BoldUlysses.com

“Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”

– Eleanor Roosevelt

“My definition of an intellectual is someone who thinks ideas matter more than people.”

– Paul Johnson (British historian)

thoughts on change

Wow, I rocked that. Rocked it. Third flight block this morning and I was right on the money. Granted, the weather did make me look good, with clear skies and not even a bump until we were approaching the landing pattern, but still… Hell yes. We did power-off stalls, power-on stalls and slow flight–I kept the airspeed within range and the altitude spot on. Knew most of my procedures a few lessons early, navigated pretty well with reference to landmarks and the notoriously hard-edged instructor said I’m right where I need to be.

Wow, I feel great. Now for lunch. More substance later.

The white dust has died down. After a weekend in which my dad was very generous in his efforts to spackle and sand the two main bedroom closets (rather large ones), the all-pervasive white dust that had collected in varying thicknesses on every flat surface in the house has been taken care of. Mostly. I put a drop cloth over my bed and computer and most of the floors have been cleaned, but the dust is still turning up in crevices here and there. But it’s nothing a damp paper towel can’t pick up.

Went out to a nice local brewery with Stephen last night. We traded turns prattling on about events in our respective spheres, he about business school and college football, and me about flying and my experiences with PBC. He’s a generous conversationalist and I enjoy his company greatly. I had a nice amber pilsner, not too bitter. Very tasty. Stephen had a darker lager which I think I’ll try next time I’m there. It looked quite good.

Second flight block was yesterday morning. I did some stupid things but overall I’m getting a bit more comfortable in the cockpit. The preflight went well, but as soon as I started the engine on the ramp I realized I had forgotten my headset. So with it idling I had to jump out and run over to the plane next to which Rick was standing (he had just finished a flight) and grab his headset. So I didn’t have to run all the way back to the trailer, but I felt dumb nevertheless. I took off, with assistance, and did most of the radio communication (i.e. “Sugar Valley traffic, Skyhawk 9886 Golf, leaving pattern to the north and climbing to 1500, Sugar Valley”). Did lots of turns to headings, climbs, descents, and a power off glide during which we got within about 7-800 feet of the ground before pushing the throttle all the way in again and climbing out. I was complimented on my ability to hold the airplane at a reasonably constant altitude. No unassisted landings yet–we still have a few lessons before we get to those.

One thing I will say–unless there is some freak occurrence or another driver decides to, say, blatantly ignore all traffic rules and plunge through intersections, there is no way I will get in a car accident driving home after a flight block. My situational awareness is so keyed-up from flying that I notice everything, but everything, as I’m tooling down the road. Let’s say we do about five things simultaneously while driving, and several of those we don’t really have to devote our undivided attention… While flying, about twenty things require your full attention at any one time, so coming back to the car afterward is like a walk in the park. There’s a reason there aren’t stereo systems in airplanes. There’s no leeway for zoning out.

We’re doing stalls tomorrow. Happy fun joy.

• I am listening to Cuban jazz.
• The windows are open to the cool fall air.
• The insects chirp softly outside but there are no intrusive night noises whatsoever.
• The ceiling fans are revolving slowly overhead.
• The lamps are on, spreading around a warm light.
• I have just come back from an excellent 4-mile run.
• Looking up at the sky while cooling down from the run, I immediately saw the summer triangle (Deneb, Altair and Vega) and my favorite constellation, Cygnus.
• I have replenished myself with a cup of frosted mini-wheats and several glasses of cold, filtered water.
• Labor day is tomorrow and there are no classes.
• I used a weedwacker yesterday and really enjoyed it.
• My yard looks excellent, trimmed and clipped.
• I had a great phone conversation with Leslie not a few hours ago.
• I just won a poetry contest. Yay free travel mug!
• I bought a practically new washer and dryer set last week for $300.
• I have discovered that I can get a membership at a local YMCA for $7/month as a student.

Thank you God, for moments like these, such as they are.

A prospective renter came by today at 3:30. He saw my ad on craigslist and sent me an e-mail. His name is Nick and he’s a 28-year-old med student at Wake Forest Baptist Hospital finishing up a PhD in neurosurgery. And he’s in an improvisational comedy troupe based in Chapel Hill and owns a pair of pet rats. I hope he decides to rent. He sounded interested. But that could just be politeness.

Watched The Right Stuff earlier this afternoon in between spurts of productivity. I had already seen it. They don’t make movies like that any more, at least not ones that are widely seen. The cinematography and effects are an example–they’re all optical. No special effects, and yes, the external shots of the planes and spacecraft do look cheesy and fake, but in many other ways there’s a clarity, a refraction, a prismatic effect to the images that gives them a visual poetry digital effects can’t approach.

One shot in particular I remember. John Glenn (played by an always-excellent Ed Harris) is in the Mercury Redstone capsule preparing for liftoff, and we see a shot of his helmet and head at the bottom of the screen looking up at the instrument panel opposite him, off-camera at the top. He reaches up and toggles a series of switches, activating their lights. We don’t see the actual switches, but we see the lights reflected by his helmet come on one by one, just below his eyes, almost like tears. It’s a brilliant bit of cinematography. I’d frame it if I had a still.

Another way the movie dates itself is in its heavy use of visual contrast. In many of the scenes the actors are just black silhouettes against a light sky, and in others sharp searchlights cut across frames. Blade Runner, made roughly in the same era, relies heavily on contrast as well, and both movies I think are the better for it. The technique underscores the bold, brash nature of the movies’ themes and gives the images a visual punch that holds your interest. One of my favorite paintings, Hopper’s Nighthawks, gives an idea of the visual style used. I love it.

All in all it’s excellent storytelling. Not realistic, but it encapsulates the mood of the time (or so I’m told). The epic nature of the movie and the director’s use of visual symbolism (match cuts, thematic juxtaposition) give the film an overall feel halfway between an arty documentary and a good Kubrick movie. Enjoyable film.

Many, many prayers for those affected by the storm and those contributing to the relief effort. Our hearts are heavy as we keep abreast of events as best we can.

I’m very relieved the first flight is over. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a good amount of nervousness mixed in with the anticipation. But now I know what to expect and things will be easier. The preflight went reasonably quickly, as did the pretakeoff check. Taxiing was more of a challenge. Imagine steering and braking your car with your feet and operating the throttle with a pushrod in your right hand. Not only that, but you can apply differential pressure on the brakes to help turn the vehicle. And that vehicle isn’t really meant to lumber about on the ground anyway. So it was tricky, and I had to take a few laps around the ramp before I got the hang of it.

The flight consisted of running through checklists for various phases of flight, some medium-bank turns and some sightseeing to orient myself to the practice areas north of the airport. It was a cacophony of sensory overload, and most of what I thought I had committed to memory beforehand disappeared. But that’s just as well since we learn by doing it, not by reading a book. Still, it felt like the first time at the controls of a car in that I was “chasing the gauges” the whole way; in other words, I would go above and below the mark a few times before I settled on it, whether it be airspeed or altitude or rate of climb. I remember learning to drive and the experience of not knowing what 45 mph “felt” like–I couldn’t help but glance down at the speedometer every few seconds to recheck my speed. It’s the same way with the plane. I don’t “feel” its various states and attitudes yet. But with practice I will.

