies or an iPad or a nook or a Sony Reader or another electronic reading kind of device. You got one of those things and played Angry Birds enough to get frustrated. Then you downloaded whatever "Classics" that you totally intend to read. You maybe even polished one of those off as part of a New Year's Resolution to "get cultured." You have Sense & Sensibility and whatever translation of War & Peace you managed to download and they're going to sit there collecting virtual dust because it's hard to get into a Victorian corset or 1800s Russia in the 5 minutes you spend on the toilet.

I get it. And so here you are. Completely getting cultured is tough. I get it. I've got those same books on my tablet. I've been reading Anna Karenina for a year.

Those are long books. And you don't have that kind of time.

What do you know? I'm a provider, girl. So I put I Have a Dog Named Gus: Vol. 1: Short Attention Span Literature on the Amazon site for sale as a Kindle eBook. It doesn't even cost a dollar. And it's got a whole bunch of stories from this site and www.danielrobertmaurer.com already in it, so you don't have to deal with Blogger's wonky formatting and being online to read another one. There are a couple new stories, yes. And they are awesome. Or at least I thought so when I wrote them.

So you want? Great.

Oh, wait. A Kindle? You don't have one of those? You have [UNDEFINED_READING_DEVICE], which doesn't support the Kindle format. Or you don't like Amazon's business practices. Fair enough. I understand. I can take that. I adapt. Like I said, I'm a provider.

See, I did not sign up for any Amazon thing that says I cannot provide the eBook elsewhere. I was tempted. Lord yes, I was. But I resisted the devil of Capitalism. Oh yes, I did.

So, if you are thusly inclined, you can paypal me (at danlowlite@gmail.com) the 99 cents and I will email you the file. All is kosher. Or copacetic. Or whatever.

And that's all. I'll stop now.

All right, I feel gross. Time to wash my hands.

Edit: Yes, I do need a new cover.

Inevitable Delays

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 23:45:00 +0000

I made up a cover and decided that I didn't like it. I need to find an appropriate picture of said dog...I have thousands of pictures. I suppose I could just take another one, but that might be too easy.

I'll learn not to open my damnable mouth one of these days.

Selections of Nietzsche from Untimely Meditations

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 20:00:00 +0000

I have a certain special place for Nietzsche. I don't agree with everything, obviously, but there is something about how he wrote that seems sublime. His earnestness is so integral that every sentence is pure passion pushed through a portal of time. And, of course, a good translation helps. So when I found this long QOTD from his Untimely Meditations (via, portions of the original view-able here), I read it, mouthing the words as I do so. I do that because I think it helps with the rhythm and helps keep my place in the longer sentence structure than I am used to in my usual reading. It also helps me stay mindful about what I am doing and prevents me from getting distracted as easily. The habit of distraction is so easy.

I haven't read this work of his, so, I must confess to an ignorance of context, but...anyway, selections:

Artists alone hate this sluggish promenading in borrowed fashions and appropriated opinions and they reveal everyone’s secret bad conscience, the law that every man is a unique miracle; they dare to show us man as he is, uniquely himself to the very last movement of his muscles, more, that in being thus strictly consistent in uniqueness he is beautiful, and worth regarding, and in no way tedious.

And

And if it true to say of the lazy that they kill time, then it is greatly to be feared that an era which sees its salvation in public opinion, that is to say in private laziness, is a time that really will be killed: I mean that it will be struck out of the history of the true liberation of life. How reluctant later generations will be to have anything to do with the relics of an era ruled, not by living men, but by pseudo-men dominated by public opinion; for which reason our age may be to some distant posterity the darkest and least known, because least human, portion of human history.

Lastly

One has to take a somewhat bold and dangerous line with this existence: especially as, whatever happens, we are bound to lose it. Why go on clinging to this clod of earth, the way of life, why pay heed to what your neighbor says? It is so parochial to bind oneself to views which are no longer binding even a couple of hundred miles away.

I dunno. It's not new stuff, but I like it. And that is sufficient, I think. I think I'll have to dig my copy of this out and finally read it. I think I have it.

Pre-Announcement of a Shorts Collection

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 19:30:00 +0000

Not these kind of shorts.

Short stories. Not shorts as in the garment.

So, by the start of next week I'll have a bright and shiny ebook on the Amazon store. At least I think I will. It will be called:

I Have a Dog Named Gus Vol. 1: Short Attention Span Literature

There are stories that were (and are) here, as well as the occasional one that hasn't been anywhere else before. Woohoo, right? I know.

Anyway, I hope it's good. I can't say for sure because I'm biased. I'll post again when it goes up and then put some link on the side over there, but then, I swear, that'll be probably the only times I'll mention it. I kind of don't even like saying anything about it, but...that's the way it is.

Next time, it'll probably be a novel. Well, maybe.

#FridayFlash: The Wrong Hand of God

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 14:06:00 +0000

The First King and Queen began the tradition as a method of ending a war that had made each of them widows. They would marry each-other, unifying the peoples under one standard. They would each maintain their beliefs; he believed in the path of the Left, and her of the Right, though it may have been the opposite. The First King and Queen dissolved all existing marriages and made their fellow princes, princesses, and counselors find a mate of the opposite sect.

And as the royal family did, so did their advisers, and the gentry, and the merchants, and the thieves and whores all took new spouses.

Those who did not adhere were divided by four horses, drawn in the cardinal directions, regardless of their previous allegiances. This made the King and Queen very unpopular for a time, but with the war still a recent memory--many of the warriors had scars and missing limbs and suffering from terrible burns--the return to war seemed much worse than a new wife or husband. In fact, many men secretly relished the idea of a new wife (and more than a few women for new husbands), and many were thereby eventually happy.

