So, a week ago today was the deadline to apply for my own
job.
Background: I work, of course, at the Radioactive Waste
Management Complex. Have done for the past 10 ½ years. But I’ve done so as a
subcontractor. Fluor Idaho LLC (the main contractor) is looking for two tech
writers to replace retiring writers, so I applied for one of the job.
Essentially, it would be (if all went well) a move from company to company, not
into a new position.
But the thought struck me this morning on the way to work:
What if I don’t get picked?
First thing: I would not lose my current job. I would remain
a subcontractor.
BUT
Second thing: Does that mean I’m not as valuable to Fluor,
or cheaper in some way to be kept as a subcontractor, rather than as a
full-fledged employee?
It could all come down to question of ego. And as I have an
ego already used to bruising, maybe things will work out okay. But the go may
shrink if I don’t get even called in for an interview. That could be a low
blow.
I’m not so much worried about their data mining or whatever
they’re doing to make the insurance companies so nervous. Because to tell the
truth, insurance companies being insurance companies, not even atomic holocaustmakes them nervous.
No one will have the endurance to collect on his insurance,
Lloyds of London will be loaded when they go.
What worries me about these two Boston grads is that the
folks sponsoring their content – or at least putting their ad campaign together
– can’t decide if the grads are two ladies or a woman and a man.
So maybe this is the book Franz Kafka could have written if he'd finished "The Trial." Then again, even the fragments of The Trial are more gripping.
I wanted to like this one. An interesting hard sci-fi premise, but one that came completely without resolution. Intentional I'm sure. But infuriating. Read it, but be ready to be a bit let down at the end.
UPDATE (November 2016): I re-read it. I thought I'd read it before, but when I got to the end, I had no recollection of it. So my review on the resolution stands. Now I've added the following:
In Star Trek the Next Generation, they call it technobabble.
And by and large, the writers didn’t write it. They left it up to the actors to come up with some pseudoscientific, star-trekky gobbledygook to maybe explain something about the ship or the aliens or the situation they were in.
That’s what I feel like I’ve just read in Stanislaw Lem’s The Investigation.
This isn’t my first foray into Lem’s writing. I heartily enjoyed Solaris, for example. But I leave The Investigation highly unsatisfied. Then again, I’ve never been much for metaphysics. And maybe since this is a science fiction novel hidden within a police procedural, I was waiting for the neat ending tied up with a bow. Not what I got. I think I know what’s going on, but I’ve got that squinty Fry look about me that maybe isn’t satisfied that I’ve got it right.
It’s Sciss (spoilers). But why? Because he’s nuts? Because he wanted to play around with the mathematics and be proved a genius? I guess so. I’m almost happier to believe the fabrication of the truck driver. Or even that resurrection is caused by cancer bringing cancer-resistant folks back to life.
I’m not sure I appreciate the metaphysical dump – separate ones by two characters, no less – in the closing pages of the novel. I needed that spread out a bit, cleverly, so I could examine it for clues. To get two dumps in a row, well, I have to admit I skimmed them. So maybe it’s my fault I didn’t enjoy the book much.
I know I keep saying things like this, but I’m going to say
it again:
I’m taking a new approach to editing Doleful Creatures.
This next time through, it’s just to read the story. I’m
going to try to put the pen down as much as possible, only taking it up to ask
the book or the characters or the book’s idiot author questions. I’m also going
to re-read the synopsis – of which I’m proud – each time I pick up the book to
read. That’ll help me focus on keeping the story moving as it should. And,
hopefully, identify the fluff.
Good things:
I’ve already eliminated a lot of fluff. I’ve killed
characters and story arcs.
I’ve got a good bead on a few things that need to be added
to complete some character development, and to bring some hope to the
characters at the end. (It has been trending to a rather bleak storyline,
eventhough the good guys win at the
end. (Maybe that’s where I need to go, to bring in a little happiness at the
end, when the itch for writing more hits me.)
I can feel the book coming closer to completion. I’m
nine-tenths of the way there.
Statement No. 1: President-elect Donald Trump has not held a
formal press conference since July.
Statement No. 2: The press expects the formality of a press
conference in order to disseminate news.
We’ll get on to the shocking bit here in a moment, after an
aside on sides:
I’m not taking the side of Donald Trump. I did not vote for
the man. And while he is the president-elect, I’ll be watching what he does
with a wary eye.
