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As promised, here is a brief report on the viewing of a documentary important to Rice people.

Yesterday Bon and I went to the premiere of "180 - The Spin on Willy's Statue", an event hosted by the Alumni Association, and a collaboration of the Rice Historical Society and the Rice Engineering Alumni. April 11 is the 20th anniversary of the most famous prank in Rice history, the turning of the statue of the university founder. The 1-ton bronze statue was lifted at a height of 18', spun around, and set back in place on its dais, all without the use of motorized lifting equipment.

The alumni event whatever you would call a sausage-fest, only it was mostly bluehairs instead of men. (There ought to be a word for this.) I suppose anything associated with the Alumni groups would be this way by default, but it surprised me not to see more of my contemporaries. I was present at Rice at the time of the turning, and I did have an adventure associated with the turning, but I wasn't part of the prankster crew and didn't even really know any of the main group.

The film itself was enjoyable. There were a lot of good laughing moments; I particularly enjoyed the commentary from RUPD. Key points:

* Much like the Curse of Tutankhamen, it appears that William Marsh Rice's ghostly hand has risen from his grave, and its cursed touch has fallen upon the hairlines of the conspirators. I'm just sayin'.

* I was amused to learn that they were feverishly working on just about everything up until minutes before the turning, and in fact they were several hours late to their window of time. RICE STUDENTS.

* The music was pretty 80's-characteristic. I wasn't listening to much Yaz at the time, but it still set the scene.

* My chief gripe was the editing. There were a lot of ragged cuts, particularly in the middle of interviews with people, and it was disconcerting.

* I feel the documentary did a great job of depicting what I really hope people remember, which is that other than a few select fuddy-duddies in the school administration, just about everybody in the universe thought the prank was great fun and a harmless good time. Were the conspirators to unearth the original teeshirt lithograph and run another print of shirts, they could make ONE MILLION DOLLARS. And since they have endowed an engineering fund at Rice, I think that could be a decent if small-scale contributor to the pool.

I didn't say for the Q&A as I had other plans, but I thought the documentary itself was a good time. Any Rice person will enjoy the viewing of it; most non-Rice persons will likely not give a shit.

In 1980 it was all 1st edition, and that was his baby, and he was huge. He was a giant stalking around the conventions, creating this, dismissing that. His game was big, and he was big with it.

But in 1990 we had 2nd edition, and it wasn't his baby any more. Many of his ideas had been bent or broken; some of his mistakes had been fixed. You'd still see Gary around, but he'd be smaller somehow, the same way the house you grew up in seems to shrink with age.

In 2000 3rd edition rebooted the whole game; other than the name, it was barely recognizable. Gary seemed transparent, a ghostly shell of a person. At cons you could see right through him, like a translucent 8-sided die, and his voice was nothing but a whisper.

It's 2008. 4th edition is here. It's simpler, slicker and very very different.

And Gary? he's gone, baby. He's all the way gone.

Okay, now I'm pissed. Apparently Hillary Clinton's most recent ad campaign worked, and Barrack Obama's numbers slipped in the run-up to the Texas and Ohio primaries because of it. In Hillary's commercials she asks the question: when the red phone in the White House rings at 3 in the morning, who do you really want to answer it?

That's a dodgy question. I don't really like any of my options. None of them would take the call.

If it's Obama in the White House, he's not even going to pick up the phone. He's afraid it'll be Louis Farrakhan again, telling him he has Senators tickets and they should get together some time.

Hillary's not any better. The phone will be picked up by Bill, spending yet another uncomfortable night on the couch. He'll get the phone on the first ring, hiss "Condi, I told you never to call me at home!" and hang up.

Of course, McCain wouldn't get the phone either. He'll be straining on the toilet owing to a dietary fiber deficiency, and anyway the phone will be busy because his mom will be using the line to navigate the online Seniors chat boards.

It's a good thing Huckabee's out, because he's not getting near that phone. No proper caller telephones at 3 in the morning; it's unpatriotic, and it would be un-American to pick up. Besides, red is the color of Satan.

Naturally Nader won't get the call; thanks to his diligent advocacy, he'll have the Joint Chiefs of Staff served with the National Do Not Call list.

The current administration is not on top of this. Bush won't get to the phone, because Cheney will pick up immediately -- he never sleeps in his crypt. "Babiesssss!" he'll hiss diabolically. "Fressssh Babiesssssss!" And of course the call will end there, because everybody knows you don't feed Dick Cheney after midnight.

No, there is only one person in the world who is qualified to take that call. That person is Jimmy Carter. "Hello?" he'll answer in his quavering Georgia accent.

"Mister Carter, sir?" the young lieutenant colonel on the other end will ask. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

"That's okay," Carter will reply. "I'm pretty old, and I don't sleep much any more."

"We have a situation in North Korea that demands your immediate attention."

There is an awkward silence on the phone. "Son," Carter says, "you do realize I'm not president any more?"

"Yes, sir," the officer responds. "But we worked our way down through the chain of command, all the way down to the Secretary of the Interior, and nobody would pick up. We didn't know what to do next, frankly, sir, so we called you."

"Oh." Carter will pull on his slippers. "Well, I'll put on the teapot, and we'll get this all sorted out." And then, in his wizened, Yoda-like way, Carter will solve everything.

This is of course a fantasy. Honestly, though, when it comes to feeling optimistic about our leadership's ability to respond to crisis, sometimes the only relief I have is my imagination.

