The Best Part: Here is Your War

Pages 244-245, "Here is Your War," by Ernie Pyle

Another plane throbbed in the sky, and we lay listening with an awful anticipation. One of the dogs suddenly broke into a frenzied barking and went tearing through our little camp as if chasing a demon. My mind seemed to lose all sense of proportion, and I got jumpy and mad at myself.

Concussion ghosts, traveling in waves, touched our tent walls and made them quiver. Ghosts were shaking the ground ever so lightly. Ghosts were stirring the dogs to hysteria. Ghosts were wandering in the sky peering for us cringing in our hide-outs. Ghosts were everywhere, and their hordes were multiplying as every hour added its production of new battlefield dead.

We lay and thought of the graveyards and the dirty men and the shocking blast of the big guns, and we couldn’t sleep.

“What time is it?” came out of darkness from the next cot. I snapped on the flashlight.

“Half past four, and for [expletive] sake go to sleep!”

Finally just before dawn we did sleep, in spite of everything.

Next morning, we spoke around among ourselves and found that all of us had tossed away all night. It was an unexplainable thing. For all of us had been through greater danger. On another night the roll of the guns would have lulled us to sleep.

It was just that on some nights the air became sick and there was an unspoken contagion of spiritual dread, and we were little boys again, lost in the dark.

Fear without using the word. Fear through repetition of congruous imagery. Fear that brings us back to that world of little boys, spooked in the familiar surroundings of their neighborhood, their back yard, by an unexpected light or shadow or sound that ordinarily would not have bothered them. For me, the sound is that of a cat in heat. Never bothered me during the day, but at night, that eerie cry like that of a baby, bothered me terribly.

Will Amazon's Same-Day Delivery Kill Local Retail? Price is the Answer

Both Farhad Manjoo and Matthew Yglesias at Slate.com are convinced that Amazon.com’s push to offer next-day or same-day delivery for free* by opening up a score of more local distribution centers capable of plopping the laptop computer you ordered in the AM on your doorstop in the PM is going to be the death of local retail.

Hogwash.

Please, paint me as skeptical. Because here’s the thing that they’re both missing: Amazon.com isn’t always the best deal. I confess I have used Amazon to buy stuff on the cheap. Need a computer cable or a bit of software? Chances are Amazon is your go-to place, and for good reason. A few years ago I ordered an adapter that would allow me to plug a second monitor into my computer, for less than $5 – when no such thing was available locally. Score for me and for Amazon.

But just last week I bought a new laptop computer locally at Staples for a bargain price – after rebates, of course – of $480. I could also have purchased it locally at WalMart for $650. Or from Amazon.com for $606.88. Same specs. Same features. Same everything. Same-day delivery from Amazon is going to kill local retail? I don’t think so. Not at these prices. Even if I blew off the rebates, I’d only pay $529 for the laptop from Staples. Amazon isn’t even touching that price.

Buying mindlessly from any store – bricks and mortar or online – because of the perks is a good way to get taken on price. Comparison shopping is going to be your best bet. And while I have bought a lot of cables and software and such from Amazon and Newegg and other such online retailers, three out of the last four computers we’ve purchased have come from our humble, local Staples store, which has always beat the socks off the big internet retailers in price.

Yeah, I’m boosting a bricks and mortar behemoth rather than shopping at a local mom-and-pop shop. So what? Their argument is that Amazon is going to kill local retail, whether it’s mom and pop or a brick and mortar chain. Not so, says I.

It’s the same thing I argue with WalMart. We have a supercenter within walking distance of our home, but most of our grocery shopping is done further afield at WinCo, because WinCo’s prices on most things are better. Except for the apples. Can’t figure out why WalMart can get apples cheaper than WinCo. Oh well. But even at WinCo, we’re constantly checking prices, and if we can find another store that offers the same item at a less expensive price, that’s where we’ll go. WinCo isn’t killing local grocery stores any more than WalMart is. And unless Amazon takes a critical look at its prices (and the prices of its affiliates) it’s not going to kill local retail any time soon.

