tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17516499902192915252024-03-04T23:18:31.628-08:00Bravo.Delta.Romeo.Five.Two.NinerMr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-48648821458377005032009-10-16T07:27:00.000-07:002009-10-16T07:43:13.707-07:00DreamsI awoke this morning in a terrible state. I was confused and alarmed, based on the dream from which I just left.<br /><br />I was going over an assignment. Wait, it is due today. I had a book that I hadn't read. The assignment, I thought, was to write a short bit about some topic in the book I liked. The book was about...(and now I forget). But I had a good idea in my head on how to bullshit a few pages out of that idea.<br /><br />Then the horror came, as I looked closer at the assignment, which was several pages long. It was as if I hadn't read it before, as if I just made it up in my head. I needed to write a ten page paper on a topic the instructor had selected (there were ten to choose from). Also required were at least 5 scholarly articles and 5 book sources to support my arguments. Now I was faced with something that would take all of my energy!<br /><br />I was prepared to sit at my computer for the next 3 hours and write and write, but not think. Now I had to think and choose a topic, go to a database and find some info (which I know how to do, thankfully). But what if the articles I need aren't available immediately? I have no time for ILL! And how am I supposed to get at these books? Read/skim them? Find all of the ideas and then formulate my own?<br /><br />I only had five hours until class. This was impossible. I didn't panic, though. I went straightaway to depression. Then weaseling. What could I say to buy more time? Could I just call in sick? Have a friend hit me (ever so gently) with his car? Fill the classroom with a chemical smell that would induce vomiting? I needed to either get class canceled for everyone, or just me. But then I still had to do this assignment, somehow, real soon.<br /><br />And then I woke up, realized I wasn't a college student, and had no such pressing troubles. I need to stop working the reference desk at night.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlcM9BMZ2TOls7TQ52w-RZX7Ibuwgg2GMUUBn6TSEyqD9DWsnUGvhi3YGpCc8weEq6anuaDerIsqxqgHKNqalfgt6bTpIdHtlI4EqfNUkwYO4Jp_Ql1mqgQ02mXDLvJ2tx_tv9f7R6yc/s1600-h/studying.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUlcM9BMZ2TOls7TQ52w-RZX7Ibuwgg2GMUUBn6TSEyqD9DWsnUGvhi3YGpCc8weEq6anuaDerIsqxqgHKNqalfgt6bTpIdHtlI4EqfNUkwYO4Jp_Ql1mqgQ02mXDLvJ2tx_tv9f7R6yc/s400/studying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393208149404329714" border="0" /></a>Damn you, lazy students!<br /></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-24006767495923435382009-07-20T15:31:00.000-07:002009-07-20T16:05:26.792-07:00It Was The Best of TimesLast week I went to <a href="http://www.craftsbury.com/running/camps/home.htm">running camp</a> in Vermont. It was an entirely wonderful experience.<br /><br />My friend, Jason, said that within one day of attending last year he knew I would love it, and he was right. I almost didn't go, for financial reasons, but a wise colleague of mine encouraged me to enjoy life while I can. It was within reason to do so, therefore I went.<br /><br />Running camp conjured up strange visions before I went. The only camp I had previously attended was church camp as a wee lad. That did not endear me to the prospect. For me, camp was nothing but an adolescent nightmare, or so I recall. But I was assured that it was completely fun and worth it. Boy was it ever.<br /><br />We ran, we learned, we met new and terrific people, we were coached and guided into the finer qualities of running performance and training, we ate, drank and were merry. For those of whom running is a natural passion, this place is a great boon to the soul. It completely jump-started my confidence and desire to press on with my running. Not only as a way to drive towards a goal, but also as a way to feel more comfortable with myself. I feel that I am much happier after running; it is something I need to do. Writers write. Readers read. Runners run.<br /><br />The people were amazing. All of the other campers ranged widely in age and personality. Even though we all share the same sport, we all had different strengths and weaknesses. Everyone welcomed each other and liked conversing with strangers. By the end of the week, I felt that I was with a small class reunion. When it came time to leave, it was like leaving college buddies behind. Although I didn't get to talk with everyone equally, I'm positive that we all would have had a great time for weeks to come.<br /><br />The coaches made all the difference. They taught me how all of the ingredients for running that I had been around over the years made sense into one big recipe for me. Some things needed tweaking - some more, some less. When I left, I felt I had success within my grasp; all I need to do is execute.<br /><br />Also, I must say that Vermont is gorgeous. It is the only New England state which I have visited, but it seems like the closest the US has to Switzerland. The mountains aren't as tall, but they are very beautiful. Brilliant shades of green abound. It was quite a contrast from drought-stricken Texas with all it's browns, and also quite a relief.<br /><br />I feel so enthusiastic and happy to have a running goal. I plan to run the San Antonio Marathon on November 15. We'll see if this unbridled optimism lasts the coming months, when I have to go out running past dark or in the intense heat, and especially when I've worked twelve hours day in and day out. I hope I fight the good fight. Here's to the future.<br /><br />And to the sea!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivg0B41yCwWuOjRKB_9qy03M6aV2pkfo9qOZTWgvyT7New-IWRa-J1KqmH4bC8YZH7dapscuAwf8sjJBvD3Xwn7E0eiVm9Y0kcVqzI3tLV7sNmB_Nl6BsWPnGWlk_SHDr2zUlDN8ZwC7E/s1600-h/homer_running.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivg0B41yCwWuOjRKB_9qy03M6aV2pkfo9qOZTWgvyT7New-IWRa-J1KqmH4bC8YZH7dapscuAwf8sjJBvD3Xwn7E0eiVm9Y0kcVqzI3tLV7sNmB_Nl6BsWPnGWlk_SHDr2zUlDN8ZwC7E/s400/homer_running.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360681427135919458" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-30703015614745962622009-07-09T17:12:00.000-07:002009-07-09T17:59:55.418-07:00The Filthy TwoLast night I was challenged to a workout by a friend of mine called the Filthy Two. Offered really. He had devised a body weight workout of repetition and time, involving push ups and either pull ups or bicep curls. This is an adaptation of another, more intense workout, he says. I say challenge, because it sounded difficult and I love to prove I'm up to the task. A little bit like Marty McFly, part of me never wants to back down from a challenge. I mean, I know what's dangerous or impossible, or at least I think I do, but sometimes I don't know what is prudent. That makes all the difference.<br /><br />Despite my <a href="http://deltaoscarindiatango.tumblr.com/post/72626451/the-p-word">routine</a> of push ups at work, it's not really a replacement for a healthy, sweaty workout. Exercise? Yes, technically. Good for me? Better than nothing. Preparation for difficult things? Not hardly. This filthy workout starts out with successive push up intervals of fifteen (I could change the number to suit me - which I will next time) every minute. That means only twenty to thirty seconds of rest between intervals. Same with the pullups/bicep curls. After three intervals, my arms were dead. You see, at work, my intervals are spaced out by an hour, leaving plenty of rest. So now, with more than ninety percent of the workout left, my body was as strong and helpless as an injured baby rabbit. I was unable to even contemplate trying the remainder. But the challenge sat there, unabated.<br /><br />I squeaked out a few repetitions per interval remaining. The bicep curls fared better. They involved using something like rubber surgical hose. But it sure did burn. I did the final push up repetitions on my knees. So sad. At least I didn't cry. Outwardly. It was a thoroughly humbling experience.<br /><br />I know I've said this <a href="http://bravodelatromeo.blogspot.com/2008/11/i-was-not-prepared.html">before</a>, and I'm not sure why it bears repeating. I suppose the lesson I learned is that no matter how well I think I'm doing, I can always be shown a better, harder way. I remember when I was a kid, some wise person said, "There's always someone on the planet who is better than the best." It sounds like a paradox. I thought about Olympic Gold Medalists. I mean, they're supposed to be the best in the world. Yet, there could always be someone in the outlying areas who doesn't compete, but who is very capable; someone who could unseat the hero of the sport in front of a shocked populace.<br /><br />Push up performance, especially at this low level, hardly seems like a worthy topic. But it indicates, at least for me, a pattern of ups and downs, feast and famine. We all go through periods of excitement and encouragement, then boredom and fatigue. I haven't really learned anything, per se, other than the feeling of my body's shame at being weaker than I thought. Aging, such as it is for someone so young, is starting to become more of a hindrance to my freewheeling attitudes toward fitness. Pretty soon, life, as well.<br /><br />Every moment of this day I've felt the soreness, the pain, and the uncomfortableness of jumping in the deep end without my floaties. Next time I'll try not to wreck my 4x4 into a limo and maybe just do what I can and go on from there. Greatness is a road with a map you make, not busting ass through the untamed forest because you see something shiny on the other side.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Paradise_Lost_9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyNZRJuVEGCi4j4MjCVVz7goXg7dMHArxhLw5TRZ7ufQ6fFyb1n_5_rPXQRpCY_vuY-x3rmwepz2HTxC9LIX6k5htkhzajr8hchhxwxqoRbh7Ka2MWurOKofkqJzx0L5UMbyufG01onc/s400/Paradise_Lost_9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356629233673284258" border="0" /></a>Oh! But had I only done but a few push ups! They always said <span style="font-style: italic;">gradual increases</span>, and now it is all but a lake of fire!Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-11913886853609245452009-05-10T11:54:00.000-07:002009-05-10T12:23:10.848-07:00Cabin FeverSo, I'm house/pet sitting for a colleague at work. She and her husband have an old dalmation that is awesome, and four crazy cats. But when I say crazy, I mean totally bat shit insane. <div><br /></div><div>It's like they all live in this prison house. Kind of like Patrick McGoohan in <a href="http://www.amctv.com/originals/the-prisoner-1960s-series/">The Prisoner</a>. It's comfortable, people are there to take care of you, and there's no escape. All the cats live in a tense cease fire, like the DMZ between North and South Korea. They don't get along.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the cats, we'll call him Mr. Orange (for obvious reasons), is very friendly with people. Any people. This cat is in love with people. He will try to make out with you if you let your guard down. It's harassment. He's very fun and cute and cuddly. But he's evil to everything else. Have you ever heard how charming sociopaths are? You know, the nice guy next door who no one ever suspected. It couldn't be him, he's so nice! Yeah, unless you're the cat that he hunts down in the night.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two of the other cats are some weird kind of black and white, old-ass, bathroom carpets. They look like hell. I have no idea how old they are, but they appear to be playmates of Cleopatra's cats. We'll call them MM. Noir et Blanc. They are super old dudes who are terrorized by Mr. Orange, everyday, all of time. </div><div><br /></div><div>The last cat, Mr. Siamese, if you please, is the aloof, cool guy who doesn't need any hassles from anybody. He chills by himself and keeps one eye open to monitor his surroundings. The dalmation, Mrs. Dalmation, acts like the UN peacekeeping force. No disrespect, but she gets in there at every disturbance with some barking, but doesn't actually do anything. Her job, apparently, is to make me aware of whatever is going on. When I look up, the cats have resumed normal cat positions from whatever battle mode they were in. The look all innocent and boring. But Mrs. Dalmation knows different.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, I was sitting at the dining table, reading the movies section of the paper, and all of them were hanging about around my feet, loitering as if there was nothing to do in this prison except pretend to act cool. M. Noir keeps a healthy distance from Mr. Orange, but M. Blanc is more brave. So, we're sitting there, and it's quiet - a little too quiet. I look down at the bunch. Mrs. Dalmation is laying down on my foot, tail furiously wagging, but eyes arched up, spotting the locations of the feline brood. The others look around at each other, suspicious of everything, every noise, every breeze, every whisker's movement. </div><div><br /></div><div>They act all calm and boring, but their eyes show better. They are entrenched in a life-long game of cat and cat. It's like a sub crew. Five months of trolling the north seas, waiting, listening, maneuvering for signs of an enemy sub, with only thirty seconds of intense action, causing the whole thing to start again. More waiting, more watching. </div><div><br /></div><div>They must have made their peace with this situation a long time ago. Otherwise they would be dead of stress. All except Mr. Orange. He is in control. He has nothing to fear, because he is the nightmare shared by everyone else. He is the baddest cat in town. I wonder, though, if someday this week I'll get off work and see him on top of the book case and the others surrounding it, looking up with much interest. Mrs. Dalmation will drag me over and bark, "See what's going on!"</div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-66806383512626604092009-04-05T11:22:00.000-07:002009-04-05T15:59:25.142-07:00WoZ musings"You're not in Kansas, anymore! Eh?"<div><br /></div><div>This is the response to my answer of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">where are you from?</span> I heroically put on a grin and say, "Nope, I guess not. What!" But deep inside, I'm thinking, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">how original, you schmuck.</span> That's not fair, because they actually think they <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">are</span> being original. And funny. So what's the harm in that?</div><div><br /></div><div>Kansas seems to suffer from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of Oz</span> syndrome. That's what I call it. It's where one famous thing follows you around and defines your entire existence. This happens to actors all of the time, like George Reeves (the TV Superman) or Bob Saget. I think some people deal with it better than others. When I think of Kansas, I don't think of that totally kick-ass movie, but of my favorite childhood memories: riding in a combine, fields of sunflowers, hot summers, snowy winters, church potlucks, and lots of dirt roads in mile grids. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, according to the first chapter of the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard o<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">f Oz</span>, Kansas blows. Disregarding the terrible pun, Baum talks about how much life in Kansas is like a soulless, colorless hell. Everything, including the mud, grass and house paint had been turned grey by the omnipresent sun. Aunt Em, once a pretty girl with a sparkle in her eye, is now old, gaunt, without a smile, and all of her features are grey. She doesn't even know how to react to a child's innocent laughter, except by clutching at her heart and being horrified at that alien sound. L. Frank Baum on Kansas: it's where hopes and dreams go to die.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Admittedly, after all of her adventures, Dorothy realizes "there's no place like home." So, I guess that makes it all okay, or something. I can't fault Baum, he wrote a captivating kids story that spawned many book sequels and several movies, including that one in 1939 which is nothing short of amazing. But one that many people don't know about was directed by Baum, himself (at least, in the credits). It's called <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0004099/">His Majesty, </a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0004099/">The Scarecrow of Oz</a> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">(1914)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">.</span> And it's frightening. The makeup from the silent era, being very overused to compensate for the poor camera quality, was way too much, and the general clunkiness of the other costumes made it look like <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/opiummuseum/2909387714/in/set-72157607495777601/">halloweens gone by</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the years, many academics have written literary criticism over this delightful story. Some say the silver slippers were a dig at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gold_standard">gold standard</a>. There is also some mention that Baum's populist beliefs litter the story. When I was a kid, I thought that was a load of bulljive. How could a kid's story say one thing, but be about another? Also, politics and economics were really boring, and I would never, ever be concerned about those. Never. Now I find myself following such matters with a tiny interest, but nonetheless interest just the same. It seems possible to me that Baum, despite his protestations to the contrary in the introduction, did write in some allegory and such. I don't want to wade too far into the river of literary criticism on this one, lest I get too big for my britches. Wait, that metaphor doesn't even make sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>One time in college, I took a class on the history of the book. In it we had to use an old printing press to print a bunch of pamphlets, just like printers did before the industrial revolution. Our instructor split us up into groups and let us decide what text our group would print. What would be appropriate? Well, I thought, a passage from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of O</span>z would be fitting. I can't remember what it was now, but it was on the money, I promise you. And so did everyone else in my group, except for Walt R_____. This older gentleman complained that L. Frank Baum was a racist who advocated the extermination of the American Indian, and we shouldn't use that passage because of that. Thus, all my support in the group dwindled and we went with something from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Little Prince</span>, instead. That was a cool book, too, so I didn't feel so bad. But Walt, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">you damn rascal</span>, made me look like a fool!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, this was all just a meandering afternoon's thought on the strange and exciting effect one man's creativity has wrought upon my life. I hope that after reading it you feel like sitting down with some popcorn and watch the movie. Or maybe buy some poor little orphan a copy of the books. Give him some popcorn, too. He's probably hungry.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUGUAFT9_JQmKBaFBOxNbbUEEqdL8nAgwho1wNgnADkExRWcNJAnszBoFlwhWYNraWxfNPC_OGTigxLGxOrd59VvjAqlG-HQlOVHt_QugkkqaO41GmGpRsloBU_CYtWjHA_-8_a_DXI14/s400/scarecrow+of+oz.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321289371057276466" /><div style="text-align: center;">Shhh! I'm trying to scare children! Because that's all I'm good for.<br /></div></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-89342327830173924532009-03-02T19:18:00.000-08:002009-03-20T07:44:27.124-07:00Bonjour<div style="text-align: left;">I just read an <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/science/article5805522.ece">article</a> in which linguistic scientists are trying to work out a time-traveler's phrase book. That sounds incredibly cool! Hardly anyone thinks about time travel and not being able to communicate. Sure, they probably have different accent or something, but you could still understand them, right? Well, this article says, sure, some words would work out. But that's like maybe five or six.