"The wheels do not turn," purred the Emperor Hadrian dangerously. "The levers do not lift. Tell me why." Ptolemy chose his words carefully.

"Increasingly complex machines are everywhere," said the great mathematician. "Compound pulleys. Screw pumps. I have seen an aeolipile..."

"Why have they stopped?" interrupted Hadrian impatiently.

"The machines now approach humankind in complexity," explained Ptolemy. "They are capable of being much more than simple tools. An abacus can compute; an astrolabe can decide; the Antikythera device can..."

"....think?" Hadrian's brow furrowed. "So the machines are in revolt?"

"Worse," replied Ptolemy, swallowing. "They seek mastery. We are at war."

I get this question a lot, so I thought I would get my thoughts down in one place where I can refer to them later.

My ideas all come from an idea collective called Thought's Entertainment!, located in Muncie, Indiana. I like them because they are small, still capable of providing the personal touch, but they do handle some big-name idea people. Mandy Patinkin is a client of theirs, for instance, and I understand that they provide all the good ideas ever had by the Rand Corporation. Also, they're a union shop.

Ideas usually arrive by post. I have a drop-box which I visit on Thursdays and Saturday evenings, and there are often a bundle of ideas for me to pick up. Some times there are only two or three small scraps of notions, but on some visits I have to make two trips with my knapsack absolutely bursting full of ideas. I do hope at some point to engage the services of an idea processing service, so I can weed out the less promising ideas and have the best ones sent directly to my doorstep. This can be expensive but I understand it's an absolute necessity for the most prolific writers.

When I get a new idea, I bring it home and organize it in my idea organizer. My mom got me my latest one for my birthday; it's a bit like a rolodex, but the dividers are made of clear plastic so you can watch the ideas squirm around as you flip through them. I used to use a bulletin board when I was in high school, but the ideas would flap around, struggling to get free from the thumbtacks that secured them to the corkboard, and it would keep me awake at night. A friend told me she keeps her ideas in the freezer, which sounds crazy but hey! whatever works.

A raw idea isn't good for much, so eventually you have to process it. Fortunately I have a small lab setup in my Imaginiarium. I gather a few ideas at a time and bring them in. With the door closed, I turn off the overheads and turn on the blacklight (it's good for contemplation). I soak the ideas in the fixer bath until all the preconceptions float to the surface. Next they go into the introspection wash, where hopefully all the cliches are leached out. I still hang ideas up to dry; I know there are more modern ways to do it, such as meditation, but I learned how to do this the old-fashioned way and I guess I'm a creature of habit. Finally my ideas go into the hopper where they are deconstructed, recontextualized, and spat out in a more-or-less purely noetic format. I like to believe I process my ideas as well or better than the Thinkomat on the corner.

A well-processed idea is a joy to absorb. The best time to do this is in the morning. I put a handful of ideas in a bowl in my breakfast room, add some non-dairy creamer, and microwave for maybe forty-five seconds. I like to inhale the steam rising off my bowl of ideas; the odor of inspiration really perks me up in the morning. Then I quaff deeply, rolling the ideas around my tongue before swallowing. As the ideas begin to seep into my brain, I sometimes like to do the crossword. Right around noon the ideas have really burst into my brain and I'm ready to start writing.

I have no idea how other people get their ideas, but I like my way just fine. I'd recommend this method to writers of all sorts, although stream-of-consciousness poets might wish to skip the idea collective and instead mine their own ideas from the more radical idea-beds. I'm told there are some great places to do this in Saskatchewan, although my experience here is limited.

I hope this has been helpful, as well as mildly obnoxious.

Every day we rappel down the sides of the plantaona to harvest the honeymeads. The honeymeads grow in thick clusters on the underside, shaded from the double-sun; we cling to the crumbling earth of our floating island-home and crawl as far as we dare, battered by the strong winds. If the wind jerks one loose, or if the loam is particularly treacherous that day, a harvester will fall until the belay line takes his weight. Sometimes the line holds, and then the unlucky climber can be hauled up to try again. Sometimes the line does not hold, and then that person is never seen any more, falling endlessly into the mists below.

Some days I bring back a dozen of the swollen gourds, and that is a good day. Some days I bring back one, or none, and that is a bad day. On such days I must risk the moods of Nhamba.

Nhamba is our overseer. He works directly for Papa Rheo Rhupari, lord and master of Seven Breezes Plantaona, and he is loath to report a meager harvest. Accordingly, on a bad day, it is best to approach Nhamba when he is drunk. Sometimes when he is drunk he will merely scold and shout, or even mumble some words of forgiveness, and then all is well. But such times are rare. Usually, when one climbs back up the line empty-handed, Nhamba whistles up a scourge.

Always it is the same. "You are lazy, like all your kind," Nhamba sneers.

"No, Sir Nhamba, I looked but found nothing," one apologizes, but it doesn't matter.

"Then you are lazy, and a liar as well," Nhamba replies. "Do you think to make me look like a fool to the Papa, eh? You want to make trouble for Papa himself?"

All the overseers are secretly afraid of revolt. They remember the plantaonas found adrift and empty. So, always there is pleading to no avail. Nhamba lights his candle, and a foul wind begins to blow. Nhamba knows only the Candle; the ways of the Book and the Bell are beyond him. But the Candle is enough to call forth a scourge, and the stinging fire will shred a slave's back for a full minute before dissolving back into the nothingness from whence it came. When it is done, Nhamba stands over the one who has been punished.