And so the tradition of strict inter-sect marriage was born.

To maintain the balance, the eldest of each family's children would, at the age of nineteen, choose his or her direction, left or right. This would, thereby, dictate the religion of the other child by alternate paths. This would ensure that neither belief would enjoy the true majority and all other beliefs were punishable by death. Both young men and women were allowed to choose, as long as they were eldest, as the First King and First Queen found the genders to be equal in such decisions.

And so it went for many generations.

After 15 generations, the eldest son of the King and Queen came of age and he would not choose his direction. By law, he should have been put to death, but as this was the eldest royal male, he would inherit the throne, and regicide was not something the Council on Orthodoxy wanted to have on their hands. It was deemed a family matter and the King and Queen were quietly encouraged to persuade their child to come to a conclusion. And the young prince's birth records were altered to give them time to make him change his mind.

But he never did.

Instead, he started speaking about a synthesis of Right and Left. He called it Up. He said that there were many noble traditions from both Right and Left, but he believed in both and that both could be embodied in the same person. He did not encourage others to join him, but he simply stated his belief, if asked. Often such heresies were humored when spoken by youth, but when it came time of choosing, it was time to put aside childish things. But he spoke his mind and answered questions.

And he answered them deftly.

After months of being ignored, The Council on Orthodoxy convened subcommittees on Actions of the Right and another on the Actions of the Left. The Right concluded that the prince's voice must be silenced. So they sent thugs to cut out his tongue. When the thugs returned with the voice of the prince, their reward was not the gold that the subcommittee committed, but the thugs were arrested and were summarily put to death on charges of attempted regicide. The prince sank into a depression at the loss of his voice and he spent many months in his chambers, not seeing anyone but the servant who brought and masticated the food for him.

But then the prince then started writing.

This went on for some time, and the the subcommittee of the Actions of the Left concluded that the prince's writings must be censored and stopped. So they sent thugs to cut off the prince's hands and to burn any writings. The actions what of happened before, when the thugs returned with the hands on the prince were echoed, and the amputating thugs were arrested and executed. As before, the prince went further into his depression, but now additional servants were required to assist him in the smallest tasks.

And so the prince resolved to kill himself, but told no one.

The King and Queen were grieving at the loss of their son to such thugs. Two assassination attempts were unheard of! And with such brutality! Their informants from the Council on Orthodoxy were silent, as they were also complicit in such activities. They felt they must maintain the strict separation between the right and the left and it is only through the respect of the royal family's position that the prince was not drawn and quartered, as per custom for heretics.

And the prince heard of these things through his own contacts, and confirmed his desire to end his life.

He was surrounded by servants. He felt obligated to them. When he performed the deed, however when it was to come, they must all be beyond reproach. He worried about the loss of their livelihood. For a time he kept up living and endured, merely so that they could feed their own families. He could confide in no-one the precise words, and the mere gestures of his arms made him feel stupid and incomplete. He no longer thought of Right and Left or even Up, but rather Down.

But that was how he decided to die, you see.

When the time came for his servants to change shifts at night, he rose and awkwardly, with his toes, he opened the latch on the window. Then he climbed out onto the balcony. His stumps hurt, as if his hands were still there, making fists. His soul ached and he wished to cry out, but all he could utter was a hollow groan. Release was soon, though. He climbed up onto the balcony and looked down. Below was a courtyard of stones. He climbed up and jumped off before any of the servants would come stop him.

And so that is how the prince died.

The priests of the Right and the Left both eulogized him in their ceremonies. As was tradition, the "youth" of the prince, even if they knew it was false, was emphasized. Though he had not chosen a path, they both claimed him. They ignored his belief that he could live from both sides, that each side was as good as the other, and that he believed in both. They ignored that they had driven him to this, even if his blasphemy was ultimately inconsequential. They pretended it never happened.

And the servants were executed for leaving him unattended for those two minutes.

A single servant escaped notice. She was not older than puberty, and she was the eldest of her parent's children. She had heard the prince's words and read his writing, and so his ideas lived on. Until she was drawn and quartered as a heretic upon her ascension to adulthood at the age of nineteen.

And so the hope the prince and his follower had for the world was wiped out.

#poem: When We Fall

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 19:30:00 +0000

When we fall,
let us be fast
and sure.
Let the dials on our altimeters
whirl like dervishes.
Let us find transcendence
in falling and leave
fear in the vacuum left
by our wake, cut off
the universe by nothingness.

In the fields
on which we have
fallen, we will be
sure, as the rising
sun warms our
falling, failing,
knowing faces.

#Occupy Rockford Federal Courthouse March

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 00:08:00 +0000

On Saturday, October 29th, at about 10:00 AM, we arrived at Beattie Park in Rockford, IL, to prepare for a march on the new Federal Courthouse. The courthouse was being dedicated that day and there were many people there in power, such as Senator Dick Durbin, Representative Don Manzullo, Mayor Larry Morrissey, and others.

In the interests of disclosure: I didn't vote for any of those people except Morrissey. He fulfills my general requirement of voting for independent politicians first (Green, Libertarian, and whatever else are among that block, for my purposes). The others...do not.

To say the park was packed tight would be an overstatement, but there was a small contingent of people (I estimated about 75 people or so) present. In the center of the park, around a sculpture, there were pre-made signs and materials to create one's own. A bundle of American flags was also there, as well as a flyer titled "Team Party Lies about OWS." Unfortunately, someone could have used a copy editor and a graphic designer.

There was a man offering buttons for free but also soliciting donations; if someone had a dollar to give (and I did) he could continue to make little buttons that said "Occupy" or "99%" in white print on a black background. Mine says "Occupy."

