Yesterday, while I had proof of residency and a lot of documentation on me, I headed down to the Austin Public Library and got a library card.
I checked out Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf and The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner by Alan Sillitoe. Wozniak mentioned the book being very inspirational to him. I figured it might be inspiring to me as well.
Today I had to get a university transcript. You see, friends, yours truly has decided to go back and get some supplemental education at Austin Community College in the matters of Calculus and Computer Science.
You may be thinking: “But Steven, you’re a programmer by trade and you passed two classes of business calculus in college, why go back for those?”
The answer is simple: I’ve forgotten. I don’t know how many arcs or tangents at 90 degrees. I’ve forgotten what a radian is. Similarly, I’ve forgotten the basic advanced guts of C++, memory management, garbage collection.
It’s this forgetfulness which has thwarted my ability to learn some of the higher concepts of computer science. Thus, I’m going back to re-learn my basics. Or, if Plato be believed, to re-re-learn what I already knew.
In any case, I stopped by the old alma mater to pick up a copy of my transcript. While there they mentioned two words I’d not heard in a great long while: Financial Bar. Apparently I had run up a bill for $76 dollars in my final weeks of education in 2000 and had been in arrears lo these 6 years. I paid my bar and then got my transcipt. It’s nice to be back in the University’s good graces again.
Yesterday, after a walk around Town Lake, we stopped by Austin Java for a bit of lunch. While I was waiting for my salad and Lauren for her egg burritos, I noticed the Austin-typical amount of people there with books and laptops, no doubt hard at work on materials for their classes.
The guy next to me was working on something in Word. As I watched him fiddle with margins and tab stops, go clicky-click to mutate some words from regular text to bold I realized, again, just how incredibly painful it is to have presentation (bold, left margin of 12, or 30 picas) defined in the same place where you define content ( “When in the course of human events….” ).
That guy should have been focusing on the latter, not the former, yet here he sat, going through pages and pages of content so that he could make it look right. Imagine, had he, in the content left a bit of markup like…
bolditem {text-style: bold}
<span style='bolditem'>we must remember our friends properly</span>: their lives merit more than mere sentimentality
And then later if he decided ‘bolditem’ should get changed, a quick search and replace to change ‘bolditem’ ( a most unlikely word to type in your content ), to ‘italitem’ and then change the styling definition to italitem {text-style: italic} or red, or green, whatever, it would have taken but mere seconds.
Instead he was trolling through a document glumly selecting text, hitting the bold b button, and then selecting more text.
This design method is simply so wrong.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday I took the opportunity to read the autobiography of Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak, iWoz.
So I never got any exposure to religion. Church, mass, communion. What is that? Seriously I couldn’t tell you.
As for religion, if I asked, my dad would say, no, no, he was scientific. Science was the religion. We had discussions about science and truth and honesty, the first discussions of many that formed my values.
…I still believe engineers are among the key people in the world. And I believe that I will be one forever, and i have dedicated my whole life to engineering.
Today Lauren and I came back from our visit to my Mom’s where we observed Thanksgiving in the company of my grandparents, my aunt, my step-father, and my sister.
As Lauren was ferrying us out of Lubbock a big, nice rock, decided to leave its mundane terrestrial existence for a short-lived visit to the front of my windshield.
CRACK heard I, my gaze bolting upward from my copy of The New Yorker.
Alas, my wily economic analysis making driving a better proposition than flying was rent asunder.
I’ll be going to take the car in for its 4K service, so I guess I can have two issues addressed in one car-less day.
Bah!
I dreamt that I was attending a wedding, and in the white dress was my friend who was murdered years ago. She was breathtaking, radiant, and tan. She was the way I remembered her, but with that elusive red tint she tried to get in her hair working exactly the way I knew she always wanted it to be.
I dreamt that the cathedral was large and wooden, clearly Catholic but minus a lot of the kneeling it seemed. Along the exposed ship’s ribs of the supports of the vault there were pennants, standards, and flags.
There was a large organ in the far right corner, with long pipes that bellowed the inevitable Mendelsshon’s ‘Wedding March’.