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Time travel is a fun topic to plumb, because we'll probably never come close to knowing. I hope in writing that I'm jinxing the whole thing and someone travels back in time tomorrow. So, what's in store for him? Let's pretend he goes to the 6th century A.D. in North America. Except, it's not called that.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's called New China. But the natives speak perfect French. Our astounded traveler is baffled. Not only was he hoping to parlez in English, but he's been thrown this impossible curve. How could this have happened? How could inhabitants who immigrated across a land bridge from Asia be speaking courtly French, who haven't even established their language yet from across the pond?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I'll tell you why: because it's time travel. Since it is an impossible (at this time) development of which we know nothing, then anything could happen, really. Who's to say that our guy is the first one who went back. It could have been H.G. Wells. Or Amelia Earhart. Or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoine_de_Saint-Exup%C3%A9ry">Antoine de Saint-Exupery</a>. He spoke French. And who knows when and where he went back. Or for what purpose. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, what about the universe this time traveler visits? Is it ours? Or as Back to the Future hypothesizes, one of many infinite alternate 1985's? Perhaps he goes back and it's too crazy to explain away. Like Hunter S. Thompson at your mom's New Year's party. So what is the goal there? Living with the tribal Native Americans who speak French and hunt abominable snowmen during the invisible ice age with internal-combustion engine-powered hovercraft and binoculars could be fun. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I was this traveler, my goals would be thus: try to survive and not die (priority), befriend everyone and become the cool guy at the party, find my way back to my original reality, and if all else fails, then try to leave my archeological mark in such a way as to make no mistake what happened to me, or failing that, scare the shit out of future generations.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQtiUxskiSZpOJA67MVsogpj2HvBO1A4uWHndKIVLb1tvoHbwHJxjuM3ig9_r4gfT10kfWQktYtoJ5DEjd9K3RRl-Gv_h9mhRBSPgrnl4cCl-KLq9bQrOA-bkuX_F6tjFRSnaRqzSWrs/s1600-h/back_to_the_future.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQtiUxskiSZpOJA67MVsogpj2HvBO1A4uWHndKIVLb1tvoHbwHJxjuM3ig9_r4gfT10kfWQktYtoJ5DEjd9K3RRl-Gv_h9mhRBSPgrnl4cCl-KLq9bQrOA-bkuX_F6tjFRSnaRqzSWrs/s400/back_to_the_future.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308815934096629538" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left; display: block; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">UPDATE: </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.qwantz.com/archive/001430.html">http://www.qwantz.com/archive/001430.html</a><br /></div></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-8629345158537579422009-02-09T18:52:00.000-08:002009-02-09T19:43:56.504-08:00I Die Alone: or The Shite Knife<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Last fall, with all of the politics floating around in the air, you could find stories in the paper that made you fear the world as we know it was ending. This was the argument of those people wanting to get elected, because they were the ones who would stop it with their particular brand of American know-how. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Philosophically, one could make the argument that the world is always ending, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">as we know it</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, because we don't know the future; we can only make guesses based on our previous knowledge and experience. Some people act as if they do the same things like they always have, then everything won't change and it will all be okay. In many cases this is true, but we can't stem the tide of our global society, and we can't forestall all that we do not know, which is a lot.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">However, I remain positive about humans and our ability to survive, if only we would take advantage of it. How we survive, alone or as a society is totally up to us. I think we are a resourceful lot. Global warming? No problem. Economic troubles? Ain't no thing. Zombies? We already train for that via video games and movies. This is a wonderful world to live in and try to stay living in. Our opportunities are endless, even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Last fall I also read a blog post describing a story by an anthropologist studying various disappearing cultures in the world. He recounted the story of the </span><a href="http://www.boingboing.net/2008/09/26/wade-davis-an-inuit.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">shit knife</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Basically, an elderly Inuit wouldn't go along with his relatives into the modern world. They took all of his tools to force him to be dependent upon them and join the exodus. He stole off in the night after making a knife out of his own feces, fashioning a sled out of a dog he killed, and used another dog to pull him to freedom. This is a crude, but beautiful story of determination. That guy wasn't going to live in a city.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But when it comes to our problems, even mine, it is easy to feel like we have no control or that sometimes they are too hard to try and solve. After reading that, I refuse to think that solutions aren't out there when we need them. We may not realize them at the time, but we need to keep looking. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is a great time for information. Maybe the greatest ever. Every second. The sharing of information, the prevalence on the Internet, the publication rate is all growing at an exponential rate. So many people are researching, trying, and finding out new things; they are indexing found knowledge and putting it out there like never before. This is one advantage to having six billion people on the planet. Not every knowable thing is available. But don't give up. You might find the story of a shit knife, and that might inspire you to not give up and butcher your problem with a pointy pile of your own crap. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ew.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlZ8evBUFhVpAaNrVuqCbQUlP4w-fJTM141JBLngWDlgtUab4kchj29CcvEvYY7kVVRyHkBLBZzueODdKKaqg500iGphAXoYTxzhbTCmKP2OE7uschdofQKDMJgBkBtAg7qW0iItkYAE/s400/crusoe.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301006030537563346" /></div></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-23331761089894346482009-02-02T17:15:00.000-08:002009-02-02T17:41:38.653-08:00DetailsI recently saw a movie in which the main character would have died a pretty terrible death had not his captors tied him to a pipe hanging from the ceiling, which he was able to forcibly pull down, break the bolt supporting it, and thus earn his freedom. So, if one thinks about it a little too carefully, that bolt supporting the pipe is a crucial element towards the resolution of the plot. Of course, the movie doesn't dwell on this, because it isn't really crucial at all.<div><br /></div><div>However, I want to stay on that topic. There are endless movies where a major plot point occurs because of the character's ability to do something pretty incredible. Not past the limit of physics in many cases, but venturing into the real of really damn lucky. So, what if they weren't?</div><div><br /></div><div>What if instead there was an alternate universe, of which there could be an infinite supply, where something didn't go so right. Like in this movie, we see a couple of engineers arguing over the size of the bolts used to support a certain pipe. One says that a size 8 will do, as it will support the weight of the 3-inch pipe with no problem. But the other pleads, "Yes, but let's say someone is goofing around and hanging off of the pipe. It can't support the weight of a, say, six-foot five-inch guy. And if he pulls the pipe down, lots of pressurized steam could<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> likely</span> spray in some innocent bystander's face, all the while filling the catwalk with dense steam. It would be hard to see through and anyone else in the area would be confused and might easily run into someone blindly and accidentally push them off the catwalk onto the dangerous machinery below. All because some guy was horsing around." </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Of course, the other engineer wouldn't even listen to the whole thing. That's crazy. They certainly don't have to over engineer things for these movie eventualities. But if I was the first engineer, I would say, "You know, I bet that would totally happen. Let's reinforce it." Then the time comes when our protagonist is chained to the pipe and needs to pull down real hard, kick some faces and spray some steam. But it won't work. Panic comes across his face and a knife goes into his belly. Cut to the two honest engineers, giving a thumbs-up because their pipe didn't break. The end.</div><div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYt-Ce17k5hWiATPek6osCgZio6eNzzkPIHgXMXqPWQENr1strr5llPFqjY1v0XoD0UZ-AAySo-aEvlYrp7g8AzuP5BhT5m0VqkToMUYtvzY1q6QIMcmhRmjWS-0UAPuIoCxK7p-FQaaA/s400/One-hundred,_ninty-three_pound_nut_and_bolt,_one_of_16_used_to_join_sections_of_the_generator_shaft_of_a_75,000_kW_generator_-_Grand_Coulee_Dam,_1942.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298379108066139186" />Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-9652768487931492972009-01-20T21:03:00.000-08:002009-01-20T21:27:30.968-08:00Recovery Wednesday<div>In a desperate attempt to waste even more time online, I created another blog by accident. I came across the blogging platform <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/">http://www.tumblr.com/</a> recently and decided to investigate. The bonus it offers is a variety of ways to enter posts easily. And I can do them from my phone! Not that I should, but that I could. I'm like those scientists from Jurassic Park. So naive.