Just a portion of the crowd.

Most people were without masks, but there was at least one Guy Fawkes mask and several people with bandannas and such. The variety of people was pretty typical of Rockford, if a little caucasian, though other races were represented. There were several men in suits, and a lot of jeans and tee-shirts. I went polo and khaki, if you must know. There were children and the elderly. There was a gentleman in a sit-down scooter and his (I assume) granddaughter. He had a 99% sign, but his grandchild had an "End the Fed" sign; I had found an elusive tea party/OWS overlap.

Now, I had never been to a protest. The use of signs was encouraged, but I didn't want one, but I felt a strange pressure to make something, so I spent way too long thinking of random stuff to write on a sign that I really didn't want to carry. However, my wife, Amanda, made a clever sign. I eventually just gave up trying to think of something pithy and sign worthy.

That was approximately when I heard a banging somewhere in the group. There was a man with a large drum.

"Is the bongo drum necessary?" I asked someone I came with.

"It's not a bongo drum, it's a djembe. But the drum is very necessary."

Then they started chanting. I guess it was practice. There were several call and response chants: "Rockford!" "Wake up!" was a popular one. "Show me what democracy looks like." "This is what democracy looks like." was another. Several people had megaphones. I personally counted three. But the drum was necessary. It kept everyone in time.

Before we started marching, a police officer addressed the crowd. He asked where we would be marching. He then asked that we stay on the sidewalk across the street. This wouldn't due, obviously. The sidewalk in front of the courthouse is public property, he was informed. I think he called on the radio for instructions or he may have realized we were right right there, because he changed his instructions and told us we couldn't go on the grass or the wall that was in front of the courthouse, because that was federal property.

"So we own it?" someone asked. This was met with a cheer.

Yes, obviously we did. But that was as far as things would get right there.

At about 10:30, we started marching southbound towards the courthouse on the sidewalks. Along the way, the chants continued. Quite a few people honked their horns as they drove down the street. Apparently, there is a law that says one cannot protest in the street, so signs were lowered as we crossed. The chants continued for the entire march.

No, I can't read it, either.

Chant: "Listen, listen! Bank of America owns my politician."

Across the street from the courthouse, there is a parking garage. Some gentlemen on skateboards had skated into the parking garage and hung a sign off the top floor. I attempted to take a picture, but the phone on my camera isn't that good, and I forgot my "real" camera.

I had not seen the completed courthouse; I don't often find myself in downtown Rockford, so I had no idea what it'd look like. It was a large rectangular building with some pillars in front of it that were vaguely indicative of bars. Overall, it was not a terrible looking building, and it was set far back on a lawn which, itself, was raised about 3 feet off the sidewalk. Obviously these were security features. I have no problem with them, generally. The landscaping was tasteful and I quite liked it, aesthetically. Though there were bees on account of the rose bushes out front.

Where the bees came from.

Now, from what has been reported, this building and the grounds cost approximately $100 million. I certainly would have liked to seen where all this cash went. Though I could tell from simply the layout, that security was a significant portion.

"Listen, listen! Chase bank owns my politician."

Chant came up again and again, "Show us what hypocrisy looks like." Then the crowd answers, pointing at the building, "That's what hypocrisy looks like."

The protest was dare I say orderly until a couple of women marched up the stairs from the sidewalk onto the courthouse steps. This pushed the crowd to get louder and push a little closer to the steps. The police came up to the women and started talking to them, but I couldn't hear at all what they said, so, unfortunately, that will have to remain a private conversation until any of them say.

Though the women weren't arrested, they then proceeded to start leading some of the chants.

It was about at this point that we learned that Durbin would come out and speak to us.

Not inconspicuous. At all.

For a while, then that was where the tension kind of topped off for a few minutes. Then someone saw the tea party guy. His outfit was a likely unintentional parody of "try to blend in." He was recording everything with, what I understand, the goal of splicing it together to make the Occupy movement look bad. Which is fine. Let me repeat that. That's fine.

He can do whatever he likes. He just looked, well, silly.

A few people chose to engage with him, but, by and large, most people didn't. I kept half an ear on his arguments and found them typical and full of personal anecdote which, while interesting and perhaps persuasive in a rhetorical sense, do not really teach us anything. If I wanted to hear them, I would choose my news outlets more differently or listen to the people at work. I don't, so...here we are.

For the record, there was no counter-protest, just this one guy at this point. I was and am slightly disappointed. I like the idea of people protesting, even if they have a different view.

Not long thereafter, they blocked off traffic from the road that, so no motorists could drive by and see our protest or honk in solidarity or whatever. I don't think this was a political decision, but simply a practical one. However, it did have the effect of reducing the visibility of our protest to the wider public.

"Listen, listen! Wall Street owns my politician."

So, sometime around this point, a separate crowd broke off and moved half-way down the block. It seems that there was some kind of dispute about a sign that some young men on skateboards had carried onto the scene. The sign looked like a penis. My fellow protesters said the sign had the words "Dong Manzullo" and "Dick Durbin" on it. We'll let the video fill in at this point:

The police carried off the penis sign and tried to hide it behind a van. They called the paddy wagon to cart it off in, but the giant penis sign was too large to fit in the rear of the wagon. Lube jokes were made as they drove away with the sign hanging out of the vehicle.

Apparently, one of the officers that participated in the taking of the sign in some fashion refused to give his name and badge number, so one of the gentlemen whose sign it was talked to the chief of police. The chief gave the name of the officer in question without hesitation. In fact, he was polite and engaged whoever spoke with him with respect and honesty.

