Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Freedom Fries feuilleton (112)
Previously: George W. Bush worries about his legacy. Samuel Fisher, the media tycoon, worries about LYNX, his TV network. Pamela N. Timbers, dean of Berkeley law school and a former colleague of Barack Obama at Chicago law school, worries about John Yoo, the author of the torture memos. Also involved is George Lukacs, the famous hedge fund personality, another old friend of Pamela. There are rumors that Bush could be abducted to Spain to face trial for crimes against humanity. In Yoo's case, it's more than a rumor. As we speak, we are in Fisher's office, were things are not going too well.
And now Vladimir is calling.
“An invitation to a fundraiser. 100 kay a plate. We said we would raise it to 200 kay, if only the man could make it. He refused to take the call.” This is not exactly the moment, Claude is thinking.
-“You are at your wit’s end,” he says, more speaking to himself. Baltimore doesn’t expect this, but Fisher, his telepathic forces still intact, understands exactly what is going on, and he is now showing his mettle. “Unicorn,” he says, “Unicorn. Tell Bush we’ll organize an official gala to replace the Republican elephant by a unicorn. And tell him we’re auctioning off a Rothko on the occasion to keep the glaciers alive. And we need him as the marquee auctioneer. No speeches. Tell him it’s Nancy’s idea. He can’t say ‘no’ to Nancy Reagan, especially if he feels like it.”
-“The twist of your unicorns, isn’t that taking this a bit too far,” Baltimore asks, who is also telepathic, or who can hear Fisher through Claude’s Iphone.
-“Well, it's practically a joke. He’s a frat boy, he understands. He knows about glaciers, and unicorns, he’ll ask Laura about Rothko. The couple may have grown apart recently, but now they reconnect, Laura explaining what a Rothko is. Nancy, glaciers, unicorns, a fundraiser thrown into the deal, it covers the entire rainbow, regardless how far he has drifted. It’ll work.”
***
The wooden floor squeaks as Jim is pacing up and down across the main room of the cabin. Some old planks survived the haphazard renovation, they are darker (and noisier) than the new ones. A circle sketched on the ground in sticky red, a few inches across, marks the nail that ended Zack’s ambitions as to home-improvement and all that. How would professionals do this, Jim thinks, would they mark their defeats with lipstick? A bulbous noise booms through the bolted door. Yoo is shuffling around. ‘Who guards the guardians,’ Jim is trying to think up the wording of the original quote in Latin. He could ask Yoo, who would probably know — not a pleasant thought. Jim is chained to Yoo next door because Yoo is chained to an iron ball. They are together in this as a two man chain gang that would be funny otherwise, if only Yoo wouldn’t rise on the hour to take a leak. Yoo must hear him hearing the sprinkling noise of a feeble urine jet splashing down the pit. Conspiratorial discussions as to proper intra-cabin sanitation had ended in nothing, thwarted by the solid granite underneath the cabin and Pamela’s insightful remark that Yoo’s shit wouldn’t smell. Jim feels briefly elated by the thought that his own defecation takes place in the ancient outhouse of Nachtrieb heritage beyond the perimeter of smells and sounds 40 feet away from the cabin, but is brought back to reality by yet another one of Yoo’s performances. Yoo needs breakfast, Jim thinks, he must be completely empty by now. Jim gets hold of the ancient food tray and assembles a pack of milk, a plastic cup, and a piece of soggy bread, cruelly purchased at the worst and only bakery of Tuolumne City.
Stay tuned for the next installment on Friday, or read the entire story published so far here.
And now Vladimir is calling.
“An invitation to a fundraiser. 100 kay a plate. We said we would raise it to 200 kay, if only the man could make it. He refused to take the call.” This is not exactly the moment, Claude is thinking.
-“You are at your wit’s end,” he says, more speaking to himself. Baltimore doesn’t expect this, but Fisher, his telepathic forces still intact, understands exactly what is going on, and he is now showing his mettle. “Unicorn,” he says, “Unicorn. Tell Bush we’ll organize an official gala to replace the Republican elephant by a unicorn. And tell him we’re auctioning off a Rothko on the occasion to keep the glaciers alive. And we need him as the marquee auctioneer. No speeches. Tell him it’s Nancy’s idea. He can’t say ‘no’ to Nancy Reagan, especially if he feels like it.”