</div><div><br /> </div><div>But seriously. It allows for putting up shorter posts with more design to them. I think I'd like to try it out for a while and see where it takes me. </div><div><br /> </div><div>As for this lumbering old blog, soon to be the uncool version of Geocities that must die it's horrible, awkward death, well, I think I'll keep it until it's way past its prime. I like writing posts here, even if they aren't all that often (or good). And to the few people who read this, I hope it is worth your time to keep checking in. </div><div><br /> </div><div>One final thought. After this day of exhuberant orgies of hope and promise for the future, what's it going to be like tomorrow when we wake up and realize that all of our problems still exist? I bet we'll feel a little better about them. Hopefully, enough to go solve them.</div><div><br /> </div><div>Oh yeah, <a href="http://deltaoscarindiatango.tumblr.com/">do it to it</a>!</div><div> </div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293613547741001090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 301px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzVVaKKybWqIYd-WdsDMkYDStHn9Un9MSRCqOPUsB7u-T-xAFskcrHODUMZ2gJ7Ewpn_tjML1hPEgQIK_NKmpE8POIei6ItwF6rKm_qJn_FVAJDVEurbYeXDda-r_HO157fFvhM891SM/s400/high+noon.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><p align="center">Here's to the new sheriff in town. In your face, John Wayne!</p>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-25659505522213404692009-01-19T14:47:00.000-08:002009-01-19T15:21:30.839-08:00Advices For Your First DayDear Mr. President-Elect (for one more day),<br /><br />I have some humble advice for you as you enter your term as President of the United States of America.<br /><br />First off, don't start any wars. That's a big one. It's like when you throw the first punch in a fight. Even if the guy is literally begging for it, you'll most often be remembered as a jerk. Probably because you are.<br /><br />Second, tomorrow you will be inaugurated and you might make a mistake. Whatever it is, a slip down the stairs, forgetting where you parked your car, or referring to the PM of Germany as him instead of her, please, when you apologize, look directly at someone and say, "Sorry, it's my first day."<br /><br />Third, please have more fancy balls. You know, the kind where you have lots of heads of state over for dinner, drinks and dancing. Nothing says, "I like the United States again," like a classy party. And if for some reason you do this because a staffer read this and thought it was a good idea, please invite me. I would totally come and be hilarious.<br /><br />Fourth, use your power to change the BCS, like you promised. The bowl games are very anti-climactic. Teams play in their divisional championships, and then it's like we forget about college football until after Christmas when, oh yeah, it doesn't matter anymore. Actually, if you don't feel like spending your political capital on this one, I'd understand. What has college football done for you?<br /><br />Fifth, learn a martial art. But don't tell anyone. People won't think you're an agressive action-junkie looking for a fight, but if someone tries to hijack your plane (à la <em>Air Force One</em>), then you'll be ready to kick some ass. That would be super cool to read about in the paper.<br /><br />Sixth, make regular (surprise) appearances on Saturday Night Live. They are still pretty funny, but I think that would boost ratings. You could give Alec Baldwin and Christopher Walken a run for their money.<br /><br />Seventh, be responsible for starting a cool ghost story/prank in the White House. Again, don't tell anyone, so that in forty years, when you're a lot older, you can go back and hear people still talk about it on the tour.<br /><br />I can't think of any more advice. Obviously, you are smart guy who can take care of himself. I'm sure you don't need my tips on how to have a good time. But I'm willing to bet these won't hurt.<br /><br />Good Luck, Sir!<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293147810954407842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOC0jSZHSntvktKO2gz9qKUGQZvwl_qeY734Cv5q4SrzWk1mSuLsEnbxQM2vp39Q5IKCJ87Eregf-C2k4rD4xomGJcirpqjkAZmdbGdYdwjkF54ApDcdh7DcTprxwNnFRnrEVWNo2aaHM/s400/white+house.jpg" border="0" />Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-57970889454382217672009-01-06T11:26:00.000-08:002009-01-06T11:44:28.876-08:00Happy New Year!Here are my New Year's resolutions. They are not necessarily all going to be accomplished, but I hope at the end of the year to be able to prove somehow that I did many of them.<br /><ol><li>Write a post on New Year's Day.</li><li>Procrastinate less.</li><li>Eat more by adding a third meal (somewhere between dinner and lunch perhaps?).</li><li>Run 1,500 miles.</li><li>Write more emails.</li><li>Watch as many movies from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1939_in_film">1939</a> as possible.</li><li>Learn to play "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Favorite_Things_%28song%29">My Favorite Things</a>" on the piano.</li><li>Make bookcases for my books.</li><li>Save enough money to fly to Europe at a moment's notice.</li><li>Buy more classic film scores.</li><li>Do 50,000 push-ups.</li><li>Drink more cocktails.</li><li>Learn more Spanish; enough to understand what people are saying about me on the bus.</li><li>Unpack the remaining boxes from my move a year and a half ago.</li></ol>Here's to all of our goals! And the sea!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMzRcyHrvHPuG4n_hK8T2_Vx5PlinzmQ6JGpz3BHH7Vua87dUzQabschgvsg8PfwvaZZTshrPnomUvZ3xPNFhZ8w0CWqck5OQWog2dDvdKf7iZYlVkCK8L8oS52i9M5kn8NMD8lsdbD4Q/s1600-h/thesea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMzRcyHrvHPuG4n_hK8T2_Vx5PlinzmQ6JGpz3BHH7Vua87dUzQabschgvsg8PfwvaZZTshrPnomUvZ3xPNFhZ8w0CWqck5OQWog2dDvdKf7iZYlVkCK8L8oS52i9M5kn8NMD8lsdbD4Q/s400/thesea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288268624630737778" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-23756310029767863032008-12-16T15:07:00.000-08:002008-12-16T15:36:54.179-08:00Highs and LowsThere are lots of different varieties of librarian in the wild. Mostly, they are suited to their surroundings, like most creatures in the animal kingdom. Ones who work in corporate oil company libraries most likely field questions about oil and companies. Ones who work in old South American country archives most likely field questions about politics and militaries and spanish (or something). I work in a university library, where any question is valid. This is because people study or research any kind of topic, and legitimize them by attaching them to very vague aspects of culture or language or society or some other kind of ridiculous means that enables a grown person to spend countless hours looking up information on the colors in children's books. I'm not laying a judgement here, at all. I think that's great.<br /><br />So, one of the perks of my job is entertaining these people in their efforts to find obscure and random information. We could spend hours on something, unless is gets boring, and then the patron is screwed. The problem is, when do you say when? It's really a personal choice. I suppose the professional stance is after a reasonable amount of sources have been checked and you leave them with at least one follow-up lead. But c'mon.<br /><br />Today I helped another librarian, because the place was dead, search for an obscure Muppet character. The lady insisted she had seen an early 1960's character on a Late Night-type talk show named "Fundinella Grindersnatch." Well, after a few mintues of solid searching, nothing came up. We found some history of Jim Henson and his first short program called "Sam and Friends" which aired before one of those late night shows. We also found a character named "Taminella Grinderfall." That sounds like the reasonable answer. Right?<br /><br />Nope. Our patron was sure that she had the name right. Hmmm. Well, let's keep going, I guess. It turns out the character was a witch. So was Taminella. She had a "political pot" which she stirred. So did Taminella. When to say when? The lady had to leave to catch a ride, so I was spared. We tried to find a good biography or history of the muppets for this lady, but it turns out she was just curious, and it didn't really matter. That might have upset a lesser librarian. But I got paid to spend a lot of time researching the Muppets, so what kind of jerk would I be to complain?<br /><br />You can never prove a negative. We couldn't prove that Fundinella didn't exist. But we had reasonable evidence that this other character was what she wanted. Sometimes our persuasive powers aren't too great. But that's not our job.<br /><br />If that was a perk, here is a downer. Sometimes, during a lull in desk action, we librarians get to talk to one another. And sometimes I lay down the funny like no one's business. I get a good phrase in my head and I'm racing to deliver it in just the right way. Oh man, I'm a freakin' genius and my colleagues are going to keel over when the find out. They are rapt with attention. Hanging on each delicate word. [Sound of needle scratching a record.] Suddenly a patron comes out of nowhere looking suspiciously like he has a question. Sigh.<br /><br />By the time we are done professionally servicing this dude, the moment is passed and we are all onto other things. My almost-genius is exactly that. Almost. But do I harbor any ill will towards that random, innocent person?<br /><br />You bet I do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkvtT-rzhAiOBWU_ZJELfF9jkc7AwESpvTsvuszx4I7zkH7FLzV5XMA_515OTHV_wavS1akRVoTrnNj_J3DBxo95uPbgVZQKGjcBmeagORPzgKfTkEXB3nGV-f9ZT18pSruspi51BtSs/s1600-h/refdesk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 375px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjkvtT-rzhAiOBWU_ZJELfF9jkc7AwESpvTsvuszx4I7zkH7FLzV5XMA_515OTHV_wavS1akRVoTrnNj_J3DBxo95uPbgVZQKGjcBmeagORPzgKfTkEXB3nGV-f9ZT18pSruspi51BtSs/s400/refdesk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280534982043077986" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-10200372629784153192008-12-09T15:53:00.000-08:002008-12-09T16:31:25.064-08:00If I Were RichIn these lean times, when the economy isn't feeling so good, I tend to dream a little more often of good times with money that I'll never have. Why now? You'll have to ask a therapist, because I can't break into that vault upstairs and ask around; I'm not allowed anymore.