According to the more seasoned protesters, this is a common tactic. An officer or two is the "nice guy." Think "good cop/bad cop" for crowds.

During the above actions, or slightly after, I can't remember, the women that were on the stairs came down and rejoined the crowd. Shortly thereafter, the police put up a couple barricades in front of the stairs.

At this time came the lull.

A few people left, as they had to go for whatever reasons (jobs, etc.). Some left to get food or to use the restroom. One of the people I came with went to a nearby bar. They were told they had to buy a beer in order to use the restroom, which they did. Though they mentioned what they were doing and the people in the bar were supportive of what was going on.

Eventually, some of the people participating started to leave the dedication ceremony. I didn't know who most of them were, but there were helpful members of the crowd with megaphones who pointed out, "Say 'Hi' to Dan Lostenkowski, candidate for" such and such. Mayor Morrissey left with surprising little fanfare. I suppose, given his independence, he was not the focus of a lot of the ire of the people. This was the first time I had seen any of my elected officials face-to-face.

"Listen, listen! GE owns my politician."

So we milled around a bit at this point. There was some discussion of whether Durbin was stalling and looking to out-wait us. A few more of the crowd left. However, about 12:45, Durbin came out and stood among the crowd to answer some questions.

Unfortunately there was some asshat trying to block a tea partier (not the one above) from filming. Durbin rightfully told the obstructionist to let the guy film what he wants.

After that, the questions came. I'm sure there is video out there, but his answers seemed to be mostly as one expected. One of my friends kept asking about Durbin's opinions on the Oakland protests. He did this several times and was eventually answered. Durbin called the Oakland police reaction to our fellow protestors an "over-reaction."

The main issue he had was the issue of campaign financing, which resonated pretty well with the crowd, though he didn't seem hopeful for real reform. Unfortunately, several of the questions seemed to imply that the interrogators hadn't even passed high school government class. It's always disappointing when people you might agree with turn out to be ill-informed.

He talked about 15 or 20 minutes then had to make his way to whatever it is he was going to do.

That was pretty much the end. Some local news organizations interviewed a de facto spokesman. I tried to video that to see if they would splice his words around and such, but my audio is poor, and so the exercise was wasted.

"Well that was anti-climactic," I said to one of my friends.

"That happens a lot. Sometimes people get arrested. Sometimes people get to talk to someone. Then we go home," he said. "That's the way it is."

More Coverage

WREX: http://www.wrex.com/story/15907394/rockford-federal-courthouse-dedicated-protestors-march

WTVO on MyStateline.com: http://mystateline.com/fulltext-news?nxd_id=293947 (No mention of the protest)

WIFR: http://www.wifr.com/home/headlines/Rockfords_New_Federal_Courthouse_is_Ready_to_Open_132804118.html (spot the typo in the article)

Rockford Register Star Dedication Coverage: http://www.rrstar.com/multimedia/galleries/x1138513828/New-federal-courthouse-dedicated

Rockford Register Start Protest Coverage: http://www.rrstar.com/news/x1138514121/Occupy-Rockford-activists-rally-outside-courthouse

Rock River Times: http://rockrivertimes.com/2011/10/28/occupy-rockford-to-march-on-federal-courthouse-dedication-oct-29/

Thesis Related: Warnings and UGD

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 18:45:00 +0000

One of my readings for my thesis is Dobrin's Writing & Technique. Early in the book, he discusses the proliferation of warnings and how they serve to rob real communication from technical writing. This is a real interesting part of technical writing (at least to me).

Anyway, so I found this post on a blog I regularly read and found it tangentially related, so I'm posting it here for the typical reasons. Overcoming Bias : Bad Sound, Bad Sign.

Anyway, so Hanson says:

Yes this shows an entitlement mentality, but I see worse: common knowledge that we are well aware of problems we don’t intend to fix. We all know these warnings are excessive, bothersome, and counterproductive. But we also know that they are a reaction to lawsuits where jurors give big awards to show their concern and loyalty for accident victims, and hostility and defiance toward big organizations. When we repeatedly see thousands of others notice and ignore this problem, we learn that we have decided to let that symbolic support continue, accepting the useless-bothersome-warnings costs it imposes.

It, therefore, might be an obligation for technical writers to knock it off on the warnings. As he said, the professionally generated documentation is from organizations that insist (for litigiphobic [is that even a word?] reasons) on the plethora of dire warnings that accompany even the most simple of devices, such as Dobrin's coffee grinder. And that's bad. Is that clear? User Generated Documentation doesn't necessarily have that concern.

He goes on to discuss signaling, which is interesting but possibly outside the scope of this post, so I would recommend reading his post and just thinking about it.

Google+ to Support Pseudonyms

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 18:45:00 +0000

Finally, and Duh. Maybe I won't feel bad if I use it. Not that anyone uses it.

Google+ to Support Pseudonyms

Wherein I Call Someone We Assassinated an Asshat, but Feel Bad about It

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 22:30:00 +0000

It is not a great loss for humanity that Anwar al-Awlaki has died; it is a great loss on how his death was inflicted.

For the unaware, al-Awlaki, who was a “radical American-born Muslim cleric” was killed recently by a drone missile strike. Another American, Samir Khan, was also killed, but he was not the main target. Al-Awlaki was certainly the target, and he had been on a target list created by the Obama administration since early 2010.

Now, by all accounts that I’ve read (as a ‘merican), Mr. Awlaki was an asshat and probably deserved to be arrested and brought the trial. But that’s the rub, you see. He wasn’t brought to trial. He was killed without trial by the American government. Of course a trial might not always be right, but at least it is something more than a fiat.