-“The twist of your unicorns, isn’t that taking this a bit too far,” Baltimore asks, who is also telepathic, or who can hear Fisher through Claude’s Iphone.
-“Well, it's practically a joke. He’s a frat boy, he understands. He knows about glaciers, and unicorns, he’ll ask Laura about Rothko. The couple may have grown apart recently, but now they reconnect, Laura explaining what a Rothko is. Nancy, glaciers, unicorns, a fundraiser thrown into the deal, it covers the entire rainbow, regardless how far he has drifted. It’ll work.”
***
The wooden floor squeaks as Jim is pacing up and down across the main room of the cabin. Some old planks survived the haphazard renovation, they are darker (and noisier) than the new ones. A circle sketched on the ground in sticky red, a few inches across, marks the nail that ended Zack’s ambitions as to home-improvement and all that. How would professionals do this, Jim thinks, would they mark their defeats with lipstick? A bulbous noise booms through the bolted door. Yoo is shuffling around. ‘Who guards the guardians,’ Jim is trying to think up the wording of the original quote in Latin. He could ask Yoo, who would probably know — not a pleasant thought. Jim is chained to Yoo next door because Yoo is chained to an iron ball. They are together in this as a two man chain gang that would be funny otherwise, if only Yoo wouldn’t rise on the hour to take a leak. Yoo must hear him hearing the sprinkling noise of a feeble urine jet splashing down the pit. Conspiratorial discussions as to proper intra-cabin sanitation had ended in nothing, thwarted by the solid granite underneath the cabin and Pamela’s insightful remark that Yoo’s shit wouldn’t smell. Jim feels briefly elated by the thought that his own defecation takes place in the ancient outhouse of Nachtrieb heritage beyond the perimeter of smells and sounds 40 feet away from the cabin, but is brought back to reality by yet another one of Yoo’s performances. Yoo needs breakfast, Jim thinks, he must be completely empty by now. Jim gets hold of the ancient food tray and assembles a pack of milk, a plastic cup, and a piece of soggy bread, cruelly purchased at the worst and only bakery of Tuolumne City.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
"I was struck down by Joseph Smith while masturbating"
Glenn writes from Baltimore, MD:
"I spent a fair amount of time skiing in Utah in my 40's. We used to go twice a winter and it's impossible not to become familiar with Mormons when one spends time in Salt Lake City and environs.
I sent you a link in an earlier email about LDS. It's a very fringe religion and they believe some really whacky stuff. I'm thinking a religion needs 500-1000 years under its belt before we can take it seriously. I would have been a non believer had I met Christ, I guess.
I'm going to start a new religion. You can be the first baptism if you like. My religion preaches that Christ was a time traveler from sometime around 2020. He took all of his miracle making (to their eyes) stuff back with him in the time machine. Maybe a catchier date with some mysterious sounding numerical significance? 3000? I have to be careful not to pick a date that will prove my religion false when we get to that date.
The basic tenets will include, of course, tithing vast sums of the member's incomes to the church and we'll have to throw a few things in about eternal life and, oh yes, something about virgins...less about virgin birth and more about deflowering virgins...maybe even before one dies. Group sex is also a possibility. Homosexuality will not be banned. In fact, all members will have to go door to door for one year and have sex with any homosexual who is interested. (I stole that from the Mormons. Not the homosexuality part...just the door to door part.) Should masturbating be a sin? Maybe it's a sin only if you do it alone. Mutual masturbation will be encouraged.
I'm working on a secret handshake and since I have a hard time typing teh word THE, this religion will change the spelling of the word to TEH. (Name opportunity here...)
We could expand this, backward and forward, to include our religion (you've already joined...I've included a part about baptism from a distance...stole that from the Mormons, too...makes no difference if you want to or not, you're in) as an explanation for all of the major religions. I'm guessing that it should be only one deity as that seems to be the trend nowadays, and he/she/it travels around in time and appeared as Moses, Buddha, Jesus, etc.
We need a catchy name for he/she/it."
Zarathustra? Crap, someone already claimed that!
As you are the smartest person I know, I am open to your suggestions.
You can be a disciple if you are nice to me. Disciples don't have to tithe.
"I spent a fair amount of time skiing in Utah in my 40's. We used to go twice a winter and it's impossible not to become familiar with Mormons when one spends time in Salt Lake City and environs.
