PsychicGoldfish Telepathic Transmissions

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

Oblivio: n

Huh. Synchronicity, or perhaps just coincidence. Michael Barish over at Oblivio seems to have the same kinds of writing problems. Or at least fears a time when he might. Odd.

Posted at 9:10 AM

Monday, November 25, 2002

Eh, I think I'm going to give up on the post-a-day goal. All it's doing is adding to my guilt load. Instead, I'm just going to lower my standards, and not try to wait until I have a masterpiece in my head before I post.

Fear that concept. Previously, I was waiting for masterpieces before I posted. And now we're going to get the really mediocre stuff!

Posted at 9:30 AM

There has been an odd re-occurring theme in my dreams lately. And I find it's utter mundanity disappointing. Let me give you a typical example, from a couple nights ago.

I'm looking around in a shop on a busy street. It must be a comics and games store. There are large metal rotating racks scattered about at random. I've never been in this store before, but it has familiar elements from other places. It has large, rough wood exposed joists. But it's in a strip center. Kind of an odd mix, that. There's a large window in the front of the store. Or perhaps it's a glassed-in porch. I don't approve of this feature in a comics store, at least in this arrangement, because the sunlight would fade the covers. (Now that I write this down, I want to just grab my dream self, shake him, and tell him to lighten up.)

I pick up a large book at random and thumb through it. As I do so, one of the sales clerks comes up and asks me if I need any help. She's not a classic beauty, but she's kind of pretty. She's on the short side, and has long black hair streaked with other colors. (Could be blue, red, green, or incandescent white. Something clearly not found in nature.) She seems about my age, perhaps a bit younger. She's clearly too old to punk up her hair like that. I get a sense of irony about her, though, like this is the work uniform she's created for herself. We strike up a conversation. She smiles frequently. It's a sort of self-mocking, ironic half-smile that occasionally flares into brilliance when she laughs. I find her quite attractive.

I think we talk for quite a while, but there is no specific content. It's a quick montage of clips, designed to establish that we're hitting it off. (Many cheesy TV tricks appear in my dreams. This is to be expected, considering the number of hours I spend in front of the tube every week.) Finally, she says she should get back to work. She invites me to a get-together with some of her friends at a local restaurant, after she gets off work.

Jump scene. I'm driving down an indeterminate street. Nothing I recognize, but it has elements of several different roads I know. It's a somewhat run-down commercial area, with an abundance of convenience stores, tire shops, mechanics, strip centers, and the like. It's all painfully bright in the afternoon sun. Somehow, I've gotten roped into driving several people to this shindig. I don't think the petite salesclerk is even in the car. The passengers are loud, and the guy sitting next to me is utterly incapable of giving directions.

I assume we somehow found the restaurant, because I find myself sitting alone in the lobby. There's a boisterous group yucking it up in an adjacent room. It's a glassed-in porch area with concrete floors. (Probably it's the same location as the comics shop, with different set dressing. Low budget dream, I guess.) I think this is a reference to a previous real life experience, back in college. A girl I found to be mildly attractive cozied up to me in order to get me to drive her and a bunch of her friends to the House of Pies one night. I ended up driving a bunch of people I barely knew (not including her), then sitting with two guys I didn't know at an overflow table while she completely ignored me. No resentment there. Come to think of it, I think I was driving the same old '79 Buick in the dream.

So, I've come to the conclusion that a girl has taken advantage of me, again. I am depressingly accepting of this fact. I consider just leaving, and letting the jerks find their own ways home. (I was going to drive them all home, too? I am a ninny.) Then, the little punk-haired salesclerk, my little red-headed girl of the moment, appears in the doorway. She comes over and sits next to me. She smiles gently, and comments that I'm not getting much out of this little party. I shrug. She asks me for my phone number. She says she'll make it up to me. (Oh, get your mind out of the gutter.)

I whip out my notepad, and start to write down my name and phone number. But, frustratingly, I can't seem to write. Oh, I can make marks on the paper, but I cannot make them form letters. I try to write a capital "N," but it comes out with way too many points, like some kind of bizare Siamese twin of an "N" and a "W." I scribble it out, and try again, with even less success. By this time, the little salesclerk has disappeared. I keep trying to write my name, but the pen feels awkward in my hand, and nothing will come out right. I soon end up crudely grasping it in my fist, like a 5-year-old with a crayon, but cannot even come up with a remotely recognizable scrawl. Several sheets of note paper are strewn about when the woman returns. She smiles and asks me what in the world I'm writing. I frantically try one last time, but the page is just covered with dense black phone doodles.

Then, just before I'm forced to admit that I can't remember how to write, I wake up. As soon as I can disentangle myself from my sheets, I go and put a few extra business cards in my wallet. Those have my phone number on them already. Very suave. That problem solved, at least. When I went back to bed, it was with a ridiculous sense of accomplishment.