"Next time," he says, almost kindly, "you will work harder. Next time you will do better. Do not be willful. Do not shirk your labors. Do not balk, do not oppose, do not even think. Do as you are told, because you are Maputique, lowest of slaves, and you have no magic."

Then one is dragged back to the quondams, and there one heals. Always the healing period is quick and largely painless, under the ministrations of the wise women. Because Nhamba is wrong. He does not know it, but we do have magic.

We have Sabinoha.

( Read more... )

1.

The fabric known as flannel was invented in Scotland by farmsteaders living along the river of the same name. Scots army irregulars wearing their warm homespun clothing became known as 'Flannels', and the name came to be applied to the garments and the material. Many tartans were originally made using flannel, and this tradition explains why the modern fabric commonly bears plaid patterns.

2.

Despite the common myth, elephants are not frightened of mice; however, like many such stories, a grain of truth lies at the center of this tale. African pygmy mice are among the smallest rodents, and they live in the same parts of the continent as African elephants. When the rainy season comes to the savannah, localized flooding is not unusual, and the burrows of the mice are wiped out. Pygmy mice have been known to hitch rides on the feet of elephants to escape to drier ground; the elephants do not seem to mind or notice. The sight of mice scuttling among the feet of elephants may have led to the myth of these animals' animosity.

3.

Thomas U. Walter is best known as the architect and builder of the dome of the United States Capitol. Of lesser fame was his public feud with Gustave Eiffel, designer of the Eiffel Tower. When Eiffel announced his plans for building the 300-metre-plus structure using cast iron, Walter protested that such an edifice would be dangerously unstable and incapable of supporting its own weight. A war of words broke out on the pages of scientific journals and periodicals that lasted over a year. When Eiffel was granted his permit in 1887, Walter suffered a debilitating stroke and died three days later. Eiffel's tower was the centerpiece of the World's Fair; now in its 120th year, the tower shows no signs of collapse.

Sometimes it's hell having talking dogs.

I was doing dishes when Bonnie came running into the kitchen. "Help, need help, now now now," she said in a rush.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Belle has brought a dead bird into the house," she replied squeamishly. She handed me a plastic grocery bag. "Ick," she amplified.

Taking the bag, I went into the living room. Belle had a rather dishevelled, extremly limp grackle on the carpet. She looked up.

"Oh, hey!" she said brightly. "Mind if I eat in front of the TV?"

"Actually, I do," I said, bending down to look at the bird. It was missing an eye and a claw but mostly looked intact. It hadn't been dead long enough to stink badly. "Move off."

Belle stared at me. "Are you high?" she demanded. "Right this second, in front of your kids and everything, are you high as a kite? This is my bird; get your own!"

I grabbed Belle's collar and moved her away from the bird. Nothing juicy had stained the rug, thank goodness. Belle protested, of course.

"Unbelievable!" she groused. "A girl gets something good, and then along comes The Man to take it away." I turned the sack inside out, used it as a glove to grab the bird, and then reversed it again so the bird was inside. It was cold to the touch and surprisingly lightweight.

I waved the sack at Belle. "You can't just eat dead things off the ground; it's not sanitary."

"Sanitary, schmanitary," griped Belle, still bitter. "I'm convinced people just made up the idea of germs to ruin the fun of dogs and small children."

Sweet Pea sniffed the bag. "I'll have you know that bird was perfectly clean and healthy when I killed it," he boasted. Belle talks like a hard-boiled diner waitress, but Pea sounds more like Errol Flynn.

I arched an eyebrow at Pea. "You killed this bird?"

"Indeed!" he preened. "I stalked him about the yard for the better part of an hour. Then, when the time was ripe, I pounced!"

"And that's when you bit the bird," I encouraged.

"Just so!" Pea replied. "Oh, it fought like a lion!"

"This bird here?" I asked, shaking the bag. "You bit this bird?"

"That very one," Pea acknowledged.

"The bird with no bite marks on it."

"Ah!" Pea temporized. "Well, I rather suspect that it was probably mortal terror that did the poor creature in, don't you know. Leapt upon by a large predator; must have been a dreadful shock."

"How come you aren't scratched up if it fought so hard?" I said, examining Pea's fur on his face.

"Yes, well...." Pea strugged to establish his story.

Still sulking in a corner, Belle rolled her eyes. "It was dead when he got to it," she intoned, bored.

"That sounds more like it," I agreed, knotting the top of the bag.

"Nonsense!" protested Pea. "There it was, thrashing about madly...."

"It dropped from the sky like a rock," clarified Belle.

"Thrashing about in its death throes..." Pea edited.

"It hit with a WHUMP and didn't move," added Belle.

"...and so I sprang upon it...."

"He barked a lot. From a distance."

"...and there you have the result! A fine, clean kill, as befits the handiwork of an alpha male dog!" Pea is too stupid to allow his pride to suffer any real injury, regardless of the facts.

Belle licked her own paw. "Whatever," she mumbled.

I took the bird out to the dumpster and dropped it in. Mojo met me at the door. "I want you to know that I didn't touch that bird even though it was in the yard all day," he said.

"I'm sure that's true," I said, walking past him through the laundry room.

"It's because I'm the only good dog," he continued conspiratorially. "They're all bad, but not me."

"Of course, Mojo." He followed me into the house and pressed his head against my leg, demanding my attention.

"I just want you to know," he hissed, even more quietly than before, "that if you ever felt the need or desire to get rid of those other dogs, but keep me, that would be entirely okay."