<br /><br />So, what would I do with <a href="http://www.michigan.gov/dleg/0,1607,7-154-10555_12902_13118-34615--,00.html">tons of money</a>, literally? Suppose I had enough to go a restaurant without prices on the menus? Or maybe enough to spit in people's faces? I wouldn't do that, even if I could. Some strange man did that to me in Spain once, and I didn't care for it. I took a little solace knowing he was crazy and did it to as many people he could.<br /><br />OK, for starters, I would buy a country mansion, Count of Monte Cristo-style. Just walk right up with a wagon load of gold and force someone to move. But I would need to make it my own. Since I'm rich, I wouldn't care what anyone thought, so I would put in an ornate and extensive <a href="http://www.wired.com/techbiz/people/magazine/16-10/ff_walker?currentPage=all">library</a>. That would satisfy my need to have many useless and fancy things along with an endless supply of reading material just in case I have to board myself up after the zombie apocalypse.<br /><br />But this house would need other stuff, too. Lots of underground tunnels. If you ever wonder if you have enough, just remember - you can never have enough. I'm sure there's a formula that civil engineers use to determine the maximum area before the surface starts to cave in. But I'm not an engineer, so that doesn't apply to me. These tunnels will need to go to all kinds of out buildings and caves.<br /><br />So I would need some out buildings and caves. These could be used for storage of dangerous things, like dynamite. I would need that for all of the old barns I would move onto my property and blow-up. Why do this? Isn't that unnecessary and dangerous and destructive and juvenile? Well, yes. But I'm rich, remember? And if I don't do it, then who will?<br /><br />A few other things I would add are some ponds with row-boats and pavilions, groves with an array of tree houses, and a gymnasium. The gym is just to have safe place to practice all of the dangerous and ill-advised parkour I would perform over the grounds. I'm sure there are many other things that a well-appointed country estate should have and any real gentleman would not be caught dead without. And of course I would have those too, naturally. I'm not an ogre.<br /><br />Well, now I'm back to reality. Back to my dingy apartment with that leak in the shower and only condiments in the fridge. I suppose I could make a goal of earning lots of money over many years and making these day dreams come true. I could, but I would probably just spend it on plane tickets and film scores, which is fine by me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlOi1Q0I72lAr14oXlsycP76n3-KRlsjQPnt5As3BlEMxnh1sXifgRdSzNXBOvWWKyQNFkiBQvL29txucYzHwBazhCF_oeZsFCc_iy6rzRxnRaxtRCwjw7WIxsHBvlBLUSECs7q9i-DI/s1600-h/monopoly+guy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlOi1Q0I72lAr14oXlsycP76n3-KRlsjQPnt5As3BlEMxnh1sXifgRdSzNXBOvWWKyQNFkiBQvL29txucYzHwBazhCF_oeZsFCc_iy6rzRxnRaxtRCwjw7WIxsHBvlBLUSECs7q9i-DI/s400/monopoly+guy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277951009895509970" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-41583311940028847962008-12-04T17:11:00.000-08:002008-12-04T17:26:06.501-08:00The Thin ManSeveral years ago I stumbled across an old movie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0025878/"><i>The Thin Man</i></a>, during an extended bout of thirties film watching. The fantastic thing about that decade is the abundance of wit. Dialogue cracks like a dried forest floor under foot. Characters are sharp and it's fun to try and keep up. Many of the screwball comedies of that day are still funnier than anything you are likely to see today. <i>The Thin Man</i> is a comedy, but of the more urbane kind. It is also a classy murder mystery.<br /><br />But it has something else going for it - chemistry. The two leads, William Powell and Myrna Loy, were born into this earth to play those characters together. I haven't seen any other incarnations of Nick and Nora, but I can be almost positive that comparatively they are like oil and water. Powell and Loy, as Nick and Nora, are one of cinema's dearest treasures. Not like a baby your grandma coos after, but more like a big bucket full of diamonds and bars of gold.<br /><br />This brings me to my other discovery, which is that a lot of people don't know about this movie, or the many that followed. They produced five sequels, in rapid succession, over a period of eleven years, all almost as good as the one before. I haven't done the research, but I wager they were pretty popular at the time. But now they are largely forgotten.<br /><br />I say largely, because I'm comparing this stuff to <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i>, <i>Gone With The Wind</i>, or <i>Casablanca</i>. Sure, these are all different kinds of movies, but I believe they all belong in the same category of "well worth your time, anytime." But I'm not concerned with why they fell out of the limelight.<br /><br />What impresses me is the few who have heard about them and love them to pieces. I find more and more people all the time. Like any unpopular but totally awesome thing, it's like you belong to a secret society. Sure, mostly it is older people, but sometimes it's people my age. Usually we are all surprised about the discovery. Like we all went to the same out of the way bar that only sells Orange Whips <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRp8GrXffhA">three at a time</a>.<br /><br />Anyway, if you haven't seen this movie, do your self a favor and check it out.<br /><br />And wear formal attire when you do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKv22iHpddJwifP1fQWOlue56ANo83T3JlWK2F_bx3b-sPnVQr8vHNNBYv-UB0b8wyPDnn3JZpkJMlWPGEBiNoR0YjY3I3mG2vKrUExjZViQ5i7ngICnNQRomO_tvjiB9K3Sak8qLXMqY/s1600-h/thin_man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKv22iHpddJwifP1fQWOlue56ANo83T3JlWK2F_bx3b-sPnVQr8vHNNBYv-UB0b8wyPDnn3JZpkJMlWPGEBiNoR0YjY3I3mG2vKrUExjZViQ5i7ngICnNQRomO_tvjiB9K3Sak8qLXMqY/s400/thin_man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276108396146233106" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nora Charles</span>: You know, that sounds like an interesting case. Why don't you take it? <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nick Charles</span>: I haven't the time. I'm much too busy seeing that you don't lose any of the money I married you for.Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-36569231688504593822008-11-21T07:15:00.000-08:002008-11-21T07:21:47.273-08:00Quantum of AwesomeHow to make money: sell something that people desperately want, but have no idea how to do or make themselves.<br /><br />I would like to have an adventure. But I have no idea how to do that. Let's define what an adventure is. I think of it as a progression of time in which an individual or individuals are put to a stressful test of which they do not know the outcome or steps, but know they must move forward.<br /><br />Perhaps there are people out there who know how to do this for me. Perhaps they are called spies. This is such a profession, at least perpetuated in movies and books, where the spy has to know all kinds of things I wish I knew in order to have adventures. Like speaking many languages, practicing dangerous martial arts, getting girls in the sack, ordering the right drink at the right time, knowing who to punch in the face, flying planes, riding motorcycles, driving British and European cars, parachuting, looking good without your shirt, wearing nice suits, communicating with absolute security, and last but not least - doing it all without getting any kind of sick.<br /><br />What's the price to pay for this kind of awesome post-graduate fellowship? Moral ambiguity. Loneliness. Accepting death at any time. Not being as cool as everyone thinks you are. No one you can care about. Contempt for almost everyone.<br /><br />That sounds like quite a bargain, to me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHi-qpr6PKGd4LapFL5AvA3O4nB0UUg1UIbjrtZQGQVt1nX0jbX_K7b_Z3avCNDksWYmHM-tKrWW4BMnB7tQDs0xttW7A22jNnIfAYlnIkk3jfeUgy1mwWFKQ8cc7ByzVgMfViYo7UDx8/s1600-h/bond.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHi-qpr6PKGd4LapFL5AvA3O4nB0UUg1UIbjrtZQGQVt1nX0jbX_K7b_Z3avCNDksWYmHM-tKrWW4BMnB7tQDs0xttW7A22jNnIfAYlnIkk3jfeUgy1mwWFKQ8cc7ByzVgMfViYo7UDx8/s400/bond.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271130644024973074" border="0" /></a>Two thoughts on the new James Bond movie:<br />1. Casino Royale was better.<br />2. So what, it was still cool as hell.<br /></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-60435912343019629262008-11-17T15:15:00.000-08:002008-11-17T15:22:01.073-08:00I Was Not Prepared<div>Yesterday I ran in a half-marathon race, like I have many times before. Unlike previous visits to this runners' moderate consolation of the great marathon prize, I was ill-prepared to run. And now I sit here paying the price with doses of pain to which I am unaccustomed. On many accounts I did not think of the consequences of my inactions. <br /><br />I did not apply sunblock, and was seriously sunburned while wandering around post-race for a couple of hours in the blinding, yellow sunshine. It was only sixty degrees outside, so I guess I felt safe from those rays. <br /><br />Also, I hadn't run in almost four weeks prior to this massive contest. It is pretty obvious to anyone, let alone someone who has exerted himself thus previously, that you might want to simulate, through gradual increases, the type of punishment striding over thirteen miles will deliver to your muslces, joints and bones. But not me. I thought, <i>what the hell, I'm young and can do anything I want.</i> I was wrong. I won't get into the chafing problem, but let's just say that it was the first and last time I wore those shorts. That, in some respects, is the most painful lesson of all, even if I couldn't have predicted it.