I sent you a link in an earlier email about LDS. It's a very fringe religion and they believe some really whacky stuff. I'm thinking a religion needs 500-1000 years under its belt before we can take it seriously. I would have been a non believer had I met Christ, I guess.
I'm going to start a new religion. You can be the first baptism if you like. My religion preaches that Christ was a time traveler from sometime around 2020. He took all of his miracle making (to their eyes) stuff back with him in the time machine. Maybe a catchier date with some mysterious sounding numerical significance? 3000? I have to be careful not to pick a date that will prove my religion false when we get to that date.
The basic tenets will include, of course, tithing vast sums of the member's incomes to the church and we'll have to throw a few things in about eternal life and, oh yes, something about virgins...less about virgin birth and more about deflowering virgins...maybe even before one dies. Group sex is also a possibility. Homosexuality will not be banned. In fact, all members will have to go door to door for one year and have sex with any homosexual who is interested. (I stole that from the Mormons. Not the homosexuality part...just the door to door part.) Should masturbating be a sin? Maybe it's a sin only if you do it alone. Mutual masturbation will be encouraged.
I'm working on a secret handshake and since I have a hard time typing teh word THE, this religion will change the spelling of the word to TEH. (Name opportunity here...)
We could expand this, backward and forward, to include our religion (you've already joined...I've included a part about baptism from a distance...stole that from the Mormons, too...makes no difference if you want to or not, you're in) as an explanation for all of the major religions. I'm guessing that it should be only one deity as that seems to be the trend nowadays, and he/she/it travels around in time and appeared as Moses, Buddha, Jesus, etc.
We need a catchy name for he/she/it."
Zarathustra? Crap, someone already claimed that!
As you are the smartest person I know, I am open to your suggestions.
You can be a disciple if you are nice to me. Disciples don't have to tithe.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Freedom Fries feuilleton (111)
Previously: George W. Bush worries about his legacy. Samuel Fisher, the media tycoon, worries about LYNX, his TV network. Pamela N. Timbers, dean of Berkeley law school and a former colleague of Barack Obama at Chicago law school, worries about John Yoo, the author of the torture memos. Also involved is George Lukacs, the famous hedge fund personality, another old friend of Pamela. There are rumors that Bush could be abducted to Spain to face trial for crimes against humanity. In Yoo's case, it's more than a rumor. Now Chang Man Yoon, the Yoo look alike, is on his way to Madrid.
Chang doesn’t know whether it’s a disappointment for her, but they are walking past a concourse restroom and this might be the last opportunity before immigration. “I have to bid you goodbye, now, since I have to” — he points meaningfully to the sign of a highly stylized male on the wall — “and I really don’t want you to wait for me, especially here,” — he points again to the sign. She understands. Chang is overcome by emotions. A cursory, and useless glance to the left, to the right, and he unstraps his wig, and hands it to her, unceremoniously. “You’re lovely,” the lady tweets, “you’re lovely.” This could have meant the end of his mission, but it didn’t. Nobody else is paying attention.
Once in the restroom, he unmasks his face with a lot of wet tissue. The wig goes back into the pouch — no, it doesn’t, the fat lady has it now.
He was right. This had been the last restroom before immigration. He’s another oriental face in the queue. The other queue is moving faster, the gaunt gentleman has changed his live. “Bienvenudo à Madrid, Sigñor Yoon,” the immigration officer says with a nod. The likeness with his own passport picture must be striking.
CHAPTER 11
We’re in Fisher’s office and are facing the palisander paneled, display-strewn wall, where the Dow Jones graph on a screen to the left and the Fisher formula on a screen to right screen have joined forces, jumping off the cliff hand in hand. The graph of the Fisher Corporation equity on its separate screen has also been suicidal, but its present fate is unknown (the screen is off). They — that means Claude, since Fisher is never available on the phone — had a margin call this morning, on Fisher’s private account with Fuld Brothers, the first margin call in Fisher’s impressive career as a rich man, Fuld calling himself. Fisher, apparently on Glenn Beck’s advice, had bought too many tons of gold on the margin, and with the spot price down by unfathomable percentages he would have to sell the precious metal and take terrible losses, or chip in more cash as collateral. Lots of it. True to form, Fisher had not been willing to listen. Instead, there and then, he had silenced the Fisher stock screen with a hand wave. Then the accountant with the interminable name had called and asked more questions about the Unicorn Foundation, Fisher’s secret offshore vehicle. They would need answers from Fisher personally. Fisher had politely declined. Then the accountant had called again to inform them of their regret to have no alternative but to decide to sever their relationship with the Fisher Corporation, effective immediately. “Let the books uncook,” Fisher had replied. And now Vladimir is calling.