I awoke and, still under the influence of The Brief History of the Dead, I fancied that I had been called, in dreams, to the City of the recently departed, yet still living in the memories of the living, to witness this event.
As I shuffled out of the bedroom, under the weight of this vivid dream, and into my couch, I wondered if it could be. Could the African folklorists have gotten it right, that there is a tripartite division of being. Could it be that those in the City can channel and invite the wandering psyches of the sleepers in, perhaps only as observers?
And, if there is such a City, and it holds cathedrals, then I must certainly wonder if the answers are given at the end, or if the yearning simply gives way to more mystery.
First things first, there is nothing manlier than the name Cormac McCarthy.
I think if it were that name stitched into a leather belt…
versus
…a Ford F150 with a poker table in the bed around which cowboys were drinking a case of Black Label while arguing over football while getting straightrazor shaved by strippers while puffing on Cuban stogies
…I think the name on the belt may have an edge.
If you have a last name that can bear that manly weight, then I beg you, give us more Cormac-en.
About The Road, it’s an unsentimental and very realistic portrayal about life after a global firestorm. Was it nuclear, asteroid, alien? No one knows, but the earth is now covered with a fine layer of ash which stirs ideograms of desolation into forgotten western landscapes.
A father, who has only bitter memories of a wife that seems to belong to another time, is taking his son down an interstate highway, pushing a shopping cart that carries the only tools that will help them survive.
Unlike Mad Max ( which actually presupposes an astonishingly developed model of civilization ) where Good and Evil face in pitched battle for the right to control the what-comes-next, “The Road” gives no such meaning to the apocalyptic landscape. There is the father, his son, their cart, their plastic tarp and the unending narration of their few miles gained each day.
They’re headed South from North where it’s just gotten too cold. I believe their path to be somewhere in Nevada through Northern California on into the Big Sur region. Along the way there are the inevitable highwaymen ( “road rats” ), rapists, shuffling dead, and agonizing hunger and thirst.
Yet the boy, who never knew anything of the world before, merely trudges on: curious, scared, sick, and gaunt.
The book features no chapter headings and no real sense of time. On this road there is no history of meaning, no future of value, and the present day is a routine in survival and walking.
I was stunned by the bare prose, verging on blank verse poetry.
The layout was also great and thoroughly assisted in the portrayal of the post-apocalyptic, vast, nothingness. With wide margins and ample line spacing the spartan presentation adds to the void and empty prose.
Picture is worth a thousand words:
Invariably I found myself asking what I would do in such a situation. I’ve always been a bit more into eschatology than people should be. When I was still a regular attendant of church services and the preachers were spouting nonsense I usually found myself reading those grim bits of insanity in the last chapter of the Bible. I suppose my Gnostic interests found their root there - in the symbology and transformational hidden content.
Where would one start? It seems that nothing grows? How would one catalyze an agricultural existence? It appears that all the wildlife perished in the great firestorm?
How would you begin? In light of that weight, how would you continue? Would you fight for botulized tins of old food, eat bark and hope not to get murdered in your sleep by roving brigands? What sort of world is that to live, is that truly a life? And what, pray tell, would help you go on?
It’s all very fine, heavy existential work that, as all questions of this sort do, touch on those fine works by Kierkergaard. In all, it was a fine book.
Hello my dear readership.
Yesterday Lauren and I woke up late and had brunch at La Madeline in Westlake Village. It had been years since I had eaten at one of these fine provençal-style French cooking establishments so, upon rising later in the morning, it seemed like the perfect brunch spot.
I had forgotten what a nice establishment it ( they ) are. The wood has that well-sanded French farmhouse feel, the chairs are simple, yet sturdy, and the cuisine prefers grainy breads and farmhouse produce. We found a solid oak table near the multi-paned glass windows and enjoyed our meal in the ænemic winter’s morning light.
I looked up the movie times at the Regal Arbor Cinema at Great Hills Trail ( where we tend to see most of the movies we go see ) and noticed that the amazing Helen Mirren was executing another demonstration of her excellent gift for playing royal, british, women, named Elizabeth. Her presentation of the hard and vulnerable, bossy yet irresolute, royal yet crude in Elizabeth II made me a big fan, and the reviews for The Queen were nothing short of glowing.