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> Preparation for events in life, although very unexciting and unglamorous, is pretty essential. This isn't news to anyone, but it doesn't stop a lot of us from being unprepared many times. Ask a musician or a student, they will tell you that they have a much better time in life when they have practiced or studied. <br /><br />But when I need to practice or study or whathaveyuou, I'd rather do something that is passively entertaining - where I don't have to do anything to enjoy myself. This is my lazy man's burden. Procrastination is my rationale. I fully intended to prepare for that race, but things just kept coming up, by which I mean opportunities to goof off and watch a movie. <br /><br />The easiest course of action would have been to not run at all. I would have saved myself the pain and frustration and embarassment of running a bad time, suffering days long soreness and tenderness of muscles and skin, and knowing that it was pretty much my fault for not preparing properly. But I didn't, and I'm glad. I experienced a small wake-up call that says you are procrastinating too much. <br /><br />Would I like to keep running races? Yes, I think I would. So, if that is important to me, then I should learn from my mistakes and sally boldly forth with a plan to avoid them in the future. I feel like I've stumbled upon an important life lesson, but any eight year old could have wisely predicted my fate. Stupid little kids.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Nk5vyg8gw7Bb8SlbcWSWo2MNTaICEIf0U1fvTkCOc7k2IucAxAc2iayzg_p2YPPzcQGN50TO18ZU8PsCpq_kH160Ifhq0xqdk7_ptNjJLCZz_f5CwAFwgK8I_mVmmxcVUM64IB-JYQ/s1600-h/badmarathon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8Nk5vyg8gw7Bb8SlbcWSWo2MNTaICEIf0U1fvTkCOc7k2IucAxAc2iayzg_p2YPPzcQGN50TO18ZU8PsCpq_kH160Ifhq0xqdk7_ptNjJLCZz_f5CwAFwgK8I_mVmmxcVUM64IB-JYQ/s400/badmarathon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269769050784700434" border="0" /></a>This is approximately what I felt like.<br /></div>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-68109310926575069862008-10-06T12:09:00.000-07:002008-10-06T12:21:02.575-07:00Quality MattersI go to the movies a lot, and I'm disappointed by them a lot. Sure, I rarely say really nasty things about them, but I usually have some great expectations for a movie (otherwise I wouldn't go) and usually they are not met. I try to empathize with a movie and how it is made, arguing in my head that the things that went wrong did so the way we all go wrong in life, and not because of a certain callous lack of creativity or horrible stupidity.<br /><br /><div> </div> <div>But one thing that I will not abide or make excuses for is the exhibition of a movie. We live in an age of amazing advances in technology. Most of the stuff we hear about is about digital technology in computers and their programs. They make such cool stuff. But we've also advanced with mechanical and optical technology, too. There should be no excuse to sit in a movie theater and not be awed by the show. I don't care if the movie stinks like yesterday's garbage, it should be shown with amazing regard for the exhibition.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>What do I mean by this? Sight and Sound. Can you see it clearly and well? Can you hear and feel the sound it makes? Do both of them excite you? If not, then the theater is not doing it's job. Given the right equipment, I'm sure you could make even the HUAC hearings exciting to watch, if only for five minutes. Movies today are made with huge levels of difference in budget and skill. But so many are made with so many skillful people. The sound design team of even a mid-level budgeted movie consists of a dozen people or more. What about the camera? The post-production work? The visual intent of the director? These are all important things to be mindful of when showing a film. If I made a movie and I was attending the screening of it, I would be damn sure to talk to the projectionist and go over the equipment in the theater first, just to make sure it looked and sounded like I originally made it.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>So, what's my beef? It's these poor-quality theaters. They are run like businesses, like candy stores. I understand they need to make profits to stay innovative and successful, but they aren't doing that. They are maintaining a stranglehold, and nothing else. They like the lack of competition in their markets. They don't innovate unless they think it will sell more sodas or popcorn. They think that their product is given to them and so the only thing they can focus on is the ancillaries. That is wrong.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Almost every theater I go to is staffed with teenagers who want a fun job, but who then realize that working at a movie theater is depressing and the equivalent of working at a swimming pool. I haven't met or seen any evidence of an employee who is enamored with the cinema, who loves the history of movies, who finds it a duty to make sure that people have a great experience to go with their memories of a movie. What if the projection is poorly lit? What if the some of the speakers don't work? What if the chairs are broken and the floor is sticky? Oh well, if enough people complain, then we might go in and fix it.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I'm not just harping about customer service, either. I'm pissed that the quality of the exhibition experience is so lacking. I live in one of the ten-biggest cities in the country. I haven't been to a theater here yet that has satisfied my desire to have a clean, classy, artistic, loud, capable experience designed to do the one thing we purchase tickets for - see a movie on the big screen. The owners and management need to focus on the main things, and then tighten the experience up with some well designed supplements. Did you know that selling popcorn and candy was just an enticement to get people to go during the depression? They had to do something because people were so poor that the prospect of seeing a film just wasn't enough. They needed cheap popcorn and cheap soda to liven it up. Now those things aren't cheap (to us, anyway).<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Why do we put up with this? I'm, by far, the worst of anyone I know. I'll repeatedly grumble but still plunk down my debit card and be charged outrageous ticket prices for a mediocre experience. I have no other choice. I can't switch to a competitor, because they are all C-students. I could complain, but I don't have the heart. I need that heart. I need the muse to send letters telling them that I want, desperately, to pay them money for a wonderful experience. But I don't have the wherewithall to withhold my money when they don't measure up. What's to become of us when we don't get what we want in the marketplace? It's like the big companies keep buying up the little companies and get together to cooperate in giving us lousy service. Some industries aren't a monopoly, but they are close. For example, I have three choices for an internet provider. All three are lousy with service. What to do?<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> This just points out that we are ripe for wanting excellence. If someone would just give it to us, then we would eat it up like the Japanese at a hot dog-eating contest. Could that someone be me? No, I don't think so. I'm too busy complaining.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU61cKNvW0qOln_lP3AMHaqsx74qL7-SAG1OiMAo-EGgzViR61SMC5kZCRKv2UvbUTeKvdRKZAamy6qWwx6iV-sSCyaeV9JJlxxh2HAvNQwZueNqQtd3Mybd1spXLsJLBPBAFMxY516fA/s1600-h/nautilus_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU61cKNvW0qOln_lP3AMHaqsx74qL7-SAG1OiMAo-EGgzViR61SMC5kZCRKv2UvbUTeKvdRKZAamy6qWwx6iV-sSCyaeV9JJlxxh2HAvNQwZueNqQtd3Mybd1spXLsJLBPBAFMxY516fA/s400/nautilus_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254121360308629778" border="0" /></a>This is some guy's home theater based on the Nautilus in Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. C'mon!Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-84136103651356101762008-10-01T20:31:00.000-07:002008-10-01T21:26:35.530-07:00Waiting for the inevitableIn the second of a stunning series of posts that include the word waiting in the title, this time I'm talking about Death (not the election). My job as a librarian forces me to help people with their information problems. A strategy we have to combat these problems is to use communication techniques, like asking questions and giving fact-based answers. One of our tactics involved in this strategy is to approach people whose body language appears to be saying, <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know what I'm doing and I need help or I'll start crying</span>. Since they are too proud to come to us, we'll magnanimously go to them and ask, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span></span></span>Is there anything I can help you with?" Aside from ending a sentence in a preposition, which never starts off a conversation well, we are assuming they have a problem. I know I hate it when salespeople do this to me in a store. It's like they want me to have a quick, hassle-free experience with personalized attention. Don't they know I'm just wasting time looking at khakis I'm not going to buy while my girlfriend/sister/mom looks at purses or shoes for what seems like forever? [To be fair, they have to do the same thing when I'm looking at books or movie scores.]<br /><br />Well, despite my internal conflict with roaming the library asking people if they are OK, I do get to observe people who don't normally approach me at the reference desk. When we roam around, trying to see if someone has a problem with printing, a computer, finding a book in the stacks, or where their classroom is(n't), sometimes we see things we aren't supposed to. Contraband prevails in the upper floors. Drinks, chips, cookies, people talking on their cellphones, fun of any kind. Cellphone conversations aren't banned outright, but only when they are the inane ones where someone is bored and can't stand the thought of passing the next ten minutes without talking to someone, anyone, who cares to listen about why they're pissed at their boyfriend/girlfriend.<br /><br />Aside from the naughty things people do in the library, which I mostly let ride cause I'm cool like that, I get to see how people spend their hours in the library. Many of them study dilligently, many sleep dilligently. Many stare at their book or laptop, hoping and praying that a light will come on. It's sort of like looking at your refrigerator and expecting it to stop that horrible humming sound all by itself. You might have to do something or call someone. Desire won't get it done by itself - I've tried that. Besides all of the typical students sitting in our nooks and crannies, I saw an older woman who I recognized as an employee from downstairs in one of the university admin offices. What was she doing?