A nicely-written and relevant passage from Stick and Rudder:

There is a great difference between merely perceiving something and noticing it. A savage, put on an American city street, would see the traffic lights just as you do–maybe better. He would probably overlook them and watch instead the flashing neon signs, the lights of cars, all sorts of other clues that are more impressive but much less important; for he would not know what a traffic light means. But we see traffic signs even with bad eyes and while thinking of something else because we watch for them and understand their meaning instantly and know that, though they are not very attention-catching, they are important. […] Our difficulty in learning to fly is not sense perception, but interpretation of what our senses perceive. We tend to pay attention to the wrong things; we miss the things that matter because we aren’t looking for them, because we do not know what they mean.

Oh, and Male Kitchen Fix #174: A propane torch and oven mitt work wonders for freeing stuck jar lids. Which *ahem* we never have a problem removing anyway. So it’s all hypothetical. Yeah.

I will never complain about crosswind landings (right-click save-as, 2.9M).

Washed and waxed the car yesterday. I will say there are few things sexier to the touch than properly waxed sheetmetal. There’s really no other way to put it. It’s just…perfect.

First flight block tomorrow at 9:30! w00t.

I have had the most vivid dream ever just now. I woke up very surprised to have been dreaming.

(more…)

Thoughts and prayers for everybody in the Louisiana/Mississippi area. We’ve seen our share of hurricane-related destruction here in North Carolina, but we’re nowhere near as vulnerable as they are. Here’s hoping everyone is safe and the damage is limited.

I was wishing for rain around here yesterday… Looks like I’ll get my wish. We won’t get to fly for a little while longer (the flight schedules are still being firmed up), but I don’t mind all that much.

Our first quiz was today in ground school. It consisted of a random selection of 30 questions that are going to be on the FAA written exam that we’ll take at the end of the semester. I got 100%, as did most of the other students. Had a study session yesterday at the house with two of my classmates. It was the first time I really had people over (besides my parents, of course). The living room arrangement worked out nicely and I think they had a good time. It’s still a little bit odd to be taking quizzes and tests and such again after a hiatus from school of several years. It’s not too bad, though, since at any given time there’s usually something or other I’m studying and highlighting and really trying to absorb. Really the only elements that have been introduced are the presence of classmates and the necessity of demonstrating that I actually know the material (i.e. tests). Other than that it’s not much of a switch.

Still haven’t found a job or roommates. Nothing but dead ends on those two fronts, but I’m still intently investigating leads. Haven’t really found any friends yet either. How do you make friends if you’re not inherently funny? Common interest or activity to participate in? My car’s running fine by and large (don’t need mechanical assistance) and I can’t very well stand up in the classroom and ask if anybody plays tennis or runs. That’s one of the dumb things about being a guy–we almost have to have an activity in which to participate in order to hang out. Even if it’s just watching television. Gotta be doing something.

I think I would be okay except for a recent rejection of my application by the local Borders, a place at which I was hoping to work. Rattled my confidence a little bit, and if left unchecked could have seriously undermined my confidence in my ability to get a job in general. But if I didn’t get the job there, it’s because God’s got something better for me elsewhere. And if He’s called me to do this (pursue this course of study), He’ll provide a job at the end of the tunnel. And even if He doesn’t, I’m confident all this is happening for His fame and my eventual good. So it can’t help but turn out well. Still, I had to fight the “what the heck am I doing here” feeling while grocery shopping when the loneliness from lack of friends and the downer about not getting the job ganged up on me.

Fajitas for dinner tonight. Along with a possible movie viewing. I rented Notorious (great Hitchcock flick with Cary Grant and the incomparable Ingrid Bergman) and Pushing Tin (continuing my efforts to watch every John Cusack movie, this one’s about air traffic controllers, among other things). Come on over.

many more pictures

Well. After the little bout of optimism expressed in the last post, which I’m sure is fairly common among my fellow students in the program, we all got the tar scared out of us about an hour ago.

During the first half of the two-part “Aviation Seminar” that inaugurates the beginning of each year here at PBC (the second session is tomorrow morning at the airport), the president of Mission Safety International came and gave a presentation. He shared many examples of pilots, vastly experienced and otherwise, who used poor judgement, allowed problems to escalate, overlooked things or just made simple mistakes that resulted in anywhere from repairable damage to the aircraft to total loss of life. There were many photos in a powerpoint presentation which accompanied his talk. None of them were easy to look at, some of them especially graphic. Of course his intent wasn’t necessarily to scare the everliving snot out of us (although that would be inevitable, really), but to underline, italicize, bold and otherwise drill into us the important of safety and the very, very small (or nonexistent) margin of error that will be present in a lot of what we’ll do. I can say he certainly made his point. I can say that. But holy cow. I can’t imagine sitting through that presentation with a significant other (as several students did). That would be one long drive home en route to a heavy discussion about life goals and whatnot, that I know.

I hope to get pictures of the airport and the planes tomorrow morning.

The first session of ground school was this morning in the classroom. Just a basic introduction, wherein we all went around and gave tidbits about ourselves interspersed between war stories and inspirational proclamations from Mr. Hahn, the professor. He’s a very genial fellow, with loads of experience in teaching and in the field and with the great sense of humor that you know comes only when someone has to be dead serious in other, more essential areas of life. He certainly stressed the seriousness of the endeavor. We have to be the best pilots in the world, not for ourselves but because a mistake or an oversight will endanger not only ourselves but our passengers and more than that, the efforts in whatever field we’re placed. Flying isn’t a forgiving pursuit. The overwhelming emphasis on serving others was brought to the forefront in a way it hadn’t been before. We may be operating “only” in a support capacity, but we’ll be doing a very necessary job.

I really feel like I’m meant to do this. There’s a semantic, though not hierarchical, difference between feeling meant to do something and feeling called to do something. Both propositions are equal to the extent that we’re in His will and partnering with Him in whatever He’s doing, but I think being meant to do something means more of our natural talents and inclinations converge around the activity in which we’re immersed. This stands in contrast to being called, where our natural abilities may or may not play a prominent role in the task at hand (and more credit to God’s provision in the situations where they don’t, really). But this, this… All my interests, hobbies, passions, personality seem to close in around everything I see, hear, study… This has been so long in coming. If there’s been one constant interest in my life, it’s been aviation, and now to be so close and so involved… I didn’t even think of flying as consciously unattainable for years and years–it just placed itself subconsciously in that category, and now to be studying with the goal that I will be at the controls, in charge, all the instruments on the panel will be operating for my benefit as the pilot in command–it scares the daylights out of me. But also excites me more deeply than I was really expecting. I don’t really know what to do with it all except channel it into more diligence, more focus on making sure I learn absolutely everything I need to, and more. Of course I’m completely open to God’s will and timing in my life–if I’m only supposed to be here for a season, I will be content with that, but for now…I’ve come home–maybe not just yet physically, but directionally, oh yes.

Can’t sleep. And my first class is in six and a half hours.

Stop my brain, please; I’d like to get off.

So I’m back. The cable internet guy came by today around 4 and set everything up. $23.00 a month for the first three months of broadband and they provide the modem, coax cable and ethernet cord. Can’t beat that.