In addition to her awards honors, Mirren was recently named the sexiest woman over sixty by The Daily Record.
“The Queen” is an excellent exploration the psychology of the royals and into just what an eventful time the British were having in the summer of 1997. The movie opens with Tony Blair coming in upon a popular, modernizing mandate to throw off the shackles of Tory ideology. The Queen shows the mastery of this traditional role, though she was rather displeased with the result, she knew how to graciously put the young man into his place ( “Winston Churchill once sat in that chair…” and “You’re my Nth prime minister”“, etc.”)
Yet while on holiday at Balmoral ( stunning scenery! ), the events of the summer of 1997 unfolded with the death of the ex-princess, Diana, in Paris. As the public sorrow grows their yearning for a statement from the queen grows. Blair tries to navigate the distance between a modern public raised on the Oprah culture of tears and public pain displays ( which, I must agree, has gotten a bit much, hasn’t it? ) and the more stately British “stiff upper lip” society which requested its queen to show resolve, hardness, and stability.
The miscalculation of this change in attitude is masterfully displayed by directory Stephen Frears who offers an exceedingly even-handed demonstration of the complex rules of protocol to which her position is still bound. With her consort Philip asserting the old guard of protocol, and Blair trying to help keep the royals modern and connected to their public, the queen ultimately adapts to the new reality.
Mirren is one of the best actresses from below her nose to her chin. With her slight pout and crinkled mouth she conveys the spirit if not the actual facial mannerisms of Elizabeth II.
The movie made my audience laugh out loud in several spots because of the decisions that make sense in royal-land. One interesting exchange results around the informing of The Queen that the flowers being lain by mourners are blocking the entrance for the changing of the guard. The Queen, not looking up from her reading material, says “Yes, yes, have them cleared away.” Attempting to save her from her PR gaffe the secretary suggest that it “might be better if the guard were to use the North entrance.” The Queen looks up and, without a hint of the gaffe she’d been saved from says, “Oh yes, yes, quite so.”
There are some great tongue in cheek jokes as well. Waxing humiliated ( yet always queenly ), to Mister Blair that her public had come to ‘hate’ her ( 1 in 4 in favor of abolishing the monarchy ), she remarked to the the-wildly-popular Blair that one day the public would turn on him, faster than he could have expected. Blair seems to absorb this truth, and the queen, with her track record of experience, was absolutely right. The support of the Bush war seems to have run the Lyndon Johnson treatment on his record of stunning public works.
After the movie we headed over to the car wash and cleaned the buggy before heading home. Later that night we watched The Constant Gardner. As always Rachel Weisz was beautiful, Ralph Fiennes was handsome, the corporations were evil, the wretched poor of Africa were wretched and poor, and people of noble intentions were crushed under the wretched love of money and Klashnikovs of a tribally-oriented which keeps Africa a wasteland of misery ruled by kleptocratic strongmen.
I had to give much thumbs up to Weisz for letting herself be filmed without makeup in facial close-ups. After the first ahem intimate afternoon between our protagonists, in softly lit tones against white pillows Fiennes’ character is talking sweetly to her and we see Rachel’s face: ill made up, kinda cross-eyed from the proximity, crooked-teeth, everything. It’s probably the most real scene of intimacy I’ve ever seen presented on film. I applaud her daring as an actress for this.
Further, in the African scenes she’s not made-made up, slightly sweaty, in ugly T-shirts, etc. She’s wearing what you’d wear if you were in malarial heat and had been walking through squalor. And on top of that she lets herself be filmed nude and pregnant ( for she was so with director Darren Aronofsky’s child at the time of filming ). All in all, in our beauty-obsessed film culture she was very daring and very, very real.
The movie, as I alluded to in the summation, is a real downer.
Oh Friday night we visited The Hyde Park Bar and Grill in Westgate not, uh, in Hyde Park. Apparently they’re expanding their empire. It was an excellent meal. Chicken, salad, and excellent fries were shared by we two. It was also surprising when I saw The League’s brother, Steanso, come meandering in with a small horde. I gave him a brief shout of hello and Lauren and I introduced ourselves on our way out. It’s strange seeing people you know in town. All those years in the valley I can’t remember coming across people I knew just by accident. Life there is broken my friends.