Stay tuned for the next installment on Friday, or read the entire story published so far here.
Once in the restroom, he unmasks his face with a lot of wet tissue. The wig goes back into the pouch — no, it doesn’t, the fat lady has it now.
He was right. This had been the last restroom before immigration. He’s another oriental face in the queue. The other queue is moving faster, the gaunt gentleman has changed his live. “Bienvenudo à Madrid, Sigñor Yoon,” the immigration officer says with a nod. The likeness with his own passport picture must be striking.
CHAPTER 11
We’re in Fisher’s office and are facing the palisander paneled, display-strewn wall, where the Dow Jones graph on a screen to the left and the Fisher formula on a screen to right screen have joined forces, jumping off the cliff hand in hand. The graph of the Fisher Corporation equity on its separate screen has also been suicidal, but its present fate is unknown (the screen is off). They — that means Claude, since Fisher is never available on the phone — had a margin call this morning, on Fisher’s private account with Fuld Brothers, the first margin call in Fisher’s impressive career as a rich man, Fuld calling himself. Fisher, apparently on Glenn Beck’s advice, had bought too many tons of gold on the margin, and with the spot price down by unfathomable percentages he would have to sell the precious metal and take terrible losses, or chip in more cash as collateral. Lots of it. True to form, Fisher had not been willing to listen. Instead, there and then, he had silenced the Fisher stock screen with a hand wave. Then the accountant with the interminable name had called and asked more questions about the Unicorn Foundation, Fisher’s secret offshore vehicle. They would need answers from Fisher personally. Fisher had politely declined. Then the accountant had called again to inform them of their regret to have no alternative but to decide to sever their relationship with the Fisher Corporation, effective immediately. “Let the books uncook,” Fisher had replied. And now Vladimir is calling.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Friday night matinée
It's actually quite embarrassing, but it takes forever, so as to make up for unfilled blogging space this week. Enjoy:
On the bright side: we always thought that Obama was cynical --- as any good politician should be --- and this clip confirms our views.
On the bright side: we always thought that Obama was cynical --- as any good politician should be --- and this clip confirms our views.
Garden work (1)
| The little plateau around the palm tree outside the lounge had been decorated with beach pebbles eight years ago. Since then, entropy was at work; the pebbles had lost their animal spirits; covered by mud, they were lying low. Sad. We recollected all the pebbles, not only from this area, but all areas in the garden. We sorted the pebbles on color, cleaned them, and put a special cloth on the ground that supposedly keeps the pebbles above the mud and the weeds below. The whitest pebbles were selected and arranged as appropriate around the tree trunk. |  |
 |  |
 | Voila. We had the pool man, Thierry, swinging by this morning and proudly presented our results. He was particularly unimpressed. |
....while we are working on the garden layout, the blogging layout is also subject to entropy. QED.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Freedom Fries feuilleton (110)
Previously: George W. Bush worries about his legacy. Samuel Fisher, the media tycoon, worries about LYNX, his TV network. Pamela N. Timbers, dean of Berkeley law school and a former colleague of Barack Obama at Chicago law school, worries about John Yoo, the author of the torture memos. Also involved is George Lukacs, the famous hedge fund personality, another old friend of Pamela. There are rumors that Bush could be abducted to Spain to face trial for crimes against humanity. In Yoo's case, it's more than a rumor. Now Chang Man Yoon, the Yoo look alike, is on his way to Madrid.