This theme has recurred off-and-on for the last several weeks. Someone makes a complete chump out of me. Then, just as I am resigning myself to having once again played the fool, that person (usually a woman) shows up to make amends. Somehow, those amends involve trying to communicate with pen and paper. And, no matter how hard I try, I can't do it.

And it just seems so banal and silly. I can't write. Oooh. This must mean something. I think I'll just go with the "random firing of neurons" explanation on this one. Couldn't I get the flying dream every once in a while? At least that's interesting.

Posted at 1:31 PM

Thursday, November 21, 2002

Interrupted Conversation:

One woman to another in a parking garage:
Come quick! The kiln blew up in the erotic pottery class, and there are red-hot ceramic penises everywhere!

I have absolutely no idea what this was all about. I couldn't very well ask two strangers, "Wait... What was that about red-hot ceramic penises?" But this had me laughing so hard I couldn't drive for ten minutes.

Posted at 11:41 PM

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

Lame particle physics joke #1:

A neutron walks into a bar.

"I'd like a beer" he says. The bartender promptly serves up a beer.

"How much will that be?" asks the neutron.

"For you?" replies the bartender, "no charge."

Lame particle physics joke #2:

Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar.

One says, "I think I've lost an electron"

The other says "Are you sure?"

The first says, "Yeah, I'm positive."

Posted at 11:27 AM

Monday, November 18, 2002

Has anyone else noticed that Mona Lisa has no eyebrows? Maybe this is common knowledge, but it was a new one on me. Apparently, Mrs. Gherardini, like many women of the time, shaved her eyebrows off.

Oh, I'm not that observant, by the way. I wouldn't have noticed this in a million years. I read it under the cap of my Mango Madness Snapple this morning. "Real Fact #85: The Mona Lisa has no eyebrows."

See? The day wasn't a total loss. You learned something!

Posted at 12:18 PM

Sunday, November 17, 2002

Here's a very old joke. I don't think I've ever seen it by e-mail or online anywhere. It was actually told to me. Verbally. In person. A truly shocking thing in the Information Age, I know. For those of you who don't live in Texas, "Aggies" are students or alumni of Texas A&M University. If you're from another state, feel free to substitute the rival school of your choice.

A few years ago, a hurricane blew in from the Gulf of Mexico, and made an absolute mess of Galveston. In particular, a number of telephone and power poles were blown down in the storm, plunging large sections of Galveston into darkness. The chief of Galveston Light & Power was at a loss. "Planting" telephone poles is not a particularly difficult job, but it does require a full crew to manage. And the regular crews were fully occupied, dealing with more serious problems.

Then, the chief had an idea. He'd call for students from the electrical engineering departments of local universities to help out. It'd give him the extra manpower he needed, and give them valuable field experience.

So, the next day, he called the electrical engineering departments of the University of Texas, the University of Houston, and Texas A&M. The professors agreed that this would be a terrific educational opportunity, and selected half a dozen students each to send out to Galveston. After a crash course in pole planting operations, each of the teams was sent out with a supply of telephone poles and a truck, and told to place as many poles as possible before the end of the day.

Come five o'clock, the three teams reported. The first team to arrive was the U of H crew. They walked into the chief's office, looking exhausted but proud.

"Chief," said the head of the team. "We had a great day! We planted 17 telephone poles!"

"17? Hey, that's great!" said the chief. "That's almost as good as our regular crews."

Then the UT crew arrived, covered in mud but smiling broadly. "Hey, chief! We installed 23 telephone poles today!"

"21! Wow! That's better than our own crews could manage most days. That's great!"

Finally, the Aggies arrived, looking absolutely haggard, but triumphant. "Good news, chief!" said one of the Aggies. "It was tough, but we planted 3 telephone poles today!"

The chief just sat there at his desk, stunned. "3? You planted 3 telephone poles?!? But the U of H team did 17. And the UT crew did 23! What happened?"

"Well, sure!" said the Aggie. "But they left all theirs sticking out of the ground!"

Posted at 4:21 PM

Saturday, November 16, 2002

I was shuffling through some old e-mails and ran across this snippet from a screenplay I wrote earlier this year. See, Jaimie Pickle writes a column simply called the "weekly e-mail." It's not about anything in particular, just whatever she feels like talking about at the moment.

She also runs an international spy ring in her spare time. Jaimie's Spy Club is an organization dedicated to fighting evil wherever it rears it's ugly head. Or something like that. Actually, if you send her a bribe, she'll make you a member. She'll give you a nifty secret spy name and announce it in the weeklies. It always reminded me of those old TV shows, where you send in three Post Toasties box tops, and they send you a membership card and secret decoder ring. Okay, Jaimie doesn't send you anything. But you get a cool spy name, and a job in the Spy Club.