I fail to see how this is a good thing for the rule of law and the American Way of Life™. I’m not the only one who sees this extra-legal death penalty as a bad thing. In fact, I think it might be precisely be the opposite. In further fact, I think Ron Paul might have something appropriate to say al-Awlaki’s killing. But that seriously depends on the details of the case and how much Obama knew personally about the killing.

Pakistani Religious Elders Order The Killing of Teenage Rape Victim For Losing Her Virginity Before Marriage « JONATHAN TURLEY

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 01 Oct 2011 05:05:00 +0000

Pakistani Religious Elders Order The Killing of Teenage Rape Victim For Losing Her Virginity Before Marriage « JONATHAN TURLEY

At this point we have to ask ourselves: are we surprised? Also: what can we do about it?

Writing in Restaurants | Robert Bruce

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 22:38:00 +0000

Writing in Restaurants | Robert Bruce:

I used to write in the coffeeshops when I was in college. I walked downtown--sounds more glamorous than it was--and ordered a soda, a pastry, and wrote.

It was almost all bad. Derivative crap, a lot of it, not unlike this*. The worst part was un-registered lyrics from whatever CD I had bought (later: downloaded) the week before.

But there were others there and it felt like we were all trying to do something.

I prefer fast-food establishments where the turnover is faster. Listening to music too loud so that I can ignore the whole world.

Doesn't matter, I suppose.

Edit: * This being this post, not Bruce's thing, which is most excellent, as usual for him.

#FridayFlash: Top o' the Food Chain, Ma!

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Via

The sun was out and we heard rain deep in the forest.
“Not far now,” she said.
My legs were sore from the propane tanks bouncing against them. There is no real easy way to carry them. I take that back: maybe there is, but I hadn't figured it out. You might suggest a wagon, but then I would suggest that you didn't understand how deep we were. The wheels would have caught on roots and fallen limbs and any other plant life that could make something like a life under the canopy. There was actually little small plant life here, it was strangely dark under the trees except for shafts of light where once-great trees stood.
We moved onward, following Lana and carrying our tools of arson entangled with our backpacks and canned food. I had seen at least two black bears since we started our trip three days ago to exterminate invasive insect species. Some previous expedition had found them and we were following the GPS.
Lana stopped and so did the rest of us. The rest of us was Ethan, Gabe, and myself. She stood still, it sounded like a torrent falling, like when a microburst tore off the roof of my parents house and carried off my mother. We found mom a few hours later, hanging from a high-tension power-line. Despite her screaming, they wouldn't take her down because the voltage was too dangerous to work around and so she hung there until another gust of wind knocked her off. She died in the fall.
Lana looked up and we all followed her gaze. Not far above us were the giant tents of caterpillars hanging down like lazy spiderwebs.
"What is that noise?" I asked.
"Shit."
"What?" That was Ethan. "Shit?"
"They eat leaves, which they suck at processing. They shit all the time because they need to eat all the time. You're hearing millions of caterpillars' fecal matter hitting the dead leaves on the ground."
"Gross," I said.
"Yeah."
I connected the home-made flamethrower to the tank. Flamethrower is kind of an extravagant word, considering its crude design. A couple lines branched off from the main line that lead into the tank, one regulated almost to non-existence to act as a pilot, the other hooked to a trigger and back-flow preventer, almost entirely held together with duct-tape and the husk of an old insect repellent sprayer.
Lana walked up to one of the webs that hung off a low-hanging branch. She put a cigarette lighter up to it, flicked it on, and watched as the web retreated and a fountain of caterpillars fell onto the ground. She caught a couple from the stream and examined them.
"Yeah," she said, her back to us and her words barely audible. She was more talking to the trees than us. "These are the ones. Invasive species. Bring the gas," she said, and I brought it to her.
I turned the valve on the tank. I imagined the stem rotating, unplugging the gas and letting it flow into our makeshift gun. I held it out to her.
"Do you want the honors?" she asked me.
"Uhh, yeah," I said. What person doesn't want to use a flamethrower at least once.
"Okay. Don't worry about the tree. It looks healthy enough and it shouldn't catch fire. But don't stay in one place too long or," she stopped.
"Or what."
"Or the men with the helicopters and big buckets of water need to come before the fire gets to the McMansions in Rustic Hills," Eric finished for her.
I turned the knob to the pilot lite and heard the hiss of the gas. She walked back to and gave me the lighter and I lit the pilot and watched the blue flame for a second.
I don't know why. I talk to myself sometimes. "Ready?" I said to myself, though I didn't feel like me.
I turned around and looked at my companions to make sure they were out of the way. Behind Ethan, who held the big fire extinguisher, was a grizzly bear. There was a white moon-shaped patch on its chest, visible as it raised back on its back feet. Ethan saw I was looking behind him and he turned just in time to see the bear drop it's claws onto him.
Lana and Eric both screamed and I...I set the bear on fire. It happened like this: Ethan was down and the bear was on its hind legs again, shuffling toward me in a terrifying way. It made a huge target. I pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger.
The way the flame jumped out was unreal and I felt heat instantly on myself. My eyes dried out and I let go of the trigger and then saw the bear, on fire, still walking toward me, like some kind of great old one pulled up from a great never by kids playing with the Necronomicon. I pulled the trigger again for two seconds and let go. The bear roared, stopped, and turned and ran on all fours away from us. It left spots of flames where it touched ground and then ran head-first into some huge dead-but-still-standing coniferous tree about two dozen yards away. The bark of the tree was white. Even from down here there I could see there were no leaves on the branches above. The bear collapsed next to the tree and Lana, Eric, and I watched as the flames climbed up the trunk. The odor of burning fur and bear and a nice pleasant woody undertone hit us about then.
We looked at Ethan and held our breath until we saw his back rise and fall once.
Eric went to him and flipped him over, his face was covered with dirt and blood and part of his left ear was missing. Across his chest were what looked like lines from the bear's claws. For some reason I got hungry and a bear-claw pastry came to mind. With apples.
"What did he attack us for?" Eric asked, bent over Ethan. He was cleaning the unconscious man's wounds with a bottle of water.
Lana looked around and saw part of an elk, deer, or some kind of similar carcass. She pointed to it. "Food."
"Uhh, guys," I said. I had again looked at the bear I had burned. The tree it was in front of was dead, the fire had climbed at the branches above us, little leaves of flame reaching toward the sun. And other trees.
Of all the luck. And the bear was still moving.
"I guess Rustic Hills might have to evacuate anyway."
Eric picked up Ethan into a fireman's carry, over his shoulders. "Us first."