Nobody is waiting for the belt sign to extinguish. Buckles snap, the people in business class are all de-seated already, Chang recognizes the gaunt gentleman from Torre’s observation. With his middle seat, Chang is in a tight spot, but the fat lady senses his dilemma, unbuckles her belt, and rises too. He slides past her (don’t ask), gets hold of his bag, and makes it to the lavatory before the aisle is filled with impatient passengers. The improbable wig, untouched by the fundamentalist security agent, is still in the pouch. He puts it on. The first wig of his life. Now the makeup. He knows what to do; Orientals use makeup all the time. Two or three minutes, and his face has acquired the complexion of a newly discovered Nordic tribe. The hair is blond, the eyebrows are perhaps a bit too yellowish, but the bluish contact lenses are above suspicion. Perhaps too much above suspicion, there’s something transcendental to his new irises, but it’s definitely unyoo-ish. He won’t wear sunglasses, it would only attract attention. He has to get back to his seat to fetch Yoo’s attaché case. Passengers are already shuffling toward the exits, but the friendly lady is still there. “Oh dear,” she laughs, “you look great. The wig, my god, wish I had one like you.” Chang pales under his makeup. He straps the attaché case to his mediocre, but versatile travel bag. The lady owns him now.
***
These two assets didn’t take much time to prepare for this gig, just wearing sunglasses and Mackintosh raincoats, but it doesn’t really matter since they are in cahoots with the Spanish old guard anyhow, the forces of darkness inherited from the Franco regime that still run the security services. Our assets entered the concourse through the security entry, they carry their pieces, and below, on the tarmac, a covert vehicle is waiting for Yoo. He will spend a few lonely hours there until he’s assigned to the US marshal who’s already flying in and will take him back on the next flight to Quantico, VA, for a robust debriefing.
Yoo had a seat near the front end of the plane, they know, two rows from business class, fairly close to the front exit of the Boeing Triple Seven. He should be among the second batch of passengers to deplane. But he isn’t. Some oriental faces, but nothing Yoo-ish. They are not supposed to get nervous, they are trained in face recognition. The next two passengers swing by, an overcoiffed elderly lady with a campy male person of uncertain race on the arm; they are engaged in useless conversation. Behind them another oriental face. Not Yoo either. Three bored executives, Silicon Valley types, overtraveled. Etc.
Stay tuned for the next installment on Friday, or read the entire story published so far here.
***
These two assets didn’t take much time to prepare for this gig, just wearing sunglasses and Mackintosh raincoats, but it doesn’t really matter since they are in cahoots with the Spanish old guard anyhow, the forces of darkness inherited from the Franco regime that still run the security services. Our assets entered the concourse through the security entry, they carry their pieces, and below, on the tarmac, a covert vehicle is waiting for Yoo. He will spend a few lonely hours there until he’s assigned to the US marshal who’s already flying in and will take him back on the next flight to Quantico, VA, for a robust debriefing.
Yoo had a seat near the front end of the plane, they know, two rows from business class, fairly close to the front exit of the Boeing Triple Seven. He should be among the second batch of passengers to deplane. But he isn’t. Some oriental faces, but nothing Yoo-ish. They are not supposed to get nervous, they are trained in face recognition. The next two passengers swing by, an overcoiffed elderly lady with a campy male person of uncertain race on the arm; they are engaged in useless conversation. Behind them another oriental face. Not Yoo either. Three bored executives, Silicon Valley types, overtraveled. Etc.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
What is a slut?
Except once (when we displayed the kitsch interior of his then Manhattan apartment) we never posted about Rush Limbaugh, the radio show personality, but there you have it. Judge yourself:
Do you realize he wears a polo shirt with long sleeves?
Do you realize he wears a polo shirt with long sleeves?
On the cover of the Rolling Stones --- no, wrong, the New Yorker
You get it? It's about Seamus, Romney's wonderdog, the dog that was driven by the future President on the top of the family car to Canada (a country with universal health care). After that, Seamus ran away. Want to know more about Seamus? Click here.
In her NYT column, Gail Collins remarks that "Neil Swidey, the Boston Globe reporter who first broke the Seamus story in 2007, wrote recently that he had been avoiding a return to the topic for fear that some day the dog would wind up in the lead of his obituary." Haha (means: "lol").
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Raisa
So let’s get this straight. David Cameron, the British Prime Minister, has not been riding on this horse, or so his speaker affirmed yesterday. But today, at the EURO summit about the End of the World, he gives another press conference to rectify his overworked speaker and confirm that he, in fact, did ride said horse.
Yes, really?