I registered for classes today in the midst of a bureaucratic maelstrom. The college is small, so it isn’t strictly necessary to register via computer, but this year they tried to do so anyway. What this means in practical terms is that all the activities (registration, financial aid, internet passwords, parking passes and such) were moved from the chapel, where they were last year, to the individual offices of those responsible. And while this avoided having to lug a gaggle of computers to the chapel, it meant that anywhere from 20-30 students stood in clusters in the hallways outside various offices in the main building, coming and going, talking, carrying on, often with no idea of their place in line or where they were to proceed next. It was a small step above chaos. Early on I discovered the trick was simply to stand as close as possible to the door of the office in question, not to bully my way in, but there were several bewildered upperclassmen trying to coordinate everything, and the closer I stood to the door, the farther they thought I had advanced through the line, and I got precedence over many students who had been waiting much longer than I had but had to step out for whatever reason.

I was done in a couple of hours. Out of pocket expenses for supplies, books, tuition and flight time were only a hair above $500 for this semester, praise God. Scholarships and loans covered the rest. That was much better than I was expecting to do and frees up money for a washer and dryer, among other things.

Around the house

Donnie Darko isn’t exactly the best movie to watch alone. At least not without someone to talk to immediately afterward. It’s in my top five–it’s so avant garde, and even if it ultimately fails to communicate what it’s reaching for, its ambition is staggering. It’s an attempt to convey in film scientists’ goal for years–a theory of everything. Philosophy, theology, sociology, higher-dimensional physics… I think part of the reason I respond so strongly to the film is because it tries to do what my mind tries to do incessantly–to view life, events, matters holistically, interconnectedly, to construct an inhabitable system of life within its own frame of reference that gives it the ability to transcendently approach new knowledge and new experiences through the lens of its system. It goes beyond simply reacting to events it encounters; it asks why and then attempts to connect that event to the whole, the framework, the bigger picture.

Or it could just an elaborate joke played on those of us who overanalyze film. Irony is mentioned prominently at several points in the movie. Might be the director trying to get something through to us. But that’s part of the experience of being an artist in any medium–seeing the range of interpretations and responses people have to your work. People draw a greater range of response from a piece than the artist ever put into it–they in effect become a part of the work through their response. Which is all fine and good as long as we don’t elevate reaction over expression. Then all the art does is provoke, disturb, assault… We have to push through our gut-level reaction to see what, if any, attempt at a message there is in the art. And granted, art is emotion, but isn’t emotion so much more effectively communicated if you don’t feel you’re being manipulated? I think so.

I’ve been reading Stick & Rudder more intently of late now that I’m here. It describes the art of flying, the sometimes counterintuitive senses to which the pilot has to be attuned in order to be the most in touch with the aircraft’s activity, and through that the best and safest pilot. It describes the kinesthetic experience of flying an airplane in great detail. Some of the most fascinating passages come as the author explains how a pilot senses the aircraft is approaching a stall, or the point at which it stops flying and starts falling (there are many factors involved in this process). Airspeed, or more accurately air pressure on the bottom of the wings, being one of the primary determinants of an airplane’s ability to fly, sound becomes an important sense to emphasize–a pilot has to be somewhat attuned to the intensity of the sound of the air rushing around the plane as it can be a good indicator of the proximity to a stall. There are other things too. The process of learning how to fly is going to be a readjustment of my innate response to my senses. I’m going to be developing new reflexes–I have to, really. I’m looking forward to it very much.

This is what Christian music should be. Literate, articulate, steeped in metaphor and subtlety, with a touch to the chords inescapably individual to the artist or band. A sober but deeply hopeful and meaningful view of life in every line, plumbing emotional depths unknown to the Christian music establishment at large. When the music weeps, it weeps, when it rejoices, it rejoices with the authenticity of a reservoir of feeling only someone who’s actually lived what they’re singing can communicate. I adore it.

This has been my first full day here in Winston-Salem. It rained all day today, off and on, a lazy British rain that hung in the air more often than not. The house is shaping up nicely. I’ve gotten my room arranged and am very happy with the layout. I visited the UNC Surplus building earlier in the week and made two of the best furniture purchases ever: a perfect two-drawer file cabinet for $20 and a flawless green office chair for $5. The file cabinet in particular has been very handy–I’ve already reached a level of organization in term of paperwork previously unknown (but very necessary).

Orientation is tomorrow afternoon through the weekend. The bulk of activity will be tomorrow with the big introduction and most of Monday with advising and registration. I feel like I have a good bead on things. Sorting through mountains of paperwork, forms, bills, notices and the like, I consolidated everything I’ve ever received from the college and read over the orientation schedule half a dozen times. Removing uncertainty goes a long way towards peace of mind–after all, the best interpersonal skills in the world won’t help much if one is an hour late to a meeting or even misses it altogether.

There is something indelibly beautiful about a ferry ride. At the beach earlier this week our group rode the car ferry to and from the town of Southport, near Wilmington, for a late lunch at an oceanside seafood restaurant. The ferry ride was remarkably inexpensive and easy and the procedure well mapped-out. There was an air-conditioned passenger lounge upstairs from the car deck, but even in the heat, for my money, it wasn’t the place to be. Leaning on the rail, feeling the breeze coming up off the side of the hull, eyeing the pelicans perched on the buoys and markers and waving at the sportfishermen… That made the trip. What is it about ferry rides that makes them romantic? There aren’t really any moments or images of transcendent beauty. Sure, the waves receding from the bow and the foam tumbling over and over itself in the wake all has a hypnotic quality to it, much like a well-stoked fireplace, but romantic and beautiful aren’t exactly the first adjectives that come to mind. The environment’s the same way–there’s a kind of beauty in the wilderness, the tall grasses entrenched on strips of island, baked by the sun shining through the subtropical haze, but it’s not your typical romantic setting. I think a lot of it, in the end, has to do with the nature of the event itself, with the ferry ride. In much the same way a train ride is intrinsically romantic, the insertion of a lingering technology, especially one that involves so much iron and machinery, into a day-to-day we know to be modern, produces a kind of pervasive secondhand nostalgia that is enveloping for those of us just content to stake out a spot near the bow and watch the waves come and go and the terns plunge into the water for their dinner… It’s the anachronism of an older-world means of transportation.

I’m overwhelmed by preparations for school in a week and a half. There’s so much left to do. And yet… this is probably one of the first, if not the first, situations in which I haven’t been overly rushed, putting off everything to the last minute. In other words, there’s been no cause for panic yet. But it’s still keeping me up at night. Nothing keeps me up at night, especially with the sleep schedule I keep these days (but will have to shift radically for school purposes). My mind won’t turn off. And the feelings that I have about school–excitement, nervousness, anticipation–can’t keep up and linger from one subject to the next as my mind darts about, so I end up feeling unduly strongly about say, dialectical materialism or scenes from the movie I watched last night or theories of antigravity or my car’s tire tread depth or the geography of Sumatra… It gets really weird sometimes.

I sure am one of them
without you

I’m up too late. Tomorrow’s not a work day any more, so I don’t have that constraint, at least for a while. School will begin soon enough, and my days there will be more strenuous than work even was. Whatever additional job I decide to take won’t make life any easier either. Strangely enough, it does feel as though something of a weight has been lifted since I finished work on Friday. Perhaps it’s the passing of one responsibility and the knowledge that I can commit my time and thought life wholly to this next stage. I’m not entirely sure.