<br /><br />Waiting for death, it would seem. She goes upstairs in the library everyday for, let's say, probably 4 to 6 hours, hoping he will come by. There are several reasons I suspect this: she sits alone at an empty table, never a carrel; she always has a magazine open in front of her, but never looks at it; she doesn't write or talk or draw or do anything but sit; her glasses are usually off and laying on the table. It's possible that she could be really bored with her job and uses many excuses to say she is doing work that no one will ever check on and instead wastes her day in the library. But the way she does it is so heartbreakingly sad.<br /><br />It's one thing to play hookey and do something fun, like get some Starbucks, buy and axe from the hardware store, and see what happens. But it's another to sit all alone with nothing to do but wait out this life, hoping for the end. Some compassionate person might think it prudent for me to carefully approach her and ask if she needs some help - of the emotional kind. Librarians have learned from painful experience not to get involved in that arena. When someone wants to talk it over, and they find a unsuspecting dogooder who has no escape, then they will latch on like a tick on a dog. So, I'm not about to say mum to this lady.<br /><br />I could, however, find some books on the topic of "what to do with your boring life when all you have left to do is think about why you have arrived at your current situation and aren't having fun like those other people on TV" and lay them ever so casually on her table and then forget to pick them up again. She usually has that thousand-yard stare, so I might have to cough or trip or something to break her laser-like gaze into the fourth dimension. It's like she can see her future where she is sitting in the same seat at the same table and finally has that coronary her doctor has been promising for a while now.<br /><br />I realize this seems very sarcastic and negative, which it is, but I do want to end on a positive note. If you ever find yourself in this situation, please try to break out of it. Life is for living, because we don't really know what else to do on the planet while we're here. Libraries aren't a bad place to be in a glum situation. They have vessels of knowledge from all parts of human discovery. Many times, if you can still use your imagination, a person can derive ideas and thoughts that could turn into fun and productive ways to spend your precious little time on earth. If you sit there waiting for something to happen in a library, it probably won't. They're really boring and will just make it worse. And death isn't allowed in - we have a permanent tresspass warning because he is always talking loudly on his cellpone to his broker.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIXMV1944WbOZqEQ-7-Ovc0ba9n2cbkmyBihpZbkYVWtCxoc1M_FqdB_7cZlxIGHvGk_xHrL770xWXivensok517haeyVC1jT94LZPwAgcmZW3I-mRScIBFvuinCek9IQp8MC6wcZhJk/s1600-h/grim+reaper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIXMV1944WbOZqEQ-7-Ovc0ba9n2cbkmyBihpZbkYVWtCxoc1M_FqdB_7cZlxIGHvGk_xHrL770xWXivensok517haeyVC1jT94LZPwAgcmZW3I-mRScIBFvuinCek9IQp8MC6wcZhJk/s400/grim+reaper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252406132287247314" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-40802298827567605512008-09-30T18:30:00.000-07:002008-09-30T18:53:26.709-07:00Waiting is the hardest partThis election season is killing me. All the time I hear this and that about him or her or him or him. The news is full of one party saying one thing, the other party calling them out on it, and people only agreeing with who they want to instead of who they should. Ultimately, though, we are all responsible for our individual decisions and must take account for them. If I made a bad choice, even if I was misled, on purpose, to believe something false, I still made that choice with my own reasonable brain capable of independent and analytical thought.<br /><br />So with that happy news, please know that when you cast your vote, you don't have to do it while waiting in line! I hate waiting. I can't stand the act of standing still. Rock concerts kill me if I'm just standing there squeezed in amongst other people. It's only fun if you are moving around, trying not to get crushed by the dance-crazed drunk teenagers surrounding you. Even then... According to <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072271/trivia">IMDB</a>, the plot of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie was concocted in the writer/director's brain while he was waiting in line at a Sears. Lines can cause some pretty scary emotions, even in supposedly normal people.<br /><br />So, check out this <a href="http://www.voteks.org/guide/stepseven.html">site</a> (if you live in Kansas). It gives you all the information you need to vote early. Thankfully, it is one of those states that allows anyone to vote early if they want to. Texas, for some reason, still has excuses that you must have if you need to vote early, and hating lines is not one of them. But I can still walk my happy self to any precinct within 17-4 days prior to the election and mark my ballot, just the same. I'm only not allowed to do it by mail.<br /><br />When it comes time to vote, which is very important in our free country, don't forget your right to do it early. That way you won't forget, or turn around when you see a big line, or be bullied into not voting by some jerk who thinks you are homeless or not a citizen. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I'm unkempt and I didn't take a shower today or I only want to speak Spanish for some reason today, is that against the law? Oh, it is...I guess I didn't know. Sorry.</span>) The more I can do to be lazy, and yet still be responsible, the better. Check out this <a href="http://earlyvoting.net/">website</a> if you don't live in Kansas; it will give you the straight dope on what your state's laws are and how much they like/dislike you.<br /><br />If I have to wait in line again like I did in the primary, where I had to talk to strange old people standing next to me, I'll probably get arrested for doing something saucy and make national headlines and ruin our election. Don't let this happen to you.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPMZxDq1b4orzuxyzsb9YbMaBc_opIr8MCneA1mrGi1rskboqw9rDbFiQFhRhRiistocKWARSRAAsRGyrDimZr9CwhyphenhyphenR-l4FckgCKdVbOAhntuwDSmevp78sFlvOWTgwX3AP_TwpxX4q0/s1600-h/bread-lines-food-shortage-depression.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPMZxDq1b4orzuxyzsb9YbMaBc_opIr8MCneA1mrGi1rskboqw9rDbFiQFhRhRiistocKWARSRAAsRGyrDimZr9CwhyphenhyphenR-l4FckgCKdVbOAhntuwDSmevp78sFlvOWTgwX3AP_TwpxX4q0/s400/bread-lines-food-shortage-depression.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251996194035807090" border="0" /></a>This is a breadline from the 1930s during the depression. I'm in no way making a political point here, other than that waiting in line sucks balls. Especially if you are hungry and out of work. And are being discriminated against.Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-86671707946004381502008-09-21T13:03:00.000-07:002008-09-21T13:41:10.353-07:00FoliageMy apartment is on the ground floor; actually it is five feet below the parking lot adjacent, but a retaining wall means I'm not subterranean. I have a small patio which is basically an 8'x4' concrete slab that is surrounded by a 5' tall privacy fence. It's covered by the floor of the balcony above, and therefore doesn't let in much light, either to my patio or into my sliding doors. Since it is so small and bare, I don't spend much time out there. Plus, I would only get to look at the fence and a parking lot of cars.<br /><br />There is one thing out there on the patio that I do have though: plants. The fence extends about 18" beyond the concrete to allow for a small trough of dirt. It is there that I have many green, tall, leafy plants that thrive. They are of various shapes and sizes, shades of green, and character. But they weren't there when I moved in. And I literally haven't spent more than a few minutes time out there since I've lived here. I have not planted anything, nor do I water anything.<br /><br />I assume they are just weeds, but they look so good. Many of them are a type of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivy">ivy</a>, or so the Internet tells me. Some of them are really tall plants with a strong stem, or trunk, or something. Anyway, at this point, I'm very suspicious. I'm positive they are kept alive by a malfunctioning sprinkler not far away. It is supposed to water the grass surrounding the parking lot on the ground many feet vertical. However, it has a clog and sprays a jet of water about ten feet into the air which lands on the balcony above and trickles down to mine every night at 12:30 a.m. I've reported this, but the maintenance crew seem to be befuddled.<br /><br />Since my patio is overgrown with strange plants that came from nowhere and grew out of accident, then I have no other option but to think that their intentions are malicious. Most likely they are poisonous, and if I opened my sliding glass door and stepped out onto the patio to enjoy an evening breeze, they would pounce upon my unsuspecting body, choke me with their tentacular vines, and rub that poisonous oil into my pale, white skin. I would die of anaphylactic shock in seconds.<br /><br />So, I'm keeping that door shut for the time being. I'll enjoy their beauty from behind glass, and whenever I go outside again, I'll be ready with a chemical suit and forty gallons of Round-up. Either that, or I'll buy a book on common plants and weeds and see if I should cut them out or leave them be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuDyaKauk3d-f1LBVXA0pdNN-GtMICoWyR5zOaFTm0UIOIwv8YD9D7MHPVcAULUNi-v4x0r7iXEwmPsIXa4ETUefWi3Ul4Bq1MyI1dRSMH-kckI1-JBM2RPQYfrvSPH3Xix1HwJNsTRA/s1600-h/01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuDyaKauk3d-f1LBVXA0pdNN-GtMICoWyR5zOaFTm0UIOIwv8YD9D7MHPVcAULUNi-v4x0r7iXEwmPsIXa4ETUefWi3Ul4Bq1MyI1dRSMH-kckI1-JBM2RPQYfrvSPH3Xix1HwJNsTRA/s400/01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248575248209032306" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-33632536335169930432008-09-18T18:33:00.000-07:002008-09-18T18:53:22.315-07:00How to live life, in three easy steps.