Moody Post-Election News

I had no idea that wikipedia was brought to us by a nonprofit organization. Turns out that they're called wikimedia and have other charitable wiki projects out there running on their open source wiki software. This is the kind of thing that helps cheer me up after the passage of Prop 8 here in California and all the other appallingly discriminatory propositions passed in other states this month.

Of course, knowing that wikipedia has a lot of good will for society behind it isn't quite as encouraging on the human rights front as the Florida court decision earlier this week. It really shouldn't be such a relief to hear this type of rational statement in a court of (supposedly separated from any church's pulpit) law:

“It is clear that sexual orientation is not a predictor of a person’s ability to parent.” --Judge Cindy S. Lederman, Miami-Dade Circuit Court

Sadly, the Flordia law banning homosexual couples or individuals from adopting children has been on the books for 30 years and the state will appeal the decision in the Florida Supreme Court. The idea of the state making a case that people like me have a "higher incidence of drug and alcohol abuse among same-sex couples, that their relationships are less stable than those of heterosexuals, and that their children suffer a societal stigma" (NYTimes article above), is chillingly reminiscent of 20th Century arguments made about the intelligence of black people and women based on cranial size. Using pseudo-scientific studies to justify racist/sexist/homophobic beliefs is the pathetic flail of the ruling class as they feel their means of oppressing the rest of us slip through their fingers. It's disgusting, but it's also extremely revealing of the unfair bias of the claim. Accepted scientific inquiries have that inconvenient attribute of objectivity and are not touted as facts but rather theories that are not only provable but also disprovable. Science allows itself to change and reminds its community to keep an open mind, to consider all possibilities, to think outside the given box. In this case, the sweeping, scientific-sounding claims made by the state's "experts" were refuted by studies of individual families showing "that children raised by gay parents fare just as well or better than children raised by straight parents” (same article). I don't know how much the experts vs. studies argument will bear on the Florida Supreme Court's decision when they are eventually obliged to hear this case, but it's good to see signs that the quality of life is improving and will continue to improve for unconventional families in this country. Just as the ability to score well on an IQ test will go up when one is no longer forced into manual labor or domestic servitude, the ability to create a safe, stable family life will increase when one is ALLOWED to have a family. Makes sense to me.

The scales are tilted and we all need to pull our weight in balancing them. The news that wikipedia's mission to allow free access to the sum of human knowledge to all and sundry is a hefty addition to the underserved side of the scales. They are running on donations and are about half way to their 2009 goals now. Maybe my money would be better spent by supporting literacy programs or by helping more poor people & communities gain access to computers, but wikimedia does a lot of good and every little bit of good helps.

Two-Headed Girl: Story No. 9

Okay, okay. Here's the thing: She dared me to do it! She dared me.

Well, that's interesting. Are you going to go through with it?

Okay. So, yes? Maybe. I don't know. Maybe?

Maybe?

Well, It's just... I'm not really sure whether it's something I should be doing right now.

Hmm.... I don't want to overstep my bounds here, and you can tell me if I'm off-base, but that sounds like a bit of a cop out to me.

What? A cop out? Come on! It's completely reasonable to worry about what consequences your actions could have, especially on a dare.

Listen, I'm as cautious as the next person--god forbid that person does Xtreme Sports or something--but, I really don't see why you need to feel like you "should" or "should not" be doing something you obviously really want to do. (Don't look at me like that! You are DYING to do this. You've been waiting for the motivation for years.) It just sounds a little bit like you're worried about the outcome because you don't want to be personally held responsible for whatever happens.

Wow. You think I've been personally shirking responsibility, huh?

No, that's not what I--

Yeah, yeah. Okay. I appreciate your honesty. But, while we're being honest, who really wants to be held responsible for anything anyway? With this, it's more that I just don't feel like I'm particularly qualified. It's like I've just told a funny joke and now I've been asked to do an HBO stand-up special, and I know that I'm not able to perform at anywhere near feature-length. I'm afraid I'll end up like every Adam Sandler movie you've ever seen, repeatedly kicking people in the balls in search for a laugh as good as the first one.

I'm sure you won't have to go as far as that! And, of course, there are ten people on every bus that are more qualified and have more will to follow through with this than you. So what? They laugh when Adam Sandler kicks them in the balls. You're the one who's been challenged. She did you a huge favor and laid down the gauntlet for you. Are you going to run it or not?