I’ve been alone for the past few days. My parents, brothers, and extended family are at the beach, and will be through the end of the week. I’ll join them on Wednesday. I know I don’t pass through these times entirely alone, but earlier in the weekend I couldn’t help recalling shadows of the move to Florida three and a half years ago (has it been that long?). I remember driving down there with a full station wagon, totally alone and into a place where I knew no one. This past weekend Hao accompanied me with the first load on Saturday afternoon, and we met Stephen and Truly there for a decent lunch at a hole-in-the-wall hot dog and sandwich place, but afterward… Hao had to leave, and I drove all over town distributing “roommates wanted” flyers to the bulletin boards at every school and hospital I could find on the map. I mowed the large yard alone–inevitable really–then drove back to an empty house in Chapel Hill. It’s given me too much time alone with my thoughts, and I feel the pressure of things I need to express to someone, the backlog of realizations and needed verbal processing–to say nothing of the simple act of interaction, listening–grows too great after only a day or two. But I’ll make it through. Only a couple more trips out there with the truck and all will be moved. And besides, I have friends in Winston-Salem and Greensboro as well, so it’s not as if I’m driving into a place without any connections whatsoever.

I like the house. I think I will take well to domestic life–as much of it as I have, at least. I am looking forward to landscaping and working in the yard. I can see myself enjoying it almost as much as I enjoy tinkering with all things mechanical. Actually decorating and arranging the house, however, doesn’t hold the same kind of appeal. I’m not why it is, but all that’s motivated me when it comes to situating the interior of any place I’ve been is pure functionality. Granted, I do make a bit more of an effort where wall coverings are concerned, paintings and posters and the like, but colors, furniture, all other decoration… I’ve no interest in any of it.

The house is very well-situated. As best I can describe it, the neighborhood does not fall either into the “urban” or the “suburban” category, but could more aptly be described as “mid-urban.” The house is smallish and the yard is relatively large. The place is peaceful and all is well taken care of–all earmarks of a suburban neighborhood. But standing in the front yard, looking up at the oak tree that must be a hundred years old at least, I can hear city noises a few streets over. Scooters buzz by, the occasional horn sounds… And driving not a minute or two away from the house one can reach the stretch of business I40 that is raised over commercial developments, much like the highways in a larger city. I am very happy for the house’s location; I feel I have the best of both worlds. From this vantage point I think I will be loath to give it up in three or four years, if it should come to that. Time will tell.

1. Today’s my last day here at Design Services, bringing to a close my two years and six months of employment at realistically the best job I’ve ever had. I would be sad, and I certainly was earlier in the week during the lunches my coworkers treated me to, but today I’m just ridiculously stressed out… There’s a mountain of work to file away, pass on, wrap up… It’s so much easier to just get fired.

2. The pin was removed from my hand on Tuesday. I will never again take for granted the privilege and blessing of two functional hands. And the ability to shower without a bag over one of them. My left pinkie is still a little splayed out and most likely always will be to a degree. It doesn’t look unnatural unless you’re looking for it, though.

3. I registered mattsuffern.com yesterday, where I’ll be transferring my online files. For a while, I ruminated on the possibility of getting a more creative domain name, but the one I ended up with is versatile and won’t become obsolete.

4. Susan, at the Gazette lunch yesterday, presented me with one of the best presents I’ve ever received. It’s a sugar bowl (which she and her husband Ed collect) with a homemade glass lid encrusted with various found objects. I’ll take a picture of it when I get home tonight.

5. Still looking for roommates. So far all I’ve gotten has been interest from females and a 32-year-old Australian scammer. I’m going to put up flyers at Wake Forest and in the local hospitals tomorrow, if I have time.

In the interest of combating slight boredom, I will now share a few techniques I’ve developed from years of searching through parents’ closets before the appointed day for hidden Christmas gifts… among other activities. You’d be surprised at how versatile some of these are:

• Popping knuckles are the enemy. Stretch all your joints and particularly your feet beforehand. Rolling your feet around on the ground and some simulated sneaking in a safe environment can get rid of those last few pops.
• Everyone walks differently, so the most inaudible method of walking will be somewhat case-specific. The general idea, though, is to plant one’s foot on the ground in the most gradual way possible. This is usually accomplished by touching the outside ball of the foot first and then rolling gradually to the heel as the step is taken. Walking with a very fluid, whole-body motion will minimize the low “thump” of each footfall, a prime giveaway of one’s activity.
• Remember, the letter “s” is far and away the most audible sound when talking. If you doubt this, simply slowly decrease the volume of a talk radio program. What’s the last vestige of sound to remain audible? The “s,” of course. Thus, especially when sneaking with others, if you must talk, substitute a breathy “th” sound for the “s” in all your words. With a little practice this becomes second nature. If properly done, you will be surprised at how inaudible your conversation is, even when you think you are sure to be overheard.
• Staircases are a tricky proposition. A squeak or two may be inevitable. However, stepping on the edges of the steps, near where they meet the wall, increases the chances they will be firmly supported and thus will not creak. And whatever you do, avoid holding the railing. Sliding your hand along it inevitably produces the dreaded and very audible “s” sound. The trade off in terms of stability is, in the author’s estimation, tolerable.
• Socks are infinitely preferable to any other type of footwear.
• Before rummaging about through another’s belongings, always make a clear mental note of the location of everything–and I do mean everything. How many degrees the door was cracked, the angle of the papers on the desk, which drawers were open, which lights were on, even the placement of the covers on a bed. Everything must be reset exactly the way you found it. Zero residual presence is the key. If you are unable to search an area without the possibility of resetting it afterward, do not touch it.
• When opening a door, be aware that both the first and the last parts of the latch movement will be the loudest. It is also advisable to push the door in against the frame when completing the movement of unlatching it, just in case the door is slightly sprung inward.

Naturally, I will faithfully instruct each of my future children in the finer points of these techniques.

Went and saw March of the Penguins earlier this evening with friends. Great film, and surprisingly affecting. The Antarctican vistas and cinematography in general were breathtaking… The way life thrives in such an austere environment is incredible. And they didn’t shy away from showing the dangers and inevitable tragedy that accompanies the whole ordeal. It was hard to watch in parts. I should also mention that after watching this movie you will want a baby penguin. No way around it. You’ve been warned.

Also purchased Ivy’s latest, In the Clear. They’re a band that’s in my all-time top five for the simple reason that I like more than about 75% of the music they produce. Very few bands are in such company–the Beatles, George Winston, U2, and Hooverphonic are the only bands/artists that come to mind that can realistically claim the 75% rule. My fascination with Ivy probably stems as much from their near-perfectly conceived sound as from the fact that their lead singer is a very attractive frenchwoman and hints of her accent can be found all over her singing. Well, that and they have the best album covers ever.

Discovered at Sam’s Club the other day that repeatedly compressing a stack of 400 coffee filters sounds almost exactly like walking through snow. No joke. I’m applying for a job as a foley artist next week.