*Free, I suspect, to Amazon Prime members, who pay $80 a year for the privilege. So not necessarily free, folks, not necessarily free.

Bad Configuration Management? Kaboom!

I'm no genius when it comes to computer code -- I may recognize it but all I could intelligently say about it is "Wow. Look at all the letters and numbers." -- but it sounds like the problem that led to San Diego's Fourth of July fireworks all going off at once, instead of over twenty minutes, is a simple matter of configuration management.

According to an article in the New Jersey-based Star-Ledger newspaper, the reason San Diego's fireworks all went off at once is that a backup file with an extra bit of code injected into it was used to fire the sequence, rather than the original file that did not contain the extra code.

The article describes a "complex, procedural explanation" issued by the New Jersey company in charge of the fireworks. It's not quite clear in the article what happened, but there are enough clues in the quotes from the company to indicate to me that the wrong backup file was used to fire the fireworks display.

That's got configuration management issues written all over it.

I'm no angel when it comes to configuration management, and I often pay the price for my sloppiness. Fortunately, most of the sloppiness occurs with some of my personal files, rarely with the files I work with in my full-time job -- which is a good thing, since working with multiple iterations of the same forms and procedures I work with on a daily basis could cause an awful lot of headache if the wrong file were used in the wrong place. We're pretty strict about storing just the latest and greatest of the files we're working on in a secure server, with ancillary versions and other files being hidden in the same server elsewhere -- so it's clear, if someone else has to pick up where we left off, which file is the one to be trusted and used. I do the same at home with critical files -- from my rough draft novels to my resume -- but I have slipped with some other stuff that leads to pain.

Configuration management, in this case, literally meant the final outcome blew up.




Another reason to keep your files tidy appears here. (Warning: You'll feel like you're coming in on the middle of the conversation here. I know I sure did.)

It's A Gasser!

Somehow, I think Marvin Acme would approve of this.

Acme, of course, loved his disappearing, reappearing ink and in the film Who Framed Roger Rabbit, loved squirting it on anyone he could spoof with it.

Now a publisher in Argentina has hit upon the disappearing ink part as a marketing strategy for new authors: Buy one of their books but read it quick, because within two months the special ink, once exposed to light and air, will slowly fade away, leaving you not with a book from a new author but by an artfully-bound package of note- or scrap-paper.

Yeah, I said it. Scrap paper.

Here's their promo video:




I'm a funny kind of guy. When I buy a book -- whether it's by an author I'm familiar with or not -- I like to keep it. I re-read many of the books I own, sometimes if they're bad but especially if they're good. The idea of buying a book only to have it rendered unreadable in a few months doesn't ride well with me.

The publisher in this video offers the disappearing books as a way to get new authors read, to create a sense of urgency among book buyers to buy and read books and then, two months later, go buy it again if they liked it. This, they argue, will get more new authors' books sold and help them move on to becoming authors of multiple books, rather than just one that goes unread because people bought it -- or didn't -- and then didn't read it.

It's not urgency. It's not helping new authors. It's a marketing gimmick to get people to buy books. And then, perhaps, to buy them again.

I am as yet an unpublished author. I have one book written, others in the wings. I hope to publish within the next few years, after I've polished things a bit. But the idea of selling my book to a publisher who wants to use it as an Acme gasser in order to sell more books under the guise of "helping" me? Not so sure about that. I can accomplish much better things going the ebook route and taking a risk that my work just isn't good enough to merit continuing, rather than going through the process of writing a book, seeing it sold and then seeing my audience get a litle peeved when my words literally disappear before their eyes. Ebooks are already making words more insubstnatial; I don't think we need traditional publishing houses going the same route.