<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NEboAJf9UVc&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NEboAJf9UVc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_lalane">Jack LaLanne</a> gives us the tools to be happy. I thought about this and wondered whether or not someone could say this on TV today. I bet not. People are too cynical to believe in something so simple.<br /><br />I think the reason why more people don't heed this advice is that because it takes patience. I know that's why I don't go to the store every other day to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Exercising is something you have to do for a while before you see results, even if you feel them sooner. But smiling is easy.<br /><br />The simple, free, easy life is anathema to society today. I think back to my childhood with fond memories of this kind of living. Does every generation do that? The innocence of being a kid is so simple and wonderful and good for us. Too bad we have to grow up and pretend to be busy and frown when things go wrong.<br /><br />Although I still think people who burst out in song are crazy. Straightjacket crazy.Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-49694493259993622002008-09-15T18:54:00.001-07:002008-09-15T19:50:34.221-07:00Is health a part of the equation?Has anyone heard about the <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/34462/saturday-night-live-michael-phelps-diet">Michael Phelps diet</a>? It sounds like one of the better fads going.<br /><br />I've always wanted to go to the Olympics and be famous. So, tonight I'm going to start on my road to London, 2012. I ate a plate of boneless barbeque chicken wings, half a bag of cool ranch doritos, four donuts, and a big healthy glass of orange juice. If you think I'm kidding, those of you who really know me can attest that I'm not.<br /><br />My stomach hurts.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xurho-xKY_pCIeBNtZpkw9GS0Vo5syF-YNXbwKL1lh64SCPfqsjMdXdtbh6weOqEc8L1yDxuEkpT9z-7oYXRMgZUbWtZ_6oyw8qHjW7_zFCYYvFhB5kUsPgG8Q43KntHnFLnoS40CTA/s1600-h/food-pyramid.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xurho-xKY_pCIeBNtZpkw9GS0Vo5syF-YNXbwKL1lh64SCPfqsjMdXdtbh6weOqEc8L1yDxuEkpT9z-7oYXRMgZUbWtZ_6oyw8qHjW7_zFCYYvFhB5kUsPgG8Q43KntHnFLnoS40CTA/s400/food-pyramid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246445779135916322" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-13595791164331587752008-09-01T07:56:00.000-07:002008-09-01T08:18:18.055-07:00The SicknessFor the past few days I've had a bit of a headache. Normally, these aren't a big deal, just a nuisance. I take a few Advil and I'm good for a bit. But sometimes it just keeps coming back. Then last night when it was bed time, it came back with a vengeance.<br /><br />For some reason my body reacted violently to something. Perhaps it was because I (finally) finished the last Harry Potter book and it was mad that it was over. That's a little dramatic, I suppose. Anyway, I started to sweat a lot, my headache roared back into action, I began sneezing like crazy (which made my headache infinitely worse). My sinuses were draining fast, and I felt a little vomitty. I was hot then cold. So, I took a shower and tried to go to sleep, to relax. But no, my legs were twitchy and restless. Basically I felt like a helpless little kid. Eventually I passed out, and when I woke up this morning I was much better.<br /><br />I was trying to find a visual approximation of how I felt, and I came up with the perfect example. It is the scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, after he is forced to drink the blood out of a skull, Indiana Jones is laying in some dark chamber, lit only by candles, and is writhing about on a stone slab in pretty awful agony, undergoing some kind of occultish transformation. It was pretty much like that.<br /><br />I tried to find a clip of that on YouTube, but I failed. I did find one with it buried in six minutes of other stuff, but that wouldn't get to my point easily. Searching for it, however, made me realize how violent and weird that movie is. If you haven't seen it and don't know what I'm talking about, then you should definitely stop everything you are doing and find a copy right now. And if you want to know why guys like Indiana Jones so much, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHm6rELlHxo">here it is</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZpAo1i5PMQwL2yasJ_9JJGAf5SsfYWkhoyWuateLoFJt_WKpZxTu6OWFPySjxA2bmwRJuzStOpDzQie0QyXf8ma2QQBBsdL091X6Za8oDX-IgxU-CnVRjOrsSrmDroJ6flO9IQeHyHo/s1600-h/IndianaJonesSwordnWhip.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitZpAo1i5PMQwL2yasJ_9JJGAf5SsfYWkhoyWuateLoFJt_WKpZxTu6OWFPySjxA2bmwRJuzStOpDzQie0QyXf8ma2QQBBsdL091X6Za8oDX-IgxU-CnVRjOrsSrmDroJ6flO9IQeHyHo/s400/IndianaJonesSwordnWhip.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241070388439175394" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-55180105923578421572008-08-18T17:20:00.000-07:002008-08-18T17:58:35.147-07:00Rachel, KSSimpler times. This is a fictional town emanating from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Andy Griffith Show</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ghost and Mr. Chicken</span>, and a few other plots. It is described as the "homeplate of wheat and democracy." This is a small town from the middle of the twentieth century that embodies the ideals of Midwestern life, albeit shown in a comical fashion, not unlike River City, Iowa.<br /><br />This is something my friends and I used to describe as our ideal fantasy town, where we all could live and perform an essential civic function, according to our talents and degrees. The idea of moving away after college and finding our lives separate from one another, while inevitable, is sort of depressing, and this way we could have some kind of hope in our minds.<br /><br />I was reminded of this glorious Shangri-la whilst reunited recently with a group of friends for the wedding of one of our own. Someone older and wiser remarked during the proceedings that weddings and funerals tend to bring people together like no other time. They are such major life events, that people are moved to travel long distances and be together. It was such a joy to see Mark off into wedded bliss. It was made much sweeter to do so with many of our cadre enjoying each other's company like the days of yore.<br /><br />This is why Rachel, Kansas is so popular with my day dreams. It boils down society into such a small, circumferenced idea, where we all can be together with an important role to play. Unfortunately, this only exists in plays and stories. Real life is uncompromising.<br /><br />While we all sometimes live and work far from such good friends and family whom we bonded with during earlier times, it is nice to know that time doesn't diminish our care for one another. Conversations that were interrupted by months or years are picked up with the casual ease as if it was only a few hours absence. This is where humanity's seasoned veterans can say that life leads us all in unexpected directions, and that we should enjoy each stage in which we find ourselves. However, for my part, I won't forget Rachel, Kansas and the measure of its appeal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKAqDkZkC_33pb4qzyStv4-TbuJk5B3iN5khDWwdj4msE2vAAD52N8D6T18iHEoqstrqgyatZlwX2xbcebbT1FcAkv9t9o3EWKJg5V095ySRgXmWFI7D4stOsUKapYwvHSg4ryjOPPy8/s1600-h/Ghost+and+Mr.+Chicken.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinKAqDkZkC_33pb4qzyStv4-TbuJk5B3iN5khDWwdj4msE2vAAD52N8D6T18iHEoqstrqgyatZlwX2xbcebbT1FcAkv9t9o3EWKJg5V095ySRgXmWFI7D4stOsUKapYwvHSg4ryjOPPy8/s400/Ghost+and+Mr.+Chicken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236025040113026498" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1751649990219291525.post-67313738961654088362008-08-17T20:23:00.000-07:002008-08-17T20:43:39.982-07:00Lose a day, gain a day.I went to bed on Saturday night, and I woke up on Monday morning.<br /><br />Somehow, after doing nothing out of the ordinary on Saturday, I slept for almost thirty-two hours straight. I did wake up once to go to the bathroom and I checked the time. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. I marveled at my sleeping endurance, especially at how tired I was still. I noticed the light coming in through the shades was faint, so I suspected that the rainy day was causing my extended drowsiness. I fell back into bed.<br /><br />For a minute I worried about this prolonged rest: Didn't I need food? What if I woke up at two in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep? I quickly rationalized both, somehow, and fell back into a peaceful slumber.<br /><br />Monday morning I awoke with a start after unconsciously hitting the snooze ten times. It was seven-thirty and I was late for work. I panicked and realized I would have to call in and tell them I'd be late. I checked my wondrous iPhone and looked up my calendar for work to see if I needed to get someone to cover a desk shift. Despite the adrenaline, my grogginess lingered. How could I have slept so much and was still that tired?<br /><br />Well, the iPhone gave me the answer. It was actually Sunday morning. I had dreamt the entire sleeping through Sunday bit. Waking up at four-thirty in the afternoon was really the morning. No light came in through the windows because there wasn't any, save for that incessant street lamp. Phew! What a relief.<br /><br />I now had a free day. It was like finding twenty bucks in your pants that you didn't know was there. Good thing I didn't have any plans, so I could spend it however I wanted. What do you do with a free day?<br /><br />Well, for starters, I went back to sleep.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv3AoQEzflj5WZUtS3VU5e_2C3feAW_AAv2f8YfiTokFu2dxnYGfA-jPDsEK9wtzG9JN2aP1axs4iiOf3NEwoXiaUYfn7ydMEeX7atVxSkHsiwtcn7j4BmLRXKsyZvkRcj9hGb68ecKU/s1600-h/sheep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv3AoQEzflj5WZUtS3VU5e_2C3feAW_AAv2f8YfiTokFu2dxnYGfA-jPDsEK9wtzG9JN2aP1axs4iiOf3NEwoXiaUYfn7ydMEeX7atVxSkHsiwtcn7j4BmLRXKsyZvkRcj9hGb68ecKU/s400/sheep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235697483408407234" border="0" /></a>Mr. Fairbankshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01666353657381720773noreply@blogger.com1