Drove through the most torrential downpour I’ve ever experienced last night, a solid wall of water from the Wade Avenue split near Raleigh to the Durham Freeway, or about 10 miles. I was hoping my car windows wouldn’t shatter from the lightning bolt strikes not a quarter of a mile away. The worst part of it all is that my car’s alternator belt slips terribly in anything more than a mild rainshower. What this means is that the car’s voltage drops to ~10V, the headlights dim and the windshield wipers slow, among other things. Not a pleasant proposition. I’ve tried to fix it repeatedly, but belt dressing doesn’t seem to have much effect. I’m thinking about making an aluminum shield for that part of the engine bay. Thus go the joys of driving a 19-year-old car in a North Carolina summer.

But the good news, after all that, is that temperatures are bearable again.

This is simultaneously the most disturbing and most hilarious activity I have ever heard about.

They are going to butcher it. Hack. Chop. Maim horribly.

An example. Dialogue snippet from the old mini-series (and the book!):

Mr. Darcy: I have not the talent which some possess of conversing easily with strangers.
Elizabeth (while playing piano forte): I do not play this instrument so well as I should wish to, but I always supposed that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble of practicing it.
Mr. Darcy: You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.

Perfect. Flawless. Musical. And now the equivalent from the new movie:

Mr. Darcy: I have not the talent of conversing easily with people I have never met before.
Elizabeth: Perhaps you should practice.

It makes me cringe. In shortening the film from the 6-hour running time of the mini-series to a more palatable 2-and-a-half hour movie time, do they have to remove the best dialogue? And Hollywood-ize the rest of it? Furthermore, everybody just seems too young. Keira Knightley is hugely miscast. I’ll probably still go see it, though, which just sickens me.

I made it 26 years. Had my first cavities filled this morning. It’s been a while coming, and the fact that my insurance situation will be a little more uncertain after next Friday (my last day here) prompted me to call up the dentist and have it taken care of.

Remarkably pleasant experience. They told me exactly what they were going to do (always a plus) and gave me headphones so I could drown out the ambient noises from the procedure with local radio and whatnot. I dozed off a couple of times near the end of it and had to wake myself up to pay and leave. The local numbness is finally wearing off… I think I’ve had enough anesthesia pumped into me in the past month to kill a horse. *sigh*

Strangely enough, thumbing through the images on this page does not discourage me from wanting to be a pilot.

We closed on the house yesterday. Want to live in Winston-Salem? I’m looking for two roommates. Pass the word. Must be very clean, quiet and responsible. Psychos are right out.

I adore this song. It’s so repetitive and monotonous on first listen but there’s something about it that’s just worked its way into my consciousness lately.

I’ve been reading The Francis Schaeffer Trilogy lately. Wonderful, compelling stuff. He effectively carried the torch of Christian intellegentsia from the late ’60s to his death in the early ’80s, picking up where C.S. Lewis left off in terms of influence, if not necessarily mainstream accessibility. Back in high school I watched his excellently produced video series How Should We Then Live? and it influenced my thinking in profound ways. It details the history of thought and ideas in Western culture and addresses, just as the book does, the progression of those ideas from philosophy to art and then to music, popular culture and finally theology. It has applications in arenas from politics to apologetics and everywhere in between.

The early chapters of the book lay out his theories concerning the progression of ideas through the areas mentioned above. He specifically addresses the genesis (pun intended) of the idea that absolutes can be arrived at using man as the starting point and sole frame of reference, and the despair that was the inevitable result of that point of view. He then traces the manifestations of that existential despair through philosophy (Kant, Kierkegaard), art (Impressionism and beyond), music (jazz forms), and finally popular culture and theology. He talks about the division that was created between “rational” pursuits such as science and those “nonrational” areas that ostensibly give our life meaning, and the artificially created notion of a “leap of faith,” which was said to be necessary for the intellect to make in order to bridge the gap, discarding the idea that a Christian worldview could be a profoundly rational worldview. Indeed, in most ways it is even more rational than the ones that followed, at least in terms of describing the world around us and constructing a unified, meaningful and consistent way of relating to the world.

In any case, it’s a compelling book by a man who wrestled deeply with what he thought and believed, and highly recommended.

Reading the first few chapters, especially the ones where he shows how culture’s newfound despair permeated art, I was convicted that I never took any of it seriously enough. There’s never been any despair in my life, existential or otherwise, and when I admired works from deconstructionist artists (Picasso, Duchamp, Pollock, etc), I would do so while impressing upon them in my mind at least a few of the assumptions native to my worldview. I would stand in awe of the creativity displayed, the new ways they found of looking at things, and at least on the surface, their message about the world around them. But what never hit home until just recently was the unabashed, deep-seated disillusionment they felt when they viewed their world, and how only a well of emotion of incredible depth could have created the works they did. These were broken men and women, straining to find meaning in an intellectual and popular climate that increasingly discarded the notion of external absolutes and embraced humanism, and it shows in their art. Joe Carter, in an excellent post today, discusses bioethics but creates an analogy that applies across the board to those at the cultural vanguard (and otherwise) attempting to piece together meaningful answers from an exclusively humanistic frame of mind:

Unfortunately, we live in a society where answers that cannot be shoehorned into an acceptable non-religious interpretative structure must be discarded altogether. It is similar to being asked to provide the sum of 4 and 3 but having to do so without resorting to a “religiously based” prime numbers. The absurdity of this approach is obvious since no answer we could give would ever be correct. Yet this is often what is expected when we are asked to provide answers to questions […] that must rely on non-religious criteria.

And that’s the place in which art has found itself for the past century or so. It’s driven creativity to immense heights, searching desperately for answers, but at what human cost? I don’t think I’ll look at a Gauguin or a Mondrian the same way again.

Just got back from my third run since the finger injury, and the third in the past week. My cardiovascular system is back up to speed, recovery times are down, but as for the weather… It’s like breathing clam chowder out there. The resident humidity in the air means I have to sweat buckets just to achieve some sort of thermal equilibrium. Not too fun. But it feels great to be active again.

thoughts on relationships

The mother of all electrical storms has been taking place outside for the past few hours. First the heat lightning, then the smattering of big raindrops, then the crashes all around amid the downpour. I swear we must have had one or two touch down (or more technically correct, go up) right across the street. The power’s cut off twice. In the beginning it was beautiful and powerful but now it’s a little tedious, especially since the cat has been huddled under the couch issuing the most terrified, abject, forlorn meows imaginable. More rumbling. Time for shower + bed.

What the hell is the matter with me? Seriously.

My parents have planned a Vacation Bible School for the kids at a local housing project. Taking place every evening of the next week, the events comprise free dinner, lessons, and games and crafts. In addition to making the signs to help promote the VBS, my parents enlisted my aid in creating and supervising an obstacle course for the “games” portion of tomorrow night. My mom’s been shopping all weekend for supplies, and she dropped by the local dollar store to see if she could find some prospective handouts and mini-prizes for the kids. She did find quite a bit, more than she expected, and among the items she found were these knockoff beanie baby stuffed animals. I had heard her talk about them all weekend, and expressed amazement that she was able to find items that substantial at the dollar store. At the time I was wrapped up in or distracted by something else and I said it more as a way of making conversation than anything else.