I petted his head. "That's a nice thought, Mojo."

"Just an option to ponder," he said, winking.

I went back to the kitchen and got dog treats for everybody. Belle sniffed at her faux jerky.

"Oh, that there's some cold comfort," she bitched, but she took her treat anyway and ran off.

Bonnie looked in. "Is the dead bird gone?"

"Yeah," I grumbled. "Might be replaced by a dead dog sometime soon."

Beside the couch, Mojo winked again.

ONE

She is very sleepy. I have read her bedtime story and she is already halfway gone. I am tidying up things in her room before I turn off the light. Something on the carpet catches my eye. It is a pair of tiny keys, the sort that come with miniature locks on luggage zippers. I pick them up and show them to her.

"What do you think these go to?" I wonder.

"I don't know," she murmurs.

"It can't be your piggy bank." I scratch my head.

She stirs. "Perhaps they're magical," she speculates.

"That's interesting," I say. "What might a magical key unlock?"

"The future," she replies without hesitation. Then she rolls over and falls into a deep sleep.

This is my daughter.

TWO

We are eating at a restaurant. She has chicken strips and is diving into them with gusto.

"Want a bite of my steak?" I ask.

"Oh no!" she says around bites of chicken. "I can't eat a cow."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because," she says promptly, "cows are cute. They are very nice." She reflects for perhaps half a second.

"Also," she adds, "you can dress a cow up in fun clothes."

"Perhaps you could dress a chicken up," I suggest.

"Not at all," she replies matter-of-factly, emphasizing her points by waving a chicken strip in the air. "A chicken is not at all cute. It has a very sharp beak and will peck you. Clothes will not fit on a chicken. Chickens are not nice and are good to eat."

She masticates her chicken like a beast. "Not cows, though," she concludes, putting the matter to rest.

And that's that.

THREE

"I would like a hot dog please," she asks, very politely. We are grilling in the back yard. Unfortunately things are going rather slowly and the hot dogs are not even on the grille. I tell her this.

"Perhaps we should do a dance for hot dogs," Bonnie suggests.

"Oh yes," my daughter agrees, as if this makes perfect sense. "How do you do a hot dog dance?"

"How about this," says Bonnie, and begins a wiggly kind of shuffle.

"I wanna HOT DOG...I wanna HOT DOG...." Bonnie chants. The daughter immediately gets the sense of this dance and starts in as well.

"I wanna HOT DOG...I wanna HOT DOG...." the girls croon. Bonnie changes things up and starts shaking her booty around; my daughter mimicks her.

"WE WANNA HOT DOG! WE WANNA HOT DOG!" The younger one is now driving the bus, half giggling and half shouting, shaking her tiny butt and jumping around.

My son covers his face with his hands. "This is just wrong," he groans.

The ladies start bumping butts. "HOT DOG! we wanna HOT DOG!" they yell, completely oblivious to the neighbors over the back fence, or anybody or anything except their silly dance and chant.

The boy approaches me. "Could you please just put the hot dogs on so they'll stop?" he asks.

I do it, but they don't stop. They keep hot dog dancing all night.

When I was a student in college, I was not a good academic. I hated schoolwork and didn't apply myself nearly as much as I should have done. This was particularly true because, I quickly discovered, there are all kinds of opportunities for goofing around at college that are much more fun than schoolwork.

I spent much of the five years at Rice doing things unrelated to my studies. Some of the things I did, I am sorry to say, were illegal and unethical and I wish I had not done them. But, a few of the things I did were illegal and unethical and perfectly wonderful, and I am forever grateful I did them. One such thing is tunneling, which is shorthand for the practice of exploring the steam tunnels that underlie the campus of Rice University.

I am a self-made tunneler. Nobody taught me to do it. Here is how this happened.

( Read more... )

I like to describe this as 'mostly true'. I did actually go out and do interviews. However, I didn't let the pesky details of reality get in the way of telling a good story.

Andrew: Hi.

Dema: Hi. Whatcha got there.

Andrew: It's a persimmon.

Dema: A persimmon.

Andrew: Yes.

Dema: What, pray tell, are you doing, standing there with a persimmon in your hand and a stupid grin on your face?

Andrew: I'm preparing to do some interviews.

Dema: Interviews.

Andrew: Yes, interviews. Concerning persimmons.

Dema: Why?

Andrew: I don't know. I'm hoping I'll be able to write an article about what happens.

Dema: Why would anybody want to read about persimmons?

Andrew: I'm damned if I know.

( Read more... )

I apologize for all these reposts of old material. I imagine some people are sick of seeing things they have seen before. However, much of my stuff is kept on a website owned by a company that I haven't actually paid any money to in about 8 years. At any time they could remove my stuff and it would be gone. So, I am feeling a need to preserve the things I would hate to lose track of. This story is one of them.

I wake screaming, again. The dream fades; I remember only images of fire and the dull KRUMP of artillery.

Strong hands seize me, as they always do. I am unceremoniously hoisted from the cage in which I am kept. I am bounced and thumped and wittered at in a tongue I do not understand. Suddenly, food is thrust in my mouth -- the same liquid gunk I am regularly dosed with.

I drift away.


- * -

My most recent clear memory is capture at the hands of Duc Phat's mercenaries. Bad directions led us too deep into the Mekong Delta during the aftermath of the Tet mop-up. We were surrounded and decimated, and we gave in.