Well he got the horse from Charlie Brooks. And Charlie is a friend since 30 years. Over 30 years. And he’s a good friend. And he’s a neighbor in the constituency; they live a few miles apart. Aahpaaht. But he hasn’t been riding the horse since the elections of 2010 (that brought him to power; we love posh accents, because we can actually understand them). Before the elections, however, yes he did go riding with him, Charlie, his friend. Charlie has a number of different horses (who hasn’t), and one of them was this former police horse Raisa, which he did ride, and we are all very sorry to hear that Raisa is no longer with us, and he doesn’t think he’ll be getting back into the saddle anytime soon. Snick.
So what?
Did Cameron mount a presser to apologize to the former Soviet President Gorbachev for riding on a horse withno name the name of Gorbachev wife Raisa, who is no longer with us either, since she tragically died in 1999? No. What is it then? Well, Charlie, you know, Charlie Brooks, he’s the husband of Rebekah Brooks, the perennial editor of The Sun, the Murdoch tabloid. And Rebekah had, of course, no idea that some of her Sun news-room men were hacking mobile phone voicemails left and right to score the next scoop, no, she didn’t, she is --- at least was completely innocent, until she unexpectedly stepped down to spend more time with her family, and perhaps with Raisa, the horse. Mind you, Rebekah (the name alone) had nothing to do with rumors that she and her newspaper were in cahoots with the Metropolitan Police (Scotland Yard), and paid police officers for underhand information, although, mind you, paying for information has always been done, everybody does it, until Rupert Murdoch admitted three days ago that there had been a “culture of illegal payments” at The Sun, of which he knew nothing of course, and he’s so shocked to learn about all the filth that has been going on. And heads will roll (except his own, of course).
Yes, and? Raisa was on loan from the Metropolitan Police. It was a police horse. On loan. The Metropolitan Police had loaned Raisa to the Brooks (Charlie & Rebekah).
Anyhow, everything should be forgiven now, since Cameron won’t get back into the saddle any time soon.
Why is nobody loaning a horse to us?
|
|
Well he got the horse from Charlie Brooks. And Charlie is a friend since 30 years. Over 30 years. And he’s a good friend. And he’s a neighbor in the constituency; they live a few miles apart. Aahpaaht. But he hasn’t been riding the horse since the elections of 2010 (that brought him to power; we love posh accents, because we can actually understand them). Before the elections, however, yes he did go riding with him, Charlie, his friend. Charlie has a number of different horses (who hasn’t), and one of them was this former police horse Raisa, which he did ride, and we are all very sorry to hear that Raisa is no longer with us, and he doesn’t think he’ll be getting back into the saddle anytime soon. Snick.
|
|
Did Cameron mount a presser to apologize to the former Soviet President Gorbachev for riding on a horse with
Yes, and? Raisa was on loan from the Metropolitan Police. It was a police horse. On loan. The Metropolitan Police had loaned Raisa to the Brooks (Charlie & Rebekah).
Anyhow, everything should be forgiven now, since Cameron won’t get back into the saddle any time soon.
Why is nobody loaning a horse to us?
Freedom Fries feuilleton (109)
Previously: George W. Bush worries about his legacy. Samuel Fisher, the media tycoon, worries about LYNX, his TV network. Pamela N. Timbers, dean of Berkeley law school and a former colleague of Barack Obama at Chicago law school, worries about John Yoo, the author of the torture memos. Also involved is George Lukacs, the famous hedge fund personality, another old friend of Pamela. There are rumors that Bush could be abducted to Spain to face trial for crimes against humanity. In Yoo's case, it's more than a rumor. Now Chang Man Yoon, the Yoo look alike, is on his way to Madrid.
He can’t sleep on planes. Perhaps you can sleep in Business Class, he never traveled in Business Class, it’s only two rows away, you can practically hear them snoring through the curtain. It’s not the size of the seat, he’s economy size himself, and he’s okay sitting upright. He was a horse in his previous life, sometimes he falls asleep standing. No, it’s the angst of people being caught in the 99 percent bracket. Or it’s the vibes of the girl in the seat across the aisle who is plowing patiently through Ann Coulter’s latest book under the guidance of blinding overhead reading lights. The elderly lady between him and the aisle isn’t sleeping either. But she pretends. Like everybody else. There is so much behavior going on. He has set his Iphone alarm nonetheless.