Then tonight I walked into the kitchen and she showed me this, telling me how cute she thought it was, handing it to me to examine and admire. I was arrested. Speechless. Dead in my tracks. Waves of thoughts and emotions came over me. I was consumed with thoughts of the innocence communicated by the little stuffed animal in my hands, its proportions and its unchangeable smile. I can’t explain it…I don’t even know what all went through my head. The toy just had an aura (can’t think of a better word for it) of optimism… I thought about all the circumstances surrounding the stuffed animal’s manufacture, most likely in a huge, faceless factory in China, the images of which I had seen in college and will forever haunt me. And then I thought about its likely destiny, momentarily cherished as a prize for a game by some rising fifth grader but then thrown away, mutilated, trampled on, forgotten about, all with the unquenchable expression on its face. The mental juxtaposition of such possible neglect with the innocence encapsulated in everything about it just floored me.

I don’t get it. I can watch something like Reservoir Dogs without flinching (not that I enjoyed it), and this, *this* gets me? I’m just…weirded out. I know it all sounds trite and stupid, but it’s what went through my head and emotions. I’m bewildered. I mean, my brother Paul and I once made a piñata from papier maché that projected the same kind of innocent optimism, and neither of us could bear to watch it hacked to pieces by friends… but we were seven and ten years old then, respectively. I’m twenty-six. What the hell is the matter with me?

* * * * * *

By the way, my hand looks like this. No pain. Lots of questions about it, which are beginning to get tedious. I have until August 2nd to come up with a better explanation than “bar fight.” People just aren’t buying that one for some reason.

* * * * * *

At Barnes & Noble earlier tonight I was torn between Definitely Maybe, Parklife and some Clash album I can’t remember the name of. I ended up buying the Trainspotting soundtrack instead. Am enjoying it immensely, especially the New Order and Underworld songs. I’m sure I’ll get into the others in good time.

Here’s what I’m not going to do: I’m not going to assert that the cars are attractive or explain why they look good or bad. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and the cars certainly have a few admirers. That said, my personal feeling is that the cars are hideous. Absolutely ghastly and a massacre of BMW’s, nay, Germany’s styling traditions. There are many ways to push the envelope stylistically, be progressive, and Bangle’s methodology is not it for everyone.

That said, I admire the guy and have what I think is a plausible theory for why the cars look they way they do. I’m an industrial designer by degree and I know that at the professional level car stylists operate, there are reasons behind almost every design decision. Styling and design may seem arbitrary, nebulous and terribly subjective to the outsider, but one of the fundamentals of design theory is to have a reason, a tie, behind as much of the design as is possible; something beyond “It just looks good.” Styling isn’t purely art, and it’s not purely engineering; it’s a combination, and it can be understood and reasoned with, not fully, but to a much greater degree than is commonly thought.

What does this mean in practical terms? It means that in all good designs, the lines were drawn, sculpted and placed where they were for a purpose, whether that purpose is more on the functional (Ford GT40) or aesthetic (Series 1 E-Type) end of the spectrum. A well-styled car’s lines communicate something, and that’s the reason we can attach adjectives to a car when viewing it like “fast” for a Maserati Ghibli, “feminine” for a Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta Lusso (or conversely, “masculine” for a BMW 850 CSi), “capable” for a Hummer H1 or “stately” for a Rolls-Royce Camargue.

So with that established, we can introduce another premise: Since Bangle has been hired and supported by as prestigious a company as BMW, it’s because they believe he’s a good designer. And since the vast majority of good designers operate to some degree on a more rational, conscious level than pure intuition (the “it just looks good” level) we can infer that Bangle probably has certain thought-out reasons for making the cars look the way they do.

So why do the cars look the way they do? What is Bangle thinking, and what, if anything does he want the cars’ looks to communicate about them? The reasons are especially hard to infer when dealing with cars whose aesthetic qualities (read: ugliness) are difficult to look beyond, with the goal of speculating about them on a more objective level, but they’re there. The primary reason may seem far-fetched, but I think it holds water. It’s best illustrated by drawing a connection between 19th century art history and Bangle’s recent efforts in the realm of car styling.

German styling has traditionally relied on proportion above all else. This means the cars weren’t necessarily flashy, but instead garnered adjectives like “understated,” “classy” or “conservative.” We almost didn’t process the styling elements of the car on a conscious level, we just knew the car “looked good.” The design of the typical German car didn’t stand out, but was functional, efficient, neatly packaged and confident.

And there was something immensely appealing about that, even if we may not have even realized there was a styling process present in the cars’ creation. You see, design is like art in that there are two elements to it—the process and the product. In a painting, for example, these would be the act of creating the painting itself (the technique, paint, movement, studio, subject, circumstances, emotions), and the piece itself, the finished expression. Traditionally, in German cars (pick any BMW, M-B or Audi from the ’80s) and in cars in general to a lesser degree, all we saw was the product. For all we knew the cars’ styling sprang fully-formed from the drawing boards, and the cars looked that way too because of the deliberate confidence of their lines. We only saw the finished expression. German styling at this point was analogous to artwork of the early 19th century–the ideal was the power of the finished product. The smaller and less obvious the brushstrokes the better. More photorealism, more rigid compositions, more structure. And the best paintings of that era certainly have an appeal, both aesthetic and intellectual.

But then the Impressionist movement came along in the mid/late 1800s. All of a sudden we noticed the process behind the product. We saw the brushstrokes; the artists wore their technique on their sleeves. Seurat’s main appeal was his Pointillist technique. Van Gogh’s brush strokes were integral to his artwork. And at the time, many people thought the paintings were aberrations, grotesque, hideous—but the movement revolutionized art.

This, I believe, touches on the reasons behind Bangle’s styling decisions. The lines may seem arbitrary, yes, but we finally notice that the cars are styled, for better or for worse. Basic design “building blocks” of the cars stand out like the trunk on the 6-series or the flanks of the Z4. We may not like the way the cars look, but we have to admit that our perceptions of the process have changed, even if it’s the simple act of noticing there is a process in the first place. It’s almost as if we can see the “brushstrokes” still present in the styling. Simply put, “Bangle-ism” is Impressionism for cars.

Take it or leave it, but think about it the next time a 7-series drives by or you read an article about an M6 in a magazine.

* * * * * *

Small sidebar: The recent attempts to “scale back” Bangle influence (read: E90 and 7-series restyle) and incorporate more traditional BMW styling themes are not a move in the right direction. I’ve always been of the opinion that if you adhere to a design philosophy, adhere to it fully, and the resultant “hybrid” styling creations have none of the intellectual appeal of Bangle’s initial, unencumbered work or the intellectual and aesthetic appeal of the traditional BMW look. They’re not hot or cold but lukewarm in terms of their styling loyalties but represent inferior styling efforts to Bangle’s more radical work.

Originally posted here.

1. I want to find a more liberally-inclined talk radio station in the area, an Air America affiliate or something. I listen to Rush over my lunch break and I feel lopsided in terms of the punditry I’m exposed to. I listen to NPR driving to and from work, but that doesn’t entirely cancel out the conservative spin I’m privy to most days.