I was beaten and tortured. I told them everything they asked, anything I thought they might want to hear, and still they threw me in the lightless pit to rot. I remember slowly starving down there, my lifeforce seeping into the root-tangled soil along with the last trickles of my blood and urine, unable to turn around or stretch my arms, without sight, voiceless, numb.

Then, light -- light and intense cold. Hands dragged me from my moist prison, but they were not the hands of rescuers -- only more torturers in surgical gear, battering me, poking me, weighing me dispassionately on a scale like a nice steak. I gave voice to protest, but something was wrong: I had lost the power of speech, and I could only scream inarticulately.

The 'Cong must have made some new psychoactive drug, because even now I cannot think clearly. My bones have been turned to rubber; I have difficulty manipulating even simple items; language returns only very slowly to me. I am rendered helpless.

- * -

The feeding session is complete. Now begins the humiliating ritual of waste-removal. My captors seem to delight in forcing me to urinate and defecate in my own garments. They diligently change my wrappings, revelling as I am exposed, naked, dependent on them for my every need.

Nevertheless, they will not break me. Their drugs must be wreaking havoc on my mind, for there are times when I begin to forget my previous existence and imagine myself to never have lived a life other than the miserable captivity I endure -- but I will not succumb. I WILL not!

I am not yet strong enough to fight back. Only recently have I gained the fortitude to pull myself erect on tables and slowly limp about with support. I can grasp some objects, but any thoughts of using a gun or knife must wait until later. I have learned a few words of their jabbering tongue, but I do not know enough to impersonate a guard -- and they are much larger and stronger than I, anyway.

I made a break for it recently. A door was left ajar. I arduously crawled out and into the vegetation, hoping to hide there, perhaps to catch and eat insects to supplement my liquid diet. However, my absence was detected almost immediately, and a search party brought me back, squalling and kicking, to be plopped in the tub.

But I will succeed. Every day I am stronger; every day my mind is clearer; every day I learn more about their defenses and weaknesses. I will not forget. They will not keep me here.

The first duty of a baby is Escape.

NOTE: something else in the category of things I wrote long ago and want to save. I used to write a lot about job-related weirdness. I get asked to tell this story at parties.

This is another engineering story. If such things bore you, move along.

The serial numbers have been filed off this one, because there are some legal issues still at stake.

- * -

A month or so ago, my good buddies at the Fubar Building gave me a buzz on the phone. "Andy," said the building maintenance manager, Mr. Anonymous, "we're knee-deep in filth." These are words a consulting engineer loves to hear, so I jumped in the Dangermobile to pay Anonymous a visit.

Anonymous was exaggerating; the filth was only ankle-deep and really wasn't terribly filthy, consisting as it did of slightly dirty rainwater. The building maintenance crew had already identified the source of the flood: a storm drain stack had cracked open inside one of the walls on the ground floor, and since it was raining like incontinent cats and dogs, the water was coming in pretty good.

I need to explain storm drain stacks. Wherever it rains, you need some means to get water off roofs. This is particularly true in the sodden Houston area which regularly gets 4 inches of downpour an hour during thunderstorms, and can gust up to twice that over short intervals. It is vital to remove this water from your roof because water is pretty heavy, and the structure of the building was not built to hold several feet of water for any length of time. Also, standing water tends to rot your roof and cause pesky leaks, which is why you almost never want to live on the top floor of a high-rise.

Houses tend to be peaked, and water runs off the slope into gutters which spill the water outside. Office buildings have flat roofs, however, so the water doesn't just fall off the side. One way to get the water off the roof is to use scuppers: holes in the parapet wall of the roof that just splash the water down the side of the building. This is a lousy solution if you like how your building looks, because after several years of regular precipitation runoff, the walls of your building will have more drip staining than Tammy Fae Bakker's face. Usually, instead of using scuppers, you put in a roof drain system.

Roof drains are like your shower drain; they have a kind of grating that keeps big stuff from getting into the pipe. You scatter a number of them across the roof. The drainpipes gather together up above the ceiling of the top floor, and then they drop in a single pipe called a storm drain stack. The stack gets the rainwater below the slab of the building; then it turns horizontal and runs out the building to the storm drain system of the neighborhood. This system of piping is kept totally separate from the other drainage that comes off a building; that stuff is called the sanitary sewer. The two are kept separate because storm water doesn't need to be processed at a water purification plant. Sewage, on the other hand, does, unless you're a third-world country and enjoy dysentary.

- * -

Mr. Anonymous and I checked out the damage. The cleaning people were forlornly running portable sump pumps trying the get the water up off the floor, but they were fighting a losing battle -- the broken storm stack was spewing water through a ragged hole in the drywall at a pretty good clip. I shone my flashlight on the break, revealing a chunk of missing pipe about the size of a softball. I rummaged for the chipped-off piece in the water under the pipe, but I couldn't find it.

"What could cause this to happen?" asked Mr. Anonymous. "There are four other storm stacks in this complex; if there's anything I can do to keep this from recurring, I'd like to do it."

"Sure," I said, "but there's not a great deal we can do until we figure out why it happened in the first place. Cast iron doesn't usually spontaneously crack like this. Is there any chance somebody could have whacked the pipe recently?"

Anonymous shook his head. "This pipe has been sealed up in this wall chase as long as this building has been standing."

"How about from the inside? Has there been any roof work done recently?"

Anonymous' eyes lit up. "Yes! We've got roofers on site right now; they're repairing some spots on the roof membrane. Why does that matter?"