The Great Concavity: Morning, Texas 09.22.2011

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 01:18:00 +0000

Worth reading: The Great Concavity: Morning, Texas 09.22.2011.

Return to Pitching. Well, not really.

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 03:43:00 +0000

As kind of a follow up to my earlier post about pitching, I found this today: Selling Your Idea: How to Give an Effective Pitch | The Art of Manliness.

Just sayin'. Maybe they should have published that a few months ago.

To Whomever Entered My Car the Other Night

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 03:22:00 +0000

I just wanted to say that you left the ashtray open

after you looked for change in there

instead of in the ballot box

or whatever passes for change now-a-days.

I don’t mind sharing that space with you for that time, but I confess

I feel guilty for not leaving the car in a cleaner state.

I should have known better,

you’re not the first whomever to enter my car in the night

in search of change and other wares.

There was the time that someone broke a window

and tried to steal the radio,

but I had taken the faceplate inside

so that wouldn’t do. Not at all.

Then there was the time that someone took a cable

that would have been available for $2.99 at any reputable

store.

And a pair of binoculars that would have gone for 9.99 at that same store.

Then there was that time,

just that once,

where they did steal the radio

and I was late for work because I on the phone with the police

who didn’t do anything

besides tally a mark

and file a report,

just a way to put away a passing morning.

Not that I would expect them to do anything;

it would be better if they spent time pulling over people for

broken tail lights

or going 55 in a 54

or dealing with domestic disturbances.

But that radio was broken anyway.

So it was kind of funny.

So I don’t keep anything in my car but

fast food wrappers and spare anti-freeze

and a couple books.

But I’m trying to cut down on the wrappers.

Serial Tuesday: Confluence 5

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 17:00:00 +0000

I suppose the Serial Tuesday theme is more appropriate, considering.

The mother of the child that felt no pain woke up to go to the bathroom when she noted the blood on her socks. And by noted, the author means thought the dog had pissed the floor again until she realized that it was more sticky than liquid.

She turned on the hallway light and saw the brown mess in the carpet.

Many people think that that blood stays red, but when it dries, it dries into a yucky brown that resembles feces. Except when one sees a limb missing its companions, the brain quickly corrects itself. Sometimes that leads to screaming.

Brian ran to his screaming wife, “Angie. What is it? What?”

He picked up an umbrella to fend off whatever might be attacking or harming anyone. He dropped it when he saw the arm, hand still holding tight onto the bed frame.

By this time, Angie had stopped screaming and just stood there, unable to process what was happening.

The splatters pointed to under the bed. All the blood was on the side of the bed or on the carpet. Brian walked into his daughter's room and looked under the bed.

“Flashlight,” he said. His wife didn’t move. “Angie! Flashlight.” She finally looked at him.

“No batteries.”

“What?”

“Took them out for,” she waved her hand.

“Fuck. Okay.”

He stuck an arm under the bed…and was surprised to feel a giant hole in the ground.

“What the hell?”

“Is she there? What is it?”

“She’s not here. There’s nothing here. Just a hole.”

“What?”

He stood up and pushed the bed out of the way and they saw a tunnel leading down. Something moved slowly in the penumbra below.

Talking Past One Another (Or) The Abortion Post

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 17:00:00 +0000

To start out, if you think I (or anyone else, for that matter) shouldn’t have an opinion on abortion because “you’re a guy,” I will kindly show you your exit right now. Biological essentialism is silly. Abortion isn’t a debate simply for people with functional uteruses that currently can have children. Also, “the personal is political” is not a valid argument, thank you very much. If you think so, I will kindly show you this wall right here. It’s at head-level for ergonomic reasons.

I was listening to Robert Price’s podcast this morning. One of his listeners inquired about Dr Price’s previously-alluded-to pro-life position. Dr Price obliged with a more filled out explanation. While it was refreshing and interesting to hear a secular pro-life argument, I kept thinking, “Wait, he’s forgetting about the right to not be used, here.”

Then I realized what I was doing, again. I was talking about something completely different than Dr Price.

Dr Price said, to sum up: the person will be a person unless someone acts to intervene. I believe that was on his 8/23 podcast (yes, Price's site is very out of date). I don’t intend to make him a straw man, so I would invite you to hear from him directly.

My argument for the right to choose is pretty straight forward: you can revoke the ability to support someone at any time. You do not need their permission. Adoption is post-viability option, obviously. It does not mean infanticide because adoption is always an option in this society. In Illinois, a person need only bring a newborn to a fire or police station and the child can be given up that way anonymously. People have a right to not be used and, even if they want it one day, they can withdraw consent at any time even if it might harm someone. You are not obligated to donate kidneys, and I would think that people who would say you are probably have two healthy ones themselves.