Well, okay. But I'm going to need new shoes.

Really?

Yeah, the tread is completely worn on these.

And?

And...yes! I'll do it. Yes. Definitely. I'll do it tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

No. Scratch that. I'll do it tonight! Yeah! I'm ready.

Really? You're up for getting this show on the road tonight? How about right now?

Yes! Now. All systems are go!

Alright, then. I'm in.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Yeah! Wonderful! Hey! This is really great news. I'm psyched! With the two of us doing it, how can we go wrong?

I can't imagine.

We'll kill.

You mean: "Make a killing?"

Quite possibly, my friend. Quite possibly. But, in the meantime, there are at least two of us who can take the blame, and another can be held as an accomplice. We should decide right now who should take the fall, if it comes to that, and who should get away Scott free.

How I would take off the peel of an apple all in one go

I've been practicing this magic trick for a while now. It's more slight of hand than magic, but, if you get the slight just right, it's more magic than anything else.

The magician places the apple in a boiled egg holder that has been fitted with a small length of wire under the base of the stand. One end of the wire should be attached to the base, and the rest of the wire should be coiled lightly underneath. This allows the magician to show the boiled egg holder to the audience without revealing the trick.

Once the magician shows that she has no wires up her sleeves, she uses her pinky finger to secretly unravel the wire and release it onto the table behind the holder as she sets it down. Then, she uses one hand to steady the stand while she uses the other hand to place a perfectly normal apple on top. Keeping her steady hand in place, she slides her other hand along the table, quickly picking up the free end of the wire between the index and middle fingers. If she keeps her attention focussed on the apple, she can make this motion mysterious enough to lull the audience into not noticing the wire. The motion of picking up the wire should also be smooth, quick and seem to be nothing more than a prelude to moving her hand up to hover just above the apple stem. This motion will straighten the wire and the magician must take care to bring it into firm contact with the backside of the apple.

The dramatic conclusion:

Uttering the magic words and creating the correct tension in the wire, the magician grabs the stem, pushs down, twists, pulls up with a flourish, releases the wire and triumphantly raises a perfectly peeled apple that can be presented to a lucky audience member by the stem.

The slight is more in the wrist than in the hand and more in the elbow than in the wrist.

Days, Months, Years: Story No. 8

Days, months, years--all the same thing, really. Just different denominations of time passing. Samples of arbitrary size brought into being for the purpose of defining reality.

He often thought about things like "the arbitrary nature of time" and "the absurd notion of reality" when he was running late to work.

Tangled Legs: Story No. 7

The azure voice of the singer slid up and down my pant leg. I coughed and shifted my weight against the wooden arms of the old-fashioned bar stool.

The Palace of Forgotten Arts: Story No. 6

The conductor's momentary lapse of attention passed under the radar of every last player in the orchestral group. This little-known fact would have shocked the impeccable sensibilities of one audience member, who liked to think of himself as the lowest paid but highest valued member of the nationally acclaimed music review editorial staff at Nashville's illustrious Daily Courier.

However, that tiny breath of indecision lead way to the revolutionary shiver that ran down the make-shift aisle of the Havana PakBel Blues Cubby Room. A touch of magic seeped from the conductor's pen, which waved wand-like through the air and momentarily vanished. A blank stare came over bespectacled eyes that had been darting from sheets of staff to soprano sax, from trumpeting phone to crunching time clock, from creshendoing closing of doors to bass line accounting. Before the weight of the gold-plated pen clicked back into view, it had whispered its spurious hint that misled each contract artist headlong into a floating chaos. Swimming in the abyss of mindless meter, they forgot their inculcated drive. Forsaking the path to uprighteous citizenship, they gave way to a little toe-hold of free association among qwerty keys and headset snap and gave utter artistic license to a collective id.

To the instruments of their daily demise, this liberation went all but unnoticed.

Casual Friday: Story No. 5

I had been with the company for several years before realizing that the boss had a lazy eye. How could this happen? After all it had been literally staring me in the face for all that time, or at least one of the eyes had and one of the eyes hadn't. And yet I remained oblivious.

This oversight on my part would come back to haunt me in the specter of puns lacking both intention and taste.