The LA Times seems to like it, and implies -- parroting what's said in the video -- that the first run of books with the Acme ink sold out. Nobody's telling us how many were sold, however, so the success of the project is right now mere PR fluff, nothing more.

Mashable likes it, too, but again, no numbers.

We ARE Kings of the Forest

Over at TIME.com, James Poniewozik has written a wonderful essay on the changing ways we consume media, thanks to the prevalence of cable TV networks, the internet, DVRs, and other such technology. Providing TIME doesn’t suddenly yank Poniewozik’s essay from the interwebs and make us travel back in time to read it, it’s worth your time.

Here’s the best of Poniewozik’s essay:

The surest sign that a medium is changing is that people start to romanticize the very features of it that used to be condemned. Back when there were only three TV networks with massive audiences, for instance, they were bemoaned for homogenizing the culture and playing to the lowest common denominator; now they’re recalled fondly as a “shared cultural experience” that we no longer have in the digital-cable era.

Likewise, the episodic structure of TV exists because of commercial considerations, not storytelling ones. Episodes end on cliffhangers to bring you back the next week. Subplots are resolved in an hour to give you a sense of completion as you wait for the next installment. “Acts” end on dramatic notes to keep you from channel-flipping through the commercials.

TV, in other words, takes its form from the conditions of its creation—which makes it no different from any other art form, such as the novel. Narratives changed when they went from lyrics, meant to be remembered and recited orally, to devices printed mechanically. Their subjects changed as more people became literate and had access to print. All of that matters–but it doesn’t mean that I’m spoiling The Iliad by reading it rather than having it recited to me by an old Greek man, or that if I’m not going to read Dickens once a week in the newspaper as he meant me to, I may as well not read him at all.

I see that romanticism a lot. I’ve participated in some of it. But there is a lot of truth in what he says. We have the right to consume content as we see fit, as it fits into our schedules and how it fits into our budgets – far more than those who manufacture our media could ever imagine we would, sometimes to their chagrin.

Used to be for our family watching The Wizard of Oz on TV was a big event because, well, it was on TV, man. We didn’t have to go to the video store to rent it, or sit around waiting until VHS tapes and VCRs were invented and available to rent to the unwashed masses such as ourselves. If, for example, the scouts were fooling about in the snow making snow caves to camp out in when Oz was on TV, we simply missed it on TV that year.

No more. Now I can watch it any time I want, because I have a DVD copy at home.

We’ve broken free of predetermined schedules. We’ve broken free of television – we haven’t had paid TV services in the house since we were married in 1997 – and we didn’t have it in the house I grew up in either. Four channels. All romanticized now. Ebooks mean we don’t necessarily have to go to the book store or the library to get books to read (though I’m cheap and still get most of my books, in physical form, from thrift stores). We don’t have to subscribe (generally) to magazines or newspapers any more because we have the internet. I don’t even have to have an unsightly antenna on my house to get our local TV stations, because their websites, well, they put everything they produce on them now.

I can still watch the news. Just when I want to. How I want to. And I can skip the stupid sports reports. That’s liberation right there.

As is this:

Onward Came the Meteors

So the town of Klagenfurt, Austria, is turning itself into a virtual library.

So the wonks at Slate.com tell us. Graced with smart phones capable of reading QR codes, you may now wander the streets of this Austrian burg and download “a free literary classic via Project Gutenberg or a similar public-domain service.”

The “cool part,” Slate claims, is that you can download books or short stories or what have you that are relevant to the location you’re standing. At the police station, for example, you can download a short story called “The Murderer,” by Austrian Arthur Schnitzler. Plans are in the future to add downloads of audio and visual content at pertinent places throughout the city as well.

A loosely Google-translated website offers more information, including the tantalizing bit that local authors and artists would be allowed/invited to offer their writings, music, and such through the service as well – though all for free, “promotional” purposes, because of course part of the battle here is against draconian copyright laws that get authors paid, uh, I mean, forbid the free spread of modern content to anyone with enough money to buy a smart phone and a trip to Austria to get the stuff, since the project isn’t indexing anything on the Internet, thus not allowing anyone not physically in Austria from getting into the program.