2. As of yesterday I have a custom-made splint on my left hand, aiding mobility (specifically typing and driving stick) greatly. It’s lighter, more conformal, and best of all it’s removable, which means I can go running again, my favorite thing, with no worries about the bandage getting dirty and smelly. Still have to do the plastic-bag-over-the-hand routine when taking a shower, by I’m pretty good at that by now.

3. Hung out with the home group folks last night for the first time in a while. Really enjoyed it. We talked about directions for the group next year and what, if anything in particular, we’d like to study. We talked about other Vintage 21 (the church the home group is affiliated with) home groups and how a lot of them that members of our group have experience with have difficulty sometimes making the transition from purely social interaction to applying themselves collectively to studying Scripture or discussing an issue or what-have-you. The point was then well made that our group has the reverse problem–we have trouble interacting on a purely social level sometimes (not always), but discussing and wrestling in depth with the topic for the night has never been a challenge. The recent camping trip in particular illustrated this–I thought there’d be a lot more interaction around the campfire and the day before than there was. Not to say it wasn’t great fun–it was–but it was different than expected on some levels.

Regardless, I’m really going to miss everyone when I move to Winston. They’ve been the closest thing I’ve had to a group for the majority of the past year.

4. Do you ever wonder whether it’s your destiny in life to remain single? Or for you guys out there, as Hao so eloquently put it last night, a member of the “Bachelor ’til the Rapture” club? I’ve wondered it lately. I think about my desires and motivations, and certainly they’re not all in the green and certainly God can alter what He wills, but the idea of having a family, or even marrying someone, seems very distant these days. I don’t know that I could attach a particular non-neutral emotion to it like longing or hope or despair… “distant” is about the best I can do. Most of the time I don’t even give it a second thought.

This post is right on the money. Not only that, but it serves as a point of contact with the languishing (dare I say dead?) connection between the modern Christian community and any semblance of real creativity.

When I lived in St. Augustine I would walk through the pedestrian streets downtown, and amid many worthwhile shops (there was an awesome kite store) were not one, but two Thomas Kinkade galleries. Every time I went into them (usually with visiting friends), I couldn’t help thinking the “art” on the wall at least had a slight kinship with pop art like Andy Warhol’s–it was mass-produced. Beyond that observation…I strained to find praise. The post linked to above sums up the rest.

I’m coming down hard on Kinkade, probably unfairly. But exchange a few terms, names and comparisons and the theme rings true in fields as diverse as popular music, literature and everywhere in between. Just earlier tonight my mom was listening to “Celtic-influenced” Christian music on internet radio, and I remarked to her that Celtic music seemed to be the only external arena mainstream Christian music had ever found it acceptable to borrow from. There was a brief flirtation with Celtic themes in the late ’90s, that fizzled out, and they’re back to playing follow the leader, and even that not very well.

In all fairness, the music establishment in this country is pretty wrecked from the get-go, and there’s little awry with the Christian music industry that isn’t present to some degree in the larger music industry. But still…there’s something in me that’s powerfully drawn to creativity, and that part of me views the community I’m a part of and its interface with the artistic community, and I can’t help wanting to build a bridge between the two. What form it would take I don’t know–discussion group, studio, even just coaching an Odyssey of the Mind team. But I know it can happen.

And…that’s enough typing with one hand. Ouch. Cramp, cramp…

So I’m typing this with one hand. The surgery went fine. Other than the complete affront to dignity that is the hospital gown. I’m still a little loopy from the anesthetic but otherwise okay. They put one pin in. I can’t feel my whole left arm. It’s like somebody else’s arm is hanging across my chest in a sling. I get Vicodin in a couple of hours, yay. But I would really like to go for a run and other active stuff… Oh well.

Thanks for your prayers and well-wishes, everybody :)

I could never start smoking. Not because I wouldn’t take to it, but because I’d like it too much. I already fancy the smell in small, isolated doses, and it’s exactly the sort of activity with the chops to become a staple of my existence, like hummus or Wikipedia or preferring to drink Coke out of an aluminum can. Can’t explain it any more rationally than that, just know that I can’t start doing it.

On the other hand, re-pierce my ear, move to a Parisian suburb, get a subscription to Paris Match, grow out my hair a little bit, develop a fondness for Gauloises and my Eurodork conversion is complete. Which I would actually like very much.

Oh, I’m having surgery on my finger tomorrow, what joy is mine. Evidently I did a real bang-up job breaking this thing–two places and tore a ligament too. It’s the $350 deductible that’s the real shot, though. But at least that’s all it is. And the procedure’s outpatient and (in theory) 45 minutes. Then after the pain meds kick in I can get back to operating my backhoes and dumptrucks, huzzah!

1. The best music really does come from overseas. Continuing my magical mystery weekend video tour, I just finished Live Forever, an excellent documentary on the Britpop phenomenon in the U.K. during the mid-to-late ’90s. Great interviews (the Gallagher boys are especially good–and funny) and just fantastic music. The fact alone that often the most progressive, the most musically creative stuff is also the most popular in Britain cements the country’s status as having the best musical talent. I mean, what sells the most over here during any given week? The rap group du jour? More butt-rock? The latest quasi-indie “it” band? What has topped the charts in Britain? Portishead, Massive Attack, Underworld, Tricky, Blur, the list goes on–all on the cutting edge in their time. The country as a whole just has far better musical taste than our own. Mary, have you seen this documentary?

2. Fixed the car today. With a plastic bag taped over my left hand. Ever since I replaced the front main seal a week and a half ago, the car would start and run fine, but seemed a little down on power and would ping under moderate load when warm. I had a sneaking suspicion that the cam sprocket was out of phase with the crankshaft, since I’ve had to pull off the timing belt several times in the past couple of months and there’s a good chance things had gotten out of sync. Sure enough, the cam was almost 30 degrees (!) off. I can’t for the life of me guess how the car still drove…my only conjecture is the fact that the distributor is driven off the cam, uses a Hall sensor and controls all advance electronically… The ECU must have been retarding the timing as much as it possibly could the whole time the car was running. In any case, it’s fixed; no more pinging, and the car feels like it’s picked up at least 10-15 hp. It pulls very smartly above 3.5K in second and third now. Runs very well indeed.

3. I’m feeling much better today. Still have a bit of a cough, but almost all the congestion is gone and my energy levels are nominal again. Thanks for your prayers and concern, everyone.

4. I discovered the anime shelf at the video store and was overjoyed to find an episode of City Hunter, a Japanese cartoon I used to watch in France during the late ’80s, dubbed into French under the title Nicky Larson (the protagonist’s name in the French version). It has a kind of pseudo-James Bond-ish secret agent detective-for-hire premise, with an alternately lecherous/heroic lead character. The animation is quite fluid and good, and some parts are hilarious. It was fun to watch again after a dozen years or so.

I actually called in sick to work today. First time I’ve done that in, well…forever. I’ve gone home early; I’ve come in late, but I’ve never called off a day entire.