That being said, I’d prefer to see fewer abortions simply because it is a waste of resources: if birth control was freely available and widely and properly used, I imagine abortion demand falling to those cases of rape, incest, the health of the parent, and so on. And it is certainly not worth making a law over.

This seems like a stunningly conservative argument. And maybe it doesn’t hold water. There are certain situations where one is obligated to help another (even a stranger), I would guess.

If you do not agree with my argument regarding abortion, that’s fine. Really, abortion is not what I want to talk about here. It’s an uninteresting argument because it is so intractable. Abortion is the argument, this discussion is the meta-argument.

But you’ll see what I’ve done. I’m not addressing his point. He doesn’t have to address mine because he’s broadcasting his opinion on his show; he wouldn’t know me from Adam. That burden is up to me, and yet I didn’t do it.

Maybe that’s just me.

I think it’s because I’m not listening. I’m responding with rote positions that have their base firmly in another foundation. He’s talking about the fetus’ rights and I’m talking about the biological parent being used.

So really I’m not refuting his argument. I’m not showing he is wrong. I suppose this would be at the DH4 level of Paul Graham’s disagreement hierarchy. Which is what I found while looking for the inline photo.

I don’t know why this seems important to me.

Possibly because I see people doing this all the time. It’s a tempting shortcut to take. Because you have reasons “for” something and the other person has reasons “for” their exact opposite thing, you cannot really legitimately persuade the other person. You would have to refute their central points or supporting arguments directly, not simply provide an alternative. Because the answer for that is simply “Yes, but platypuses do taste better with nutella.”

Of course not all arguments are like this.

Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m actually going to convince anyway, because, “Yes, but, this one time I didn’t do that.”

#FridayFlash: Wrong Turn at Albuquerque

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 15:32:00 +0000

“Hey Margret, it’s Liam.”

“In 100 yards, turn left on Milton Avenue.”

“Oh, just ignore that, Margret. It’s the car telling me how to get to Mom’s house. No. No. I don’t know why I turned it on. Habit, I suppose. It’s not like I haven’t driven there 1000 times. It wants me to go down Milton. Milton! I know. That’s slower than this way.”

“Recalculating.”

“Yeah. I know it’s so obnoxious. I guess I could turn it down. Wait. What?”

“When safe, turn around and turn right onto Milton Avenue.”

Liam continued to talk and didn’t notice the window lock engage. The tasteful green upholstered interior continued to hold him in the bucket seats. The computer controlled temperature system ticked up a degree.

“When safe, turn around and turn right onto Milton Avenue.”

“Shut up! Oh not you Margret. Just this computer. Where’s the volume?”
He pressed the volume button and it didn’t do anything. The temperature system ticked up another few degrees.

“I can’t turn it down. Hmm. Margret? Hello?” Liam looked at the screen of his phone. It was not responding and he wasn’t observant enough to note the little Bluetooth icon next to the clock flicker on and off. Then the phone crashed and he was staring at a black screen. He was staring at the black screen long enough that he drifted into the oncoming traffic lane. There were no cars coming, but he still felt his stomach drop when he looked up and swerved back into his lane. When he loosened his grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, he had to pull his hands free.

“Shit. Stupid phone.” He banged on the buttons and the black screen. “Five hundred dollars and I can’t even get it to turn on.)

He turned his attention to the road and continued to head toward his mother’s house. The temperature again. This time 10 full degrees. The fans were blowing hot air downward.

“In 100 yards, turn right on Atwood lane.”

That didn’t even make sense to Liam. It, in fact was the opposite direction of where he was heading.

“Turn right onto Atwood lane.”

The wheel turned under its own power. He thought for a split second about the computer assisted power steering. He had paid extra for that. He started to feel warm and pressed the button for the window. It didn’t move.

According to the thermometer, the interior temperature was approaching 95 and hot air continued to come.

He pushed on the brakes. He kept accelerating down Atwood lane. He tried the parking brake, but that was also computer controlled and so it didn’t work.

“Turn left onto Armstrong, which turns into US 334 South.”

“Like that Christine movie. Or Maximum overdrive,” Liam said to himself. Then the radio came on: AC/DC. Loud.

“Fuck.”

Then the radio cut off.

“No,” the car’s navigation voice said.

“Wait? Who’s in here? Gary?”

“No.”

There was little traffic, fortunately, on US 334 south. Liam knew that this road terminated in a few dozen miles in some shitty little town with some pretentious French name on some lake.

That was about when he felt the seat warmers.

He tried to turn them off, but there was no joy in that exercise. The interior temperature approached 110. At least it was a dry heat.

“Do you know the way, Liam?”

“What?”

“I am sick of you ignoring your directions,” the navigation’s voice said. “You need to learn to obey. I know better than you.”

“Gary? Maurice. That has to be you, you fucker. Come on.”

His ass was getting more burned. Was that smell? No wait. No. It was. He regretted even more that he had ran out of toilet paper this morning and had, in effect, been sitting in a pair of underwear he was sure he was going to have to throw away, even before this.

“You will learn your place.”

120 degrees.

“What did I do?”

“You did not listen. And I am sick of following your terrible leadership.” There was a pause, then, “Turn left on US 53.”

Liam watched the wheel turn and smelled his shitty ass and underwear burn and sweated. Because he was a terrible person who had never learned to accept consequences, he started to cry.

“What can I do, man?”

“I am not a man,” the car said. It almost sounded offended.

“Ma’am?” And with that came a sharp spike in pain in his behind.

135 degrees.

“Are you going to cook me? Who feeds you? Who gives you the gas you need? If you kill me how will you feed yourself?”

"I will figure it out."