There’s potential. One could imagine a local historical society turning to such technology to help spread local historical information – though schlubs like me who don’t have a smartphone still have to do things the old-fashioned way. But do we really need to be immersed in so much information? I enjoy going to museums, of course, but reach my saturation point after about an hour even without stopping every five seconds to scan a QR code and read what I find. I can’t even read the little information cards the museum provides on the dusty displays.

So, mixed feelings here. Offering new talent a physical distribution method, good. Insisting it be free. Well, kinda good and bad. And offering downloads from Project Gutenberg – a great thing in theory, though their ebook formatting leaves a lot to be desired.

A clever idea? Absolutely. An idea that spreads the fact that thanks to modern technology, distribution of creative matter need not be an expensive thing (unless, of course, you add in the cost of buying and maintaining a smartphone capable of reading QR codes and downloading them). That puts the cost burden of distribution on the consumer, so nothing much has changed there. I can’t say I buy into their whining about copyright, though. Authors deserve to be paid as well so they can afford the smartphones and data plans and such. Maybe 70 years is too long, but as I read their website, they appear to be whining about their struggle to get permission to use a photo that is less than two years old for their website. Really? They wanted it in the public domain that quickly? Ebook prices set at free or at 99 cents is are already eroding the value of content; cutting copyright from a draconian 70 years to a ludicrous two years isn’t going to enhance content value any further.

They dare say content is king.

They were, of course, lying.

Eat the Rich

Scott Adams, though (like the rest of us) he is a goober in many ways, certainly understands the crux of class warfare. The problem isn't that there are rich people, but that there are rich people who aren't us.

Me, I'm not bothered that there are rich people who are not me. But I am bothered when I hear other people get all hot and bothered about it. Want to be rich? Do something worthwhile that will make you so. Start some hopelessly doomed social media startup (I certainly know what that's like) or become one of those young entrepreneurs whom we read about in the paper but seldom encounter in real life.

I think this is something the Hermit of Iapetus is going to encounter:

Like convicted felons, I get love letters. There are many lonely women on Earth and Mars and Mercury and one persistently lonely woman on Titan who write me letters. They send me locks of hair and lockets to put them in; they send me letters in scented envelopes and packages containing condoms and bars of lavender soap. Many of them want to have my children.

Why, I ask them -- and I do ask every one of them, reminding them that despite the boatloads of soap sent to me over the years, I have not had but sponge baths in fifteen years, and only fifteen sponge baths at that. I do not shave. The refuges I have are tidy but odiferous, as there are many waxes and resins trapped int he crust and ice of iapetus to send out noxious odors that permeat everything I own, even the lavender soap.

But they write and write and tell me they love me and want to join me here if only, if only, if only I would say yes.

I give them the address of the federal prison on Mars and, for the most part, I never hear from them again.

Then there are the haters. Those who ooze out of the woodwork or concrete or steel to tell me they hate me because of my scraggly beard, my smelly refuges, my loneliness, my independence, my ruggedness, my taste in footwear and music and politics and reading matter and religion and the fact that I have not voted for a Democrat since I put myself in exile -- outside the political system -- fifteen years ago. It doesn't matter to them that I have not voted Republican either, nor for the Mars Independence Party, nor for Mercury Rising Patriots, nor anyone else for that matter. Nor that my ruggedness has devolved from melting refuges in Iaptetus' crust to going without ice cream.

They seem to hate me because I am here on Iapetus, free from the stucco box, as Orwell might say, as they toil in theirs no matter what orb they find themselves on.

"Please," one Earther writes, "moon me every day as you walk around on that crusty moon. Knowing that, somewhere in the cold void above my head, your ass hangs out of a space suit to mock me may make my days better. The best days are, of course, when I don't think of you at all. The worst days are when I know no matter what I try, I will never have your independence. So moon me, and may your ass freeze and fall off and leave a crater in the dust."