So I’m feeling pretty bad. Congested, cold, loss of appetite–the whole nine yards. My parents are gone to the mountains for the weekend and I’m holding down the fort alone. I plan to veg out and convalesce. I went out earlier in the 96 degree heat, just in the interest of getting out of the house, and it about did me in. I did rent a couple of movies, though: Jeux D’Enfants, this nice-looking French film, and The Aviator, which I hadn’t seen before but watched first. Bad idea. My mind is in a muggy state, being half-congested, and Scorsese paints such a convincing portrait of a Hughes as a germophobic, eccentric recluse that I felt myself getting drawn into the characterization, all vegged-out on the couch by myself watching the screen. Very surreal. I’m not germophobic, but I might consider myself at least slightly eccentric, certainly a “recluse” tonight (though not of my own volition), and I most definitely have a passion for aircraft, so…it was a little much, the movie. I need to read a book or watch something upbeat to take the edge off. I made myself eat some leftovers earlier, so at least I’m good on that front. I’m going to go lie down again.

Wow, I feel terrible. I think (hope?) I’ve hit the nadir of my appointed time in illness and it’s all uphill from here. Sore throat, cough, runny nose, fatigue, the works. I should really go home.

On the other hand, my voice does sound really cool. I’m definitely rocking the Barry White/James Earl Jones impressions. I think I’m going to rerecord my voicemail message.

Everyone seems to be predisposed to take these things as the gospel truth. Even the website itself puts forth the memos’ only real claims to authenticity: an anonymous “former senior U.S. official” and the fact that the memos’ veracity hasn’t been unequivocally commented on by either administration. That’s pretty shaky evidence if you ask me. The last time such tenuous “leads” were the only sources for a media report, Dan Rather had a wee bit of explaining to do.

I’m not claiming the memos are a fabrication–of course I don’t know. I’m just saying that we should greet them with the same amount of healthy skepticism we do toward the seeming evidence there were plausible reasons for going to war. There are so many people out there eager to prove Bush lied outright or acted with malice in initiating the war that they’ll grab at anything at all that shows the promise of it.

My parents and I finally bought a house in Winston-Salem today. Well, technically it’s under contract and we close in about a month, but the process has begun. Pictures here. The larger ones I took myself and the smaller ones are off the website. More pictures will come later, I suppose. I’d like to put a table out on that front porch. It’d be a great outside dining area when it gets a little cooler in the fall. No garage, and a pitifully small driveway (especially for myself and two roommates), but I’ll manage. Carport, perhaps?

I feel absolutely useless with this cast on my left hand. Useless. A rubber exhaust hanger broke on my car a few days ago, and after only today discovering the source of the offending rattling it caused, I couldn’t even fix the thing without driving home and putting the floor jack underneath the muffler canister before maneuvering everything back into place. And even then I had to tie a bag over my left hand to keep it from getting too dirty. Useless. I’m going to be a pretty grumpy old man if I lose a substantial part of my mobility as I get older, I can tell…

Well, it’s busted. My finger, that is. In medical terms, I have a fracture of the articular surface of my left pinkie, which means I broke the bone right down at the joint. My hand and wrist are all wrapped up in a cast, and I go back on Friday to have an occupational doctor fit me with something a bit less obtrusive. Regardless, no car work for me for a good while (unless it’s a task I can accomplish entirely with my right hand, like changing oil). Setting the bone was fun–they didn’t have to do that when I broke my left wrist about 15 years ago. The actual pulling of the finger and crunching the bone back into position wasn’t so bad,but the application of the local anesthetic required to numb up the region in question was interesting. Nothing quite like the feeling of having fluid inserted underneath one’s skin…

I think I’m getting sick, too. I don’t think I’ve been sick since… Fall ’03? So I’m overdue. Fortunately it’s not too bad–just a sore throat and general fatigue so far, and it’s unlikely to get worse (knock on wood).

The good news about yesterday is that I bought Loveless by My Bloody Valentine and it’s a thing of beauty. It’s vibrant, radiant, so alive, and the sound has the level of production I’ve been missing for years from the rock I listen to.

Going to Cary to help a friend move tonight. I will likely be of limited utility, but I will borrow the pickup truck and do what I can.

camping pictures

Just got back from camping at Linville Gorge. Splendid time, except for the fact that I am typing quite laboriously at the moment since I broke/sprained (we don’t know yet–the urgent care place’s x-ray machine was on the fritz) my left pinky finger after slipping on a mossy rock in mid-stream while swimming down in the gorge. Consequently, my left hand is all wrapped up in “Ace Wrap” for the time being, and I look like the world’s tallest, skinniest boxer after taping up one hand in preparation for a fifteen-rounder…

Took loads of pictures too. Attempted to go stargazing last night but was thwarted by an overcast sky (although the soft, constant breeze blowing up from the gorge over the top of the west ridge, where our camp was, almost made up for it). Oh well.

I cannot believe this recent Supreme Court ruling. I read it yesterday and was beside myself.

From the NY Times article:

“Promoting economic development is a traditional and long accepted function of government,” Justice Stevens said, adding, “Clearly, there is no basis for exempting economic development from our traditionally broad understanding of public purpose.”

It may be a “traditional function” in the sense that government always tries to meddle constructively with the economic system, but government forays into that area have almost always been inefficient and fraught with mediocrity.

Not to mention the fact that the ruling opens the door for all sorts of governmental abuses. I can understand the standard liberal position that, “Oh, no one will ever go that far…” but you have to come down from your fuzzy pink cloud sometime and wake up to the reality of human nature coupled with that kind of power. Fourth Amendment anyone?

Justice O’Connor, in dissenting, sums up the possibilities:

“Under the banner of economic development, all private property is now vulnerable to being taken and transferred to another private owner, so long as it might be upgraded.” […] She added: “The specter of condemnation hangs over all property. Nothing is to prevent the state from replacing any Motel 6 with a Ritz-Carlton, any home with a shopping mall or any farm with a factory.”

I sincerely hope the ruling will be overturned.

What’s wrong with the American auto industry?

The Big Three’s bread-and-butter cars are decidedly lackluster compared to their foreign counterparts. In the latest issue of Newsweek, there’s a two-page ad for Buick inside the front cover. The central selling point of this advertisement praises the plant where the car is manufactured for having won a J.D. Power award. The ad doesn’t spotlight any of the car’s attributes. Not even standard feature lists or warranty comparisons (that Chrysler was so fond of in the early ’90s when all their cars were dogs). No–the plant is evidently the car’s strongest selling point versus its competitors. Have we really sunk that far?

GM is offering ridiculous rebates. Everywhere I look market share is dropping. But as I’ve heard it said many times, the problem is that American car manufacturers, on average, just aren’t making anything Americans want to buy.

Toyota’s introducing a very well-engineered line of hybrid luxury cars. Honda’s making forays into the SUV/truck market with the Ridgeline, which despite naysayers is going to be a big hit. And the list goes on… Technological innovations are being incorporated left and right in mainstream cars–mainstream import cars. Where’s the long-term vision of American manufacturers?

It’s clear a radical shift of the business model is in order. What I see happening is another event like the one that transpired in the auto industry in the early ’70s: Another energy crisis will hit, and American manufacturers will scramble to adapt to market conditions foreign companies had forseen and prepared for years in advance. Market share will plummet, and just as import carmarkers grabbed a much larger slice of the pie back in the ’70s, the upcoming energy crisis will be their cataylst for outright dominance of the American market.

What do you think? What should American manufacturers do make themselves more competitive, beyond a simple answer like “build better cars?”

Originally posted here.