Paddy used to say that the misdirection of my deeds were the worst part. I had the heart, the pluck, the follow-through, but the direction? Paddy would just scratch at a spot on her head, invisible for all her orange fluffy coif, and she would say, "Betty, you're a piece of work--and an oddball one at that!"

Fantastical Interlude: Story No. 4

A giant tentacle of foliage burst through the wall in an explosion of white plaster and pink insulation. Beige paint chips rained down upon the startled humans who staggered back in crouched defense. A massive trunk the size of a small tree curled up toward the ceiling of the opposite wall. The tip of the vine quivered and dodged as it explored the retaining space, looking for the Achilles' heal that would allow it to continue its path of architectural destruction. Even the offshooting leaves were sentient, twitching, alert. It appeared to the humans who caught tentative glimpses over the tops of their file folder shields, that they were being investigated by a giant serpentine office plant with squiggly leaves for scales.

Dead Man Walking: Story No. 3

My boss rounded the corner with his usual air of piercing self-satisfaction. I quickly slipped my hands out of my pockets so that they could assume the swing of the strident. Out of sheer instinct, my mind instantly cleared, my guts steeled, my breath quickened in preparation for the coming face off.

The hall wasn't big enough for the both of us. It would have to be him or me, and it wasn't going to be me.

Halltalks: Story No. 2

I slipped into the hallway for the eighth time in what had threatened to become an interminable 3 hours, wondering whether I'd make it to lunch without imploding in a puff of polyester and sawdust. With a sidelong glance at the "overhead light sensors" (aka "slave monitors") hanging derisively at regular intervals down the length of the hallway's popcorn ceiling, I felt behind me to make sure my shirt was well-tucked and no belt slippage would provide fair grounds for ritual ostracization and commensurate dismissal.

A person in my position, can never be too careful. Even the likes of Janet Jackson, mistress of pop, diva of dance, are susceptible to the disastrous effects of wardrobe malfunction. What's a stealth-mode operative like me to do when faced with the choice between the safety of the mission and the aggravation of relentless re-tucking?

I grabbed my collar by the sides, smoothed it along and gave it a tug for good measure.

Fabula Rasa: Story No.1

It was a dark and rainy day. My beige-walled cubicle was clammy with recycled air pumping in from the ventilation duct overhead. Despite torrents of rain falling on the other side of the window pane, ever-increasing humidity emitting from the air conditioning unit, and no less than three beverage varieties sitting on my desk in anticipatory hydration, my mouth was drier than the most pretentious of martinis. Bone dry.

I kept slorking water from the soggy waxed paper cup left over from this morning's dash through the gas station near the freeway exit for a breakfast of sugar and caffeinated concessions. No amount of liquid would satiate my thirst.

If swishing a half-shot of vermouth around, dentist's office style, and spitting it out into my tiny office-issue trash can without smelling like happy hour had been a viable option, I would have done it. Between the Superantioxidance Vitanutritorganic Smoothie, the Big Gulp filled with water, and the lukewarm coffee leftover from the morning, all I was getting was an aggressively energetic need to walk down the hall to the restrooms every hour, parched no less.

A Story A Day

New year, old fear: I will continue tripping down a path of mediocrity, never contributing significantly to the beauty of the universe and therefore failing to justify the continued energy expenditure on behalf of the conglomeration of atoms in which I reside.

In November 2007, I attempted my first nanowrimo novel: Marshmallow Macabre. I got through about 8,000 words in 30 days. Though a far cry from the 50,000 required to win, that's the longest story I've ever written. I self-deprecate. Yes, but I realize that building the kind of stamina I want will take practice. And so, on recommendation from a friend who knows best, I'm embarking on "A Story A Day" starting tomorrow.

The Rules
(as they currently stand)

1. Every day, I must write one story.
2. The story must be posted/linked in this blog.
   
3. There are no length/genre requirements.
4. Stories may be contiguous to stories from previous days.
   
5. There are no acceptable excuses for not writing a story.
6. No end date has been established at this point.
7. Some, but not all, of these rules are subject to change.

Unlike my approach to nanowrimo-ing, I see this primarily as an exercise in time management and discipline, as much as the actual storytelling. That said, I'm now 15 minutes past bedtime and too full of internet gobbledy-gook to continue any further examination of this endeavor. So, if you happen to find yourself tuned, please do stay that way for tomorrow's daring, outlandish, scathingly accurate, and even presumptuously precipitous: "Story No. 1!"