His Iphone vibrates. He enjoys the simmering gizmo touch on his skin longer than strictly necessary. He will have to unsleep lady next to him, who has yet to recover from a visit to her bipolar hairdresser. He will have to get up, open the overhead bin (things could fall out), get hold of his bag, get hold of the ray balls, close the overhead bin (things could fall out), and make it to the lavatory. Wig and makeup can wait until they’ve arrived in Madrid. He will try to get out without provoking her reaction. He will step over her legs without touching her in any which way whatsoever, and she will keep up appearances in any which way whatsoever, since she is person with a round, funny face. So he gets up, climbs across her legs, inadvertently touching her knees of course, or other parts of her round body, but she understands, or pretends.
Inside the lavatory, he sits down and pees, although that wasn’t the purpose of his visit. Why taking care of the locators now? It’s supposed to confuse Obama, should he be reckless enough. Taking out the entire plane, it would possibly increase his ratings; politicians are reckless. He unbinds the Omega watch, and positions one GPS marble next to the lavabo. He opens one with his nifty hook. The watch just fits, thanks to its pliable leather belt. He snaps the ball shut. The GPS signal is trapped inside the sphere now, supposedly unable to penetrate the iron clams. Now the other one. That’s easy, the metallic marble disappears easily inside the second ball. No more signals from Dr. John Yoo. Lost without a trace above the ocean blue. Chang returns to his seat, de-seats in reverse, the lady still pretending. “Feels good, doesn’t it,” she says to Chang.
-“Huh,” Chang says.
-“Peeing.”
Stay tuned for the next installment on Friday, or read the entire story published so far here.
His Iphone vibrates. He enjoys the simmering gizmo touch on his skin longer than strictly necessary. He will have to unsleep lady next to him, who has yet to recover from a visit to her bipolar hairdresser. He will have to get up, open the overhead bin (things could fall out), get hold of his bag, get hold of the ray balls, close the overhead bin (things could fall out), and make it to the lavatory. Wig and makeup can wait until they’ve arrived in Madrid. He will try to get out without provoking her reaction. He will step over her legs without touching her in any which way whatsoever, and she will keep up appearances in any which way whatsoever, since she is person with a round, funny face. So he gets up, climbs across her legs, inadvertently touching her knees of course, or other parts of her round body, but she understands, or pretends.
Inside the lavatory, he sits down and pees, although that wasn’t the purpose of his visit. Why taking care of the locators now? It’s supposed to confuse Obama, should he be reckless enough. Taking out the entire plane, it would possibly increase his ratings; politicians are reckless. He unbinds the Omega watch, and positions one GPS marble next to the lavabo. He opens one with his nifty hook. The watch just fits, thanks to its pliable leather belt. He snaps the ball shut. The GPS signal is trapped inside the sphere now, supposedly unable to penetrate the iron clams. Now the other one. That’s easy, the metallic marble disappears easily inside the second ball. No more signals from Dr. John Yoo. Lost without a trace above the ocean blue. Chang returns to his seat, de-seats in reverse, the lady still pretending. “Feels good, doesn’t it,” she says to Chang.
-“Huh,” Chang says.
-“Peeing.”
Thursday, March 1, 2012
A puzzle becomes a conundrum
Jacki (Jakki in her latest correspondence --- she's living in AZ, any hints of culture war?) sends a link to an interactive puzzle with a parachutist and a lot of blue sky. We publish it (right column), and send the link to a few friends. We also try it ourselves --- it's fun, try it yourself. And if you don't think it's fun, try it nonetheless, it's billed as a reliable Alzheimer test, so you must do it anyhow. You need to know.
Let's start with us. We move around a few pieces, and find the whole thing eminently solvable, no need to go all the way. Sure, this kind of approach is called handwaving in mathematical circles, and it is frowned upon widely, but we have been frowned upon so much lately, we've frowned out. Handwaving is what we do. Go away, Dr. Alzheimer.
Next, we get a message from Sacha. He has solved it! (So you can trust FF's handwaving!). There's only one little problem. One piece of blue sky appears to be redundant, extraneous even. That unused leftover piece --- not a thing supposed to happen with a puzzle. Disquieting, isn't it? "Does it mean I have an especially bad case of Alzheimer?" Sacha writes peremptorily.
Then we get a message from Dirk. He solved it. The puzzle. Sure, we think, Dirk has been a Boeing 747 captain all his life, he knows about airborne. However, there's another little problem. There's no piece missing in Dirk's solution, which he proudly attaches as a screen shot to his victory letter.