It is a bad morning when I need to go into the break room for a 2nd cup of coffee ( Steven never has two cups at home… ). Yesterday I worked about 15 hours, mostly because I felt like i just really needed to sprint. I had had too many things on my plate for too long of a time and I wanted to get them out of the way. As a result of that work yesterday, I was tired when I came back today, ergo second cup.
But it was a surprise when I entered the break room, for not only was there FRESH coffee on the burner it was, uh FRESH and it was THERE. And that was awesome.
I love the way the opinion writers are examining the fall of the Bush presidency in these grand Greek tragedy arcs.
Maureen Dowd of the New York Times sees the theme of a spoiled son of privilege wrecking Daddy’s Porsche:.
Poppy Bush and James Baker gave Sonny the presidency to play with and he broke it. So now they’re taking it back.
They are dragging W. away from those reckless older guys who have been such a bad influence and getting him some new minders who are a lot more practical.
I see much more the theme of the sorcerer’s apprentice.
The unworthy acolyte, full of bluster and best intentions steals daddy’s magic wand and thinks “I’ll best his work (a very Satanic impulse isn’t it?), I’ll get a second term and I’ll change that there Iraq better’n Poppy did!”
With sound and fury he pulls upon the powerful machinery of alchemy or Office of State. The lightning falls, the thunder bellows, the shock and awe. The dogs are unleashed hungry upon the desert and the battle goes well. But the peace, it turns into, what LBJ called, that ugly bitch. Mickey The Apprentice runs and finds himself scared, lost, and confused when Sunni brooms start dumping buckets of GI blood all over the place. Oddly that river runs down through the Mesopotamian sands alongside the Acheron and bubbles up in the lives of Middle America.
And the neighborhood kids, so impressed by the feat of this arcana are now scared, because the brooms won’t stop dumping!
Dickie from Montana street is gone.
“Condi where are you?” a hollow voice stammers over the plush carpets of the Oval Office.
Little Donny’s feet peek out from behind drapes in the behind the desk.
“Tenet, I gave you a freedom medal buddy for broken intelligence where are you?”
… The sloshing continues bucket by bucket.
The apprentice runs frantically and remembers the old magic spell that fixed the Arbusto energy’s bankruptcy dance.
Daddy Help Daddy Help Daddy Help!
ka-krack
We can see the wizard’s cap on 41’s head bedecked with moons and stars. A flowing beard and purple robes move in a flash to steal back the wand summoning Scowcroft, Baker, and Gates, but lo, they’re in a deep sleep and must be awakened. He looks at the apprentice and utters the words: “You know the rule of equivalent exchange in alchemy, son”. Sonny points behind the drapes where little Rummy was hiding. In a bit of black alchemy, political sacrifice is given to awaken the elders.
For political station is the only sacrifice sufficient to make the ultimate alchemical gamble: transmuting legacies of lead shit to gold.
Emerging from their slumbers the men throw back their alchemickal cloaks to reveal Brooks Brothers suits.
“Yon Baker, prepare us reports”
Yes
“Yon Gates, take control of The Department of Defense.”
Yes
“Yon Scrocrowft, help us cut-and run!”
Uh, Daddy, Karl said me-n-Tony shouldn’t say cut-and-run
“SILENCE!” “Ahem, Scowcroft, help us arrange for uh, peace with honor”
Yes
[ George slinks away ]
“And you, are in for a spanking, Son!”
Aw Poppy!
[ The Laugh Track Plays and the audience claps while the credits roll in that big-friendly Three’s Company typeface ].
— Fin —
Andrew Sullivan also envisions this battle for supremacy, in more intimate and pitched battles in Shakespearean terms.
This whole Oedipal / Freudian / Greek thing is exactly what Gore Vidal expected would come to Bush sooner or later: that other Greek word: hubris.
Apparently Newsweek’s new press run has the title: “Father Knows Best”. This has got to really smart for W.
Perhaps instead of consulting with his famous “higher father” he should have asked the one that successfully executed a war in Iraq.