Late last year, I decided I absolutely must become a member of Jaimie's Spy Club. So I sent her bribes in the form of a big envelope full of junk: 20 whirling flyers (plastic propeller flying toys), two glitter "exotic princess" stickers (an inside joke), and a can of armadillo meat (sun dried and road tenderized). In trade for these priceless artifacts (which were purchased under the influence of a considerable number of cold remedies during the Christmas rush), she granted me my Spy Club name. From that day forward, I would be known as Cowboy Zydeco, he who drives the tank! And with all due respect to Meltdown Maggie, Professor Zim, Mr. Beard, and the rest, I definitely have the coolest Spy Name. I now use it as my pseudonym on the derfleeganforum, as well as a couple of other places. If you ever see a CowboyZ around anywhere, chances are it will be me. I feel safe in revealing this top secret information in this forum, since I have every confidence that my loyal readers (both of them) can keep their yaps shut.

But, back to the screenplay. I was so thrilled and inspired (and possibly still under the influence of cold medication- it was a bad one) by my new nom de guerre that I felt a new character must be created for the role. A dashing figure to fit the dashing name. And, I was really bored. Slowly, an idea began to form. Jaimie's Spy Club ought to be a TV show!

I envisioned a mix of Charlie's Angels and Mission Impossible, with a dash of light comedy and bloodless action, ala The A-Team. Every episode would start with a scene highlighting a few of the characters in action, doing what they do best. Then the credits would roll, and the real plot (which may or may not have anything to do with the teaser segment) would begin. It'd be great! And even better, it would keep me occupied for a couple of hours!

Eventually, I sent a copy of the screenplay to Miz Pickle, for her own amusement. It was sent in two parts, seen here for the first time in a public forum (and possibly last time, since the Spy Club webpage appears to have died a'borning). The first part, I think, was cute. Would have made a decent scene from some new Knight Rider-esque show, or perhaps a live-action GI Joe. The second part was awful. I hesitate to show it here, but, heck with it. Worse, though, I think the last few paragraphs kind of creeped Jaimie out.

Jaimie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry I was creepy. It was unintentional.

Posted at 10:03 AM

Friday, November 15, 2002

Well, now that I've made the commitment to keeping up with my 'blogging (something I decided to do days before I made yesterday's public announcement), I find myself with nothing to say. That's typical.

Those of you who know me will know that I am a packrat. I don't throw anything away, no matter how useless or broken. I also have the bad habit of picking up random junk off the ground and carrying it home with me. A washer, a metal slug, a random nut or bolt, a discarded toy... It doesn't matter. I used to dump it all in a desk drawer, or a big box in the back of the closet. The important thing seemed to be that I couldn't find any of it again once I stowed it away. If it was guaranteed to be useless, I could just relax into it and just notice.

Then, when I moved, I decided to get organized. I bought a couple dozen plastic bins to put it all in, so I would have some hope of finding it all again. They are of reasonable size, and clear, so I have some chance of finding what I need quickly and relatively easily. I even bought a few extras, so I could always keep one on my dresser for new finds.

For a while, it was great! If I got a wild hare about some project, I'd simply shuffle through the bins, and find just the right obscure part or widget. Usually, it'll be something I picked up years ago, with no particular use in mind. Need a clothes hook in the closet? Hey! Here's a hook from my locker back in high school. Need some tiny parts for roleplaying miniatures? Look! There's all sorts of things here. Need a small rotating lense holder? Hey, where'd I get those threaded heat sinks? Just bored and feeling destructive? Woo-hoo! I've got a six-inch tall stack of old CD-ROMs I can pop in the microwave. And so on.

But, then, I noticed something. Once I started actually having a use for these things, I stopped noticing them in the field. The bin I kept on the dresser went empty for weeks at a time, and eventually was used for holding spare change. I used to have a knack for seeing these things. I never looked for them. They'd just jump out at me. Five people could walk by the same spot, but only I would see the big fender washer sitting on the curb, or the quarter in the coin slot. (The latter used to drive my brother nuts. As a kid, I would supplement my allowance by finding loose coins and the occasional dollar bill on the ground. He seldom found anything.) Not so, once I started organizing and using my finds.

Once I starting looking with a deliberate eye for using them someday, the knack went away. I never fully understood that. Perhaps I was editting myself on some level. "Nah, you'll never need that!" Or maybe I just became self-conscious about it. Before, it was a natural thing to just bend over, snag something off the ground, drop it in my pocket, and move on. But, somehow, even though it entailed the same actions, it somehow became a big production. I can't really pin it down, but it was true nonetheless. It was a couple of years before I started just naturally noticing things again. I still don't do it as well as I once did. But, slowly, it's coming back.