Now what? Could it be true? Sacha has Alzheimer? No, spare the thought, of course not, he doesn't, but he needs to know nonetheless, perhaps see a doctor, do some tests, see another doctor, get a second opinion. Better late than never. Early bird catches the worm. We have to inform Sacha of Dirk's solution.
Sacha returns his solution stante pede, also as a screen shot, accompanied by the desperate question: "What am I doing wrong?"
Interesting, isn't it? Perhaps it's something about the gravity. Sacha's parachutist is upside down, perhaps he needs less gravity, so one puzzle piece isn't needed? Perhaps Sacha doesn't have Alzheimer, or perhaps we do? This whole gravity thing, didn't it start when an apple fell on Newton's head? The crane traumatized by a hard, macrogeometric object? There are lots of apple trees in Sacha's garden...
Anyhow, we inform Dirk of Sacha's solution. Dirk comes back with another sreenshot...
...and writes:
Sacha,
1st: Get organized! Separate the pieces, put them outside of the rectangle, count them (14).
2nd: Put them into the rectangle, piece by piece. That's all... :-)
The para glider is not supposed to make a looping!
Subsequently, there's some correspondence going back and forth between Dirk and Sacha to which we are not privy, but we are happy to learn that Dirk has generated more screenshots which should do away with any further misunderstandings once and for all:
Very helpful, Dirk. A watertight solution. If only the Greeks would know about this, they would stop squandering our taxpayer's money and start solving puzzles efficiently. The Euro saved.
Sacha replies:
"Thanks for all the technical support, guys. At last I got it right-side-up, and no pieces left over! But something still doesn't look right.
My 6 year old daughter does it in under 60 seconds - alas, she won't let me watch how she does it."
Well, that's easy, Sacha, your daughter doesn't have Alzheimer. Oops.
And yet. Sacha sends another screenshot...
...which proves you can have Alzheimer and still have the last word.
Let's start with us. We move around a few pieces, and find the whole thing eminently solvable, no need to go all the way. Sure, this kind of approach is called handwaving in mathematical circles, and it is frowned upon widely, but we have been frowned upon so much lately, we've frowned out. Handwaving is what we do. Go away, Dr. Alzheimer.
Next, we get a message from Sacha. He has solved it! (So you can trust FF's handwaving!). There's only one little problem. One piece of blue sky appears to be redundant, extraneous even. That unused leftover piece --- not a thing supposed to happen with a puzzle. Disquieting, isn't it? "Does it mean I have an especially bad case of Alzheimer?" Sacha writes peremptorily.
Then we get a message from Dirk. He solved it. The puzzle. Sure, we think, Dirk has been a Boeing 747 captain all his life, he knows about airborne. However, there's another little problem. There's no piece missing in Dirk's solution, which he proudly attaches as a screen shot to his victory letter.
 |
| Dirk's solution |
Now what? Could it be true? Sacha has Alzheimer? No, spare the thought, of course not, he doesn't, but he needs to know nonetheless, perhaps see a doctor, do some tests, see another doctor, get a second opinion. Better late than never. Early bird catches the worm. We have to inform Sacha of Dirk's solution.
Sacha returns his solution stante pede, also as a screen shot, accompanied by the desperate question: "What am I doing wrong?"
 |
| Sacha's solution |
Anyhow, we inform Dirk of Sacha's solution. Dirk comes back with another sreenshot...
...and writes:
Sacha,
1st: Get organized! Separate the pieces, put them outside of the rectangle, count them (14).
2nd: Put them into the rectangle, piece by piece. That's all... :-)
The para glider is not supposed to make a looping!
Subsequently, there's some correspondence going back and forth between Dirk and Sacha to which we are not privy, but we are happy to learn that Dirk has generated more screenshots which should do away with any further misunderstandings once and for all:
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
Very helpful, Dirk. A watertight solution. If only the Greeks would know about this, they would stop squandering our taxpayer's money and start solving puzzles efficiently. The Euro saved.
Sacha replies:
"Thanks for all the technical support, guys. At last I got it right-side-up, and no pieces left over! But something still doesn't look right.
My 6 year old daughter does it in under 60 seconds - alas, she won't let me watch how she does it."
Well, that's easy, Sacha, your daughter doesn't have Alzheimer. Oops.
And yet. Sacha sends another screenshot...
...which proves you can have Alzheimer and still have the last word.
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