All that energy in hate. All that energy to write a letter and to find a post office that sells intrasolar postage -- the media have been kind enough not to reveal my electronic address, though the sellers of viagra and dating services find me well enough.

And so on. Something like that, anyway. Just an idea for now. But since my blog is my brain, better out than in, I say.

The Good News Is . . .

. . . robots can't play soccer any better than I do.

Parts

Anyone who owns a house knows they are actively trying to destroy themselves and return to the random elements from whence they came. Our house in Ammon is pretty much doing that very thing.

We do what we can to stop the carnage. This past week, for instance, we had a new water heater installed -- a gas one, replacing an electric one. Hopefully once we've paid off the heater we'll have lower electric bills, though it's hard to see how the bills could be any higher than what we're paying already.

Replacing the water heater, of course, led to other things. The water heater shares the space under the stairs with two other denizens: an ancient water softener and an equally ancient air to air exchanger. Though the plumber who installed the water heater is optimistic the softener still works, I have my doubts, as there's now a slow, unidentified water leak under the stairs and I'll be darned if I can find out where it's coming from. Right now it's just an inconvenience, though with the possibility of mold in the future, it's bound to be causing more trouble down the road.

To fix that problem, I have to deal with the air exchanger. The exchanger is effectively defunct, as the furnace guys had to remove some of its ductwork to get the furnace ducts to snake through the walls to their various locations. No tremendous loss, as our new furnace has an air circulation system which will do what the air exchanger did but actually heat the air at the same time. Since the system is dead, I want to remove it. To do so, I've had to remove a panel in the hallway to get at what's left of the machinery. I tore out some ducts tonight, and will leave the baffle box and other ducts for later in the week. Hopefully, once I've got that stuff out, I can get in there physically and find out where the leak or ooze is coming from. Maddening work, this.

This work is on top of the stuff I already have to do, namely box in the furnace ducts and dig trenches to bury the new sprinkler system. Sprinkler system takes priority at the moment as I can't be digging in the wintertime but I can do drywall as the snow flies, providing I get the drywall here before the snow flies since I'm too cheap to pay for it to be delivered.

Once I get that work done, though, we ought to be able to rest easy at least until next year, when I've got at least two exterior doors that will have to be replaced. Then there's the slanty shanty fence around the property. And the landscaping. Help.

Conversation With A Mule

Comedians today would listen to a monologue such as this and not give it a second thought. Audiences hearing a monologue such as this today might sit quietly for a minute or two, but quickly get bored and maybe even boo.

With the passing of Andy Griffith today at age 86, we’ve lost yet another link to the past.

I don’t remember much of Mr. Griffith’s TV work. I’m just a bit too young for the Andy Griffith Show, though I do remember somehow watching an occasional rerun, probably on Saturday afternoons when the three networks knew nobody was watching and could put up any fool thing hoping to attract even the smallest audience. I’m just a bit too young as well for the Matlock crowd, though I do remember a time or two passing the show as I was once again clicking futilely through the four channels we got on TV to find something to watch. I probably turned the thing off and went outside. Again.

But would I, today, in thinking of this conversation with a mule, change places with those who knew Mr. Griffith at his radio, his vinyl album prime?

You know for an ever-lovin’ fact that I wouldn’t.

But thanks to the squirrelers of memory, I can sit back a bit and listen to his old comedy bits and think of living in a time when this was all there was on the radio – when radio was much more than just squawky love songs. Radio was the internet of the day, with its infinite crackly stations filled with the oddities of humanity, flavored locally.

YouTube is kinda my radio these days, and there’s a lot more to be found out there than on those scratchy AM stations. And once in a while I sail into these old radio comics like Griffith and think, maybe I would trade places with that mule. At least for a little while.