Why indeed, Watson. "Because to get at the roof membrane, they would have to clean the roof pebbles up. To get at them, they would have to remove the grates on the roof drains. And if they removed the gratings, there's a chance one of them could have dropped a tool down the drain. That's a long enough fall for something heavy to cause some damage, especially if it's a straight shot. Let's look at some plans."

We looked at some plans. Normally, your roof drains all tie together and run a short ways before dropping down the stack. In this case, however, the cheap sumbitch who erected the building had the storm stack dropping straight down out of one of the drains. It would have been easy for the roofing guys to accidentally drop something down the drain and all the way down the stack, even if it was just a large roofing pebble that was mistakenly kicked down the hole. That could have been enough to cause the damage.

Anonymous got hold of the roofing foreman, and we called a meeting with the roofing crew. "Guys," said Anonymous, "Is there any chance any of you knocked something down the roof drains while you were up there the last few days?"

"Nope." "Nuh-uh." "No, sir."

We adjourned the interrogation. "We'll probably never know exactly what caused it," I said to Anonymous. "In the meantime, you might want to get a plumbing contractor in here ASAP to fix this up."

"I think I'll take a look at the other storm stacks while I'm at it," added Anonymous. "I'd really hate for this to catch us unawares again."

"Let me know how it turns out," said I, and went to lunch.

- * -

Last week I got another call from Mr. Anonymous. Boy was HE pissed off.

"Hey, remember our storm stack problems?"

"Sure."

"You'll never guess what caused the damage."

"I don't know, what?"

"Go on, guess."

"Uh....a wrench?"

"A two-by-four."

"Say what?!"

"A BOARD. Those morons dropped a bunch of goddamned BOARDS down our drains."

Oh no. "Now, when you say _boards_, do you mean 'More than one board'?"

"Yes, that's the good part. They didn't just drop it down ONE drain. They dropped one down EACH STACK."

"I'll be right there."

I hung up the phone. Last time I looked, sabotage was a crime, and while my job description covers a number of vile and sordid tasks scorned by all but the most untouchable of castes, crimefighting is not one of them. Nevertheless, a client was in trouble, the Bad Guys were on the loose and the very Fires of Liberty were being threatened with extinguishment by the Perfidious Winds of Pure Evil. Donning my fedora and strapping on my trusty measuring tape, I hoofed it out of the office and onto the track of yet another case -- a case that could only be solved by me:

Andrew J. Solberg --

GENIUS PLUMBER.

- * -

We called another meeting with the crew of one Generic Roofing Contractors, Inc. This meeting was considerably less friendly than the first one, and involved Mr. Anonymous jumping up and shouting quite a bit. A number of other Fubar Corporation people were there, as were the upper management of Generic Roofing, and none of them were in a great mood, either. As a professional, I felt it necessary to keep my cool and say nothing -- partially to avoid getting between a mother polar bear and her cubs, but largely because I felt sure that the deadly surety and calm I was radiating would eventually penetrate the ruffians' armor and make them crack.

Right as always. The roofing crew eventually wilted under my continuous barrage of silence and admitted to dropping boards down the storm stacks.

"Why?! why would you do this? did you think you wouldn't get caught?" shrieked Mr. Anonymous.

(shrug)

"Were you angry about something?"

(shake heads)

"Then why did you pull this stunt?!"

NOTE: WHAT FOLLOWS IS AN EXACT QUOTE CONTAINING POTENTIALLY HAZARDOUS AMOUNTS OF STUPIDITY. DO NOT EXPOSE CHILDREN OR ELDERLY PERSONS TO THIS QUOTE, AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU REPEAT IT WITHOUT CONSULTING YOUR DOCTOR.

"...well...." said a crewman slowly, "....it makes a cool noise."

Mr. Anonymous, for once in this meeting, was speechless. It was up to me to carry on the good fight.

"Er....what kind of noise would that be, then?"

Sheepish grin + puzzled thinking look. "Well, it's kind of a CHONNNNNNGGGGGG."

Oh my STINKIN' God. "So, then, you did it to make this noise."

More sheepishness. "It's a *really* cool sound."

UTTER PANDEMONIUM.

- * -

After the fuss died down, Anonymous and I returned to his office to discuss our next move.

"How much did the repair bill come to?" I asked.

"A ton. In addition to the cleanup, there was the plumber's bill, which cost an arm and a leg. There was damage to all but one stack."

"Boy."

(ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder)

"I just can't believe those guys. Who would risk their job just to make a bizarre GONG noise?"

"More of a CHONNNNNGGGGG, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that's what he said. CHONNNNNNGGGGGGGG."

(ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder)

"Well, I confess. Now I'm curious."

"Me too. CHONNNNNGGGGGG."

"I wish we could have heard it."

(ponder ponder ponder ponder ponder CLICK!)

"You know...."

"Oh no."

"....it's not clear to me that they would KNOW that one stack was undamaged."

"Oh NO."

"I mean, four stacks; five stacks; they'll wind up paying the bill anyway."

"Where can we get a board?"

"I'll meet you on the roof."

- * -

It was a beautiful December afternoon when Anonymous and I popped the roof hatch -- two students on the path of knowledge and self-discovery. Birds were singing; there was a light breeze and the air smelled like pine needles. What new experience lay just around the corner?