I'm sure you, gentle reader, are asking yourself what this has to do with writing a 'blog. See, it all has to do with the difference between simply finding something and looking for something. I have the same relationship with ideas as I do with more tangible junk. I'll be walking along, and see or hear something that would spark an idea. I'll bend over, pick it up, blow off the dust, and drop it in the back of my mind. Usually, it'll be lost. Sometimes, something would shake out of the great disorganized pile of forgotten ideas, and roll back to the front of my mind. Then, I'll write it down somewhere, or do something with it. But, now that I've decided I'm going to go ahead and use these dubious gems as I find them, the knack seems to have gone away.

It's not that I forget these ideas. Sure, like anyone, I occasionally have a thought and lose it before I can commit it paper or computer. But, I carry a notepad with me now, for just such emergencies. And a Palm PDA. And a cellular phone with a preset for my answering machine at home. And I'm seldom so far from a computer that I can't dash off a quick e-mail to myself. I've got as many pockets as I'd ever need to carry this junk home with me. But, sadly, I'm seeing nothing now that I've decided to start deliberately looking. I know it's just a temporary thing. The knack will come back, more or less, once I get used to the awkwardness of it all.

But right now, frankly, it's just pissing me off.

Posted at 1:45 PM

Thursday, November 14, 2002

Here's the deal, oh gentle reader:

I've come to a momentous decision regarding the direction of this weblog. It would be best if I could put something insightful or informative in this forum every day. But, clearly, that isn't going to happen. I've got a limited supply of informative, and while I'm happy to spew what I can manage onto the Web, it won't cover the long weeks of nothing. And I don't think I have any insightful sitting around waiting to be insighted, at the moment.

So, instead, I've decided to try to put something on here nearly every day. It won't be quality work. And it won't be every day. We all know better, and that kind of promise is the root of almost all of the failed 'blogs out there. But it'll be a lot more often. Clearly, anything is better than nothing. At least, that's the theory. Everyone has seen counter examples on this here Interweb(tm), but hopefully it won't be that bad.

Posted at 10:46 AM

Interrupted Conversation

Tall man with curly red hair to small Asian-American woman, in an elevator:
Don't think I'm one of those people who say "If you think it's gonna rain, it's gonna rain." If your thoughts could change atmospheric pressure or whatever, I wouldn't want to piss you off!

Posted at 10:57 AM

Monday, November 11, 2002

Tim, a friend of mine, said something to me that I thought was both strange and profound: It is absolute proof of man's insanity that he deliberately stays up late in order to put off waking up in the morning. (Or something to that effect.) For most of us, the weekday starts at the same time every day. And 7:00am (or whenever) arrives at about the same time each day, no matter what we do about it. Your head hits the pillow and, barring the occasional 3:00am bathroom run or bout of insomnia, your perception shuts down until a clock somewhere (be it internal programming or external hardware) reminds you to pay attention again. Some day, said Tim, aliens will come down and be utterly bewildered humanity's relationship with time. And, at the same time, they will conclude that this explains so much.

This isn't the first time time I've heard that sentiment expressed. Once, when I was young, I heard my father say that he hated to go to sleep, because he'd just have to get up again. As I remember, he was having a particularly hard time at work, and came home each day exhausted. And yet, he stayed up in order to rack up a few more perceivable moments of not being at work, instead of taking the rest he so obviously needed. That always stuck with me, because it was one of the saddest things I ever heard. That, and it struck me as a harbinger of things to come. And there are entirely too many days, now, where I can relate.

When I was very young, and still believed in Santa Claus (or at least let myself buy into the story), my folks would try to use this kind of perverse logic to get me into bed on Christmas Eve. "The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner you'll get to open presents!" Well, they never said it exactly like that. But that was the general gist. That's the last time I can remember ever deliberately going to sleep in order to bring on something good faster (in my perceived chain of events). I certainly don't go to sleep earlier just to make a pleasant experience happen sooner. Not now that I'm an adult, and don't look forward to anything with the unmixed delight of a five year old.

Really, the only time I ever go to sleep without some part of me saying "Aw, come ooon! Can't I stay up just five more minutes? Pleeeease?" is when I'm simultaneously bored and ambivalent about the coming day. Then, a nice eight or nine hour dose of oblivion is welcome.

I don't really know where I'm going with this rambling diatribe. Were I more of an optimist, I'd make some kind of statement about the value of tomorrow and the potential that comes with it. Were I of a more profound bent, I'd make some kind of commentary about the ramifications of this little universality of the human condition.

But, right now, I'm just tired. Guess why.

Posted at 4:22 PM

Thursday, November 07, 2002

That's right, ladies! It finally happened. And I'm going to hold you to your word. I'll pick you up at eight.

Posted at 3:46 PM

Question? Comments? Complaints? Indecent Proposals? Death Threats?

Drop me a line now!