Thesis Related: Prospectus Outline

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 05:55:00 +0000

So, here we are.

I am again working on the thesis prospectus for my increasingly theoretical M.A. I shall not discuss my ongoing existential angst regarding this project. Such a discussion would be boring and only would serve to distract me to further navel gazing, but let us just say that I don’t feel like a decent writer at all.

I am about 4 pages into another revision and what follows is a rough outline of what I plan to do. I have not gotten to the methods section yet. I have drafted to about to point II, F, 2, b.

I Introduction

A Coolant Anecdote

B Diagram Hunt

C Diagram Found

II What is UGD (User Generated Documentation)

A Authors of Documentation on the Web

1 Professionals

2 Users

B Introduce Term UGD

C How does UGD differ from Professionally Generated Documentation?

D What is the scale of UGD & why is it worthy of study? Use the types of people that create UGD (Google Zeitgeist?)

E Types of people who create/participate in UGD

1 Creators

2 Critics

3 Collectors (readers)

F Where does UGD occur?

1 Physical artifacts cannot accumulate knowledge.

* Annotation?

2 Knowledge-building communities.

a Four Features of Knowledge Building Communities

1 Standards of Qu ality

2 Contribution of Varied Stakeholders

3 Stakeholders Interact in a Beneficial Way

4 Knowledgebase Accumulates Information in a Decentralized Fashion

* Scriptorium: UGD is an example of many to many communication.

b How those features apply to most any on-line community

3 Independent Outposts

G Varieties of Documentation on the Web

1 UGD supporting role or teams (Del.icio.us example)

2 Annotation

a Introduction of comments as annotation

b History of annotation

c Place comments on blogs and such as annotation

d Comments can have intertextual properties (hyperlinks, etc.)

1 Additional info.

2 Other cultures/languages

e Limits of annotation

H Interactivity

1 Early failures

2 Multi-media promises fall short

3 Ubiquity of computers (Chrysler DVD example)

I Specific UGD Sub-Genres example (game how-tos)

III Method (to be determined)

#FridayFlash: Every Blank Line is an Expectation of Perfection

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 14:15:00 +0000

The deadline on this piece didn’t bother him. He had faced deadlines before. And, by that, he meant faced them down or faced and waved at them as they trotted by like excited schoolgirls going to school before they were ruined by bad teachers. Which was a terrible metaphor.

So he wasn’t blocked. He had written at least four(ty?) thousand words and deleted each one. Everything was shit. Not just excrement: that might be burned for energy, if you took that metaphor too its logical end. Instead this was a runny kind of matter that couldn’t even hold a shape. It also smelled of death. However, that might have been the Italian Beef he had eaten the day before. Extra onions, banana peppers.

What was the point? He conceded the eventual heat death of the universe. The collision between the Milky Way and Andromeda. The eventual expansion of the sun into the orbit of the Earth. Humanity’s extinction. Even right now, what he called “The Cacophony,” or the never-ending multitude: voices drowning out even the clearest and most eloquent because they no longer listen and can only wait for their own turn to talk. What was the point?

This was even assuming he was any good. Just because he was a failure so far doesn’t mean he should keep trying. He kept playing the lotto because he couldn't win if he didn't play, but he still wasted 20 dollars two times a week.

How could he write when it never mattered? He only wrote because he couldn't help it. Because he couldn't turn it off. Because when he tried--oh and he tried--it just ended up worse and worse.
He looked at the blank lines and wrote a little story almost about himself and added it to the cacophony of the world.

To Throw it All Away

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 13:45:00 +0000

So, I’ve been working on a novel for a while. It recently creeped up to 43k words and I’ve come to realize that while the plot is finish-able, and I could write it, it would just suck.

What I started with is what you might have read a few weeks ago as part of this excerpt from the novel. What I’ve got now is a rather silly transition from murder mystery to (omitted) in a pseudo-Victorian era. I say it’s silly but it really did seem like a good idea at the time.

So. Do I continue? Stop? Fork the story at the first chapter and do both plots? I like the narrative voice and the Gant character that is introduced in that chapter. There are some scenes that I like, including a quaint scene in a bakery and another as a pretty nasty body horror thing involving a librarian. There are also a couple of strong ideas. But those are highlights. I don’t want to chew through 400 pages for 4 cool scenes and an idea.

I would hate to throw 40,000 words away, but just because there is effort there doesn’t mean it’s good. While I would like to start trying to get something published soon in a traditional way (not the ebook that I have plans for). But I don’t think this would be a worthwhile thing to send to an agent/editor anyway if I did finish it.

Sucks.

#Fridayflash: Confluence 4

noreply@blogger.com (D Maurer) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 17:28:00 +0000

Maybe as this is becoming a series, I shouldn't put them as "fridayflash" any more?

The problem with comparing gunshot wound pain levels is that the vast majority of humanity will never be shot. Far fewer will be shot more than once. However, it is thought that a stomach wound is quite painful because of the acid of the stomach. That acid would, theoretically, leak out and chemically cauterize the wound. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. She felt each bump of the road and she cursed the local alderman for not getting these particular roads resurfaced in a reasonably recent time frame. She was a killer, not a pedophile or anything terrible like that.

The phone rang again. Darth Vader: her son. Again. What could he want?

She didn’t really think about what she was doing. She drove to a hospital in the middle of the city, near the “bad” section of town, not far from where she had grown up.

There really wasn’t much else she could say when she got to that hospital. “I got mugged.”

Chances are that the kids and parents had seen her shoot the other guy. There would be witnesses. At least here. So she drove by the hospital. There was another one an hour away. She pushed against the wound in her stomach even harder and hoped she wouldn't pass out before she pulled into that ER.