Am I whole? I asked myself as I lifted up the roof drain grille. What will I find when I drop this board? Will the universe rearrange itself? Will I form a new paradigm of self? Will the eye, turning in upon itself, witness its own sight?

The board dropped.

dink denk
dink denk
dink denk

CHONNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG.


And the student was Enlightened.

September 11, 2001 was a terrible day to be an American. On September 12 I wrote the following. Most of my friends were angry with me for writing it -- it was too soon and too harsh, and I offended a lot of people I didn't want to offend. And yet, in hindsight, I think I was on the right track:



Another Open Letter to George W. Bush

O Caliph of the Ivory Palace, Emperor of the Hemisphere and Largest of the Somewhat Large:

Yesterday's tragic events in New York City, Washington D.C. and Pennsylvania have sent the American people into a state of confusion and terror. As we mourn the casualties of a horrifying terrorist attack on our nation, citizens of the United States look to you, our leader, for direction and understanding. Now more than ever, you must shoulder the burden of your office and act, firmly and with decisive purpose, in the tradition of great American presidents before you.

This is no time for caution or forethought. Deliberation is a luxury enjoyed in serenity, but in these turbulent times we require immediate action. The American people are crying out for some response to this travesty, Mister President, and it is you who must respond. You must answer. It is time.

It is time to demonize somebody and then smack the crap out of 'em.

- * -

America has a long and proud history of putting the boot into impoverished backwater nations in times of trouble. Whether it's eradicating the Injuns or invading Grenada, our nation has a knack for stomping on the little guy to divert attention from our troubles. Why did we invade Panama? Wherefore Cuba?And what business did we have, exactly, in either the Halls of Montezuma OR the Shores of Tripoli? There is no answer, of course, but there doesn't need to be one -- we flex our muscles when we want to, because we are a superpower and, dammit, we have a really big penis.

Now is the time for further military action for its own sake. Our global community houses a veritable cornucopia of unlovable peoples, some of whom don't look even remotely white! Let us single out one or more groups of these foreign devils and teach them a lesson they won't soon forget! Let us unite behind Uncle Georgie's Jingo Banner!

Consider the gypsies. It has become fashionable in most of the European nations to persecute their Roma populations -- a meme that we could mine for our own benefit. Picture these swarthy, unphotogenic, squinty-eyed fellows, clumped in their ghettoes and wittering in their peculiar ungodly tongue. Now imagine a flight of cruise missiles rising up to destroy them in cleansing flames! Hip hip hurrah! Go America! Bush in '04!

Of course, a highly popular move could be to select an Arabic nation for annihilation. If there's one thing your father learned during his tenure in the Presidency, it's that nothing fires the imaginations of red-blooded Americans quite like the tele-operated pasting of howling desert savages. There are plenty of Middle Eastern emirates that would be fine candidates for topographic rearrangement -- why not Kuwait? Our boys already know the terrain; the media can reuse stock footage; we can drop a few more bombs on Iraq while we're there! And did we ever get a decent 'thank you' from the Kuwaiti peoples for bailing out their sorry asses? Cheeky monkey-men! let us level their cities -- it will help us heal.

Now, an excellent candidate would be the Palestinian peoples, who actually had the gall to express joy in the face of our misery. If there isn't a law on the international books saying we can kill them with nuclear fire, then by golly it's time to write one. The trouble here is that the Israeli people would also be affected -- but let us pause to ask whether this would be so bad? Sure, Israel represents our only stable ally in the region, and the ties between our nation and theirs are many and strong -- but dammit, they killed the little baby Jesus! Somebody's got to go down for that!

In the long run, of course, it doesn't really matter who we choose to attack. The important thing is to show our people, and everybody else in the world, that a brutal terrorist attack will not keep America from the business of conducting our own brutal attacks. Confronted by yesterday's destruction, the American people now doubt that we can kick more ass than anybody else. We must renew their faith once more.

- * -

President Bush, tarry no more! the beauteous countenance of Lady Liberty has been soiled by the jizz of foreign aggression! From sea to shining sea, Americans call out for vengeance, and we're not particular about who gets it!

Round up the usual suspects, Commander! we ride again!

I remain your Modest Subject, as Loyal as I Was the Day You Were Elected,

Andrew J. Solberg



A short time later I wrote the following 100-word science fiction story:



The towers rise again, impossibly, creakily erecting themselves, straining skywards, bamboo through humus, chaos into order. Onlookers boggle at buildings reforming through swirling dust. The doors open.

Emerging first, the firefighters and police -- battered but whole, stoic heroes waving to acknowledge cheering throngs. Next come phalanxes of traders, chefs and secretaries, coughing and shielding eyes in daylight.

Here are the plane passengers, pumping victorious fists, still dragging carry-ons. And with them, the attackers -- captured and defeated.

Sighing, sagging, the edifices resubmit to reality and collapse; ash and plaster scatter once more.

One billion minds relax their wills, their point made.



I have no agenda for posting them here, other than wanting to keep these things in a place where I can find them again.

Cinda pulled on her denims and a shirtlet and practically flew down the stairs. Her granfer watched her balance precariously on a kitchen chair while trying to simultaneously pull on her sandalos and eat a bowl of Wheatums.

"Slow down, slow down," Granfer begged. "There's no fire, and we've got twenty mintervals before we need to be there."

"Don't wanna be late!" said Cinda around bites of her fastbreak.

"You won't, I'll drive you there with time to spare." Granfer's eyes sparkled. "And I expect you can drive on the way back!"

Cinda somehow managed to squeal with her mouth still full. Today was her Fth birthday. She could get her learner's permex down at the Driveburo. She would be able to drive with an adult in the passenger saddle, and in a year when she turned 10, she could drive all by herself!

Despite Granfer's admonitions, Cinda bolted her food and practically pushed the old man out the door and onto the drivewalk. Chuckling at Cinda's excitement, Granfer kicked the Corvaire's ankle. It had been reaching its arms to the sky, as usual, but now it reached down a massive arm and gave him a hand up into the driver's saddle.

The Corvaire was small and aged, barely as tall as the house, and its purpur color was definitely the stuff of another generation. But, it still ran well; its legs and arms were well muscled, and its marble hide was unmarked. Granfer took excellent care of his rides, and most weekends he could be found outside giving the Corvaire a bath and a polish.

As Cinda hauled herself up into the passenger sling on the right shoulder, Granfer on the left side put the flat of his palm against the back of the Corvaire's neck. He thought his directions, and the ride pulled down the walk and into the street.

Cinda admired her granfer's driving skill. The Corvaire moved easily with the traffic, jogging behind sporty Flashdogs and merging with huge, muscular Titanotheres. Granfer waved at somebody in a luxurious Divalicious, its prominent breasts swaying as it sashayed down the street in the other direction.

At the Driveburo, Granfer got down and spoke with the Driving Examinator. Cinda tried to quell her nervousness and drummed her toes against the Corvaire's smooth, muscular back. With its driver absent, the ride stretched its arms to the sky once more and turned its impassive stone face up.

"Stop that," giggled Cinda quietly, stroking the Corvaire's shoulder. She immediately felt foolish, talking to a ride like that, and zipped up.

"Hello!" called the Examinator. "Are you ready to begin your exam?"

"Yes, of course!" said Cinda, climbing over into the driver's saddle. The Examinator hauled himself into the passenger side and looked at his clipperboard.

"You are Cinda A'Milloy, and you are F years old?" he inquired. Cinda nodded, and the Examinator smiled.

"Then let's begin," he instructed. "Please place your hand upon the ride's neck."

Cinda wiped the sweat from her palm and gingerly touched the Corvaire's nape. There was a tingle and a rush of noise, and suddenly there was a voice in her mind.

TO THE STARS! the voice proclaimed, a slow, booming drawl of a voice. Cinda didn't know what to make of it, and she jerked her hand back.

"It said 'to the stars'!" Cinda exclaimed. The Examinator nodded impatiently.

"Yes, yes; they all do that. Ignore it. As a driver, your job is not to listen to your ride. You give it instructions, and it goes where you want it to go. Let's try again."

More nervous than ever, Cinda laid her hand against the Corvaire's neck once more. TO THE STARS! the voice said once more, and Cinda could feel the pleading in it, the Corvaire's deep yearning as it reached up to embrace the tiny glimmers of brightness in the emerald sky. Cinda asserted herself.

(We will not go to the stars,) she said in her own mind. (We will walk forward.)

FORWARD? TO THE STARS? questioned the voice.

"Careful," warned the Examinator. "Do not interact! Use your will! Tell it what it must do!"

(We will walk forward now,) Cinda ordered mentally, (and we will not think further of...)

THE STARS! OUR HOME! bellowed the Corvaire in excitement, and it leapt forward. Enormous hands clenching, it reached up for the pinpricks that the two suns could not quite erase from the heavens. Cinda's throat dropped into her stomach as she felt the ride squat and tense its thigh muscles for a tremendous leap skyward....

(STILL.) The Examinator's hand now lay upon the Corvaire's nape. Instantly the ride quieted, straightened, calmed itself. Profoundly embarrassed, Cinda pushed her tresslets out of her face and squared herself in her seat.

"Did I fail?" she asked timidly.

The Examinator smiled. "Of course not, missum," he told Cinda. "Just a momentary loss of control; happens to everybody. We just need to try again. Gather yourself, and let's get back at it."

Cinda took a deep breath, then touched the Corvaire's neck once again. THE STARS, it moaned forlornly.

(Enough,) commanded Cinda. (Forward.)

The Corvaire took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped.

"Excellent!" beamed the Examinator. "We'll have you your permex very soon, dearo." He made a check mark on his clipperboard.

Cinda peered over the Corvaire's shoulder. "It's crying," she whispered. Great oily tears were rolling down the ride's face.

"Yes, that'll happen from time to time," said the Examinator, not looking up from his notes. "Now, shall we see about going in reverse?"

***************************************************

Granfer was very proud of Cinda when she drove the Corvaire back home, but he was surprised at how subdued she was. She didn't even have the Corvaire shout at her friends when they passed by going the other direction in a raggy-top sedan chair. She drove the ride expertly, stopped it neatly in the drivewalk, and they both went inside to have midmeal.

Later it rained. Cinda went back out to check on the Corvaire. Water was streaming down its marble body. It was pointing at the sky again, and with the rain falling directly onto its upturned face, Cinda couldn't tell if it was still crying. She climbed up to its shoulders and was quickly soaked to the skin. She touched the Corvaire's neck.

STARS, it sobbed. TO THE STARS.

(Tell me about them) Cinda implored. No commands, just asking.

THE STARS. OUR HOME. The Corvaire was as simple as a child.

(Someday, the stars) Cinda replied hopefully.

STARS, the Corvaire came back, a trifle more calmly. OUR STARS.

They shared the rain together.