I’m not taking the side of the press either. Much of the
national press has been openly hostile toward the president-elect, both via
righteous indignation and bitter spitefulness.
And, eh, the title probably already gave my opinion away.
That the press expects the formality of a press conference in order to
disseminate news is the more shocking statement.
One of Trump’s campaign platforms – and this is likely to be
carried through his presidency – is disdain for the media. His supporters love
his disdain, for both good and bad. And given his proclivity for
self-aggrandizement and Twitter, the man likely sees no reason to have the
press filter any of his news or ask any pesky questions, when he can go
straight to his voters via Twitter, YouTube, and other direct means that let
him control the message and yet still get it out to a mass audience.
He wins.
And he makes the national media look like a bunch of losers
as they have to report on his tweets or his YouTube videos as news, or leave
the front pages or news segments empty.
And with Steve Bannon (yuck ick ptoo schveinhunt!) as a
presidential strategist, Trump will have no shortage of Internet outlets
willing to present his news unvarnished, just as he wants it.
Trump, in short, does not need the press. And his ardent
supporters will love him for not using it, seeing his disdain for the press as
part of his promise to draining the DC swamp, which is just as full of
journalists as it is of bureaucrats in their mind.
This will, of course, annoy the national press to no end.
Trump’s fans will love it.
This will, of course, annoy the liberals to no end. Trump’s
fans will love it.
This will, of course, lead to even less accountability on
the Executive Branch, which is a terrible, no-good, awful thing to happen.
Or will it?
I think it won’t.
If Trump’s press disdain continues, leakers will abound and
revel in sneaking tidbits and bombshells to the national press. Leaking is a DC
tradition, and isn’t likely to stop if the Big Man in Charge doesn’t like the
press, because the same venues that a press-hating president can use to his
advantage also lend advantage to those within the draining swamp to focus light
where it’s needed.
Richard Nixon’s disdain for the press was legendary. He
blacklisted many a reporter and news organization. He really wanted to be the
first post-press President, and we saw a precursor to that with his “Checkers”
speech and the many appeals through the press and outside of it to the Silent
Majority. Technology just wasn’t yet on Nixon’s side. Despite his disdain for
the press, news still got out.
Today, it’s a different game, with the fractured television
news landscape but more importantly with the Internet. Trump can turn to
Twitter or YouTube and get his message straight to the people who want it, without
interference or filtering or gatekeeping or curation or hostility from the
press.
And the national press need not be hamstrung if there are no
formal press conferences to attend. If they are, they’re the Wusses of the
Swamp and deserve to be driven out.
The national press folks are not wusses. They are the Madame
Medusa of the Swamp:
Trump’s position on the press, of course, will not endear
him to them, because to DC journalists, it’s all about access. So they’ll be
even more openly hostile to him. For good and bad. And we’ll get ourselves into
a feedback loop that’ll be just as disastrous as when the wizards at Unseen
University discovered that hole that led to another universe and built a privy
over it. Turns out the hole didn’t lead to another universe, but led instead to
a disused University cellar, which quickly filled.
So the lesson here: Trump does not need the press. And if the
press needs Trump, they need to make him – or his supporters – need them. Trump
may help them in his own erratic way, but I wouldn’t count on a full suck-up
from Trump to the press on any account. How they national press will get Trump
or his supporters to need them is a mystery. But pouting over the lack for formal press
conferences isn’t going to do it.
Indy and Harry
-
We're heavily into many things at our house, as is the case with many
houses. So here are the fruits of many hours spent with Harry Potter and
Indiana Jone...
Here at the End of All Things
-
And another book blog is complete.
Oh, Louis Untermeyer includes a final collection of little bits -- several
pages of insults -- but they're nothing I hav...
Here at the End of All Things
-
I’ve pondered this entry for a while now. Thought about recapping my
favorite Cokesbury Party Blog moments. Holding a contest to see which book
to roast he...
History of Joseph Smith, by His Mother, by Lucy Mack Smith. 354 pages.
History of Pirates, A: Blood and Thunder on the High Seas, by Nigel Cawthorne. 240 pages.
Peanuts by the Decade, the 1970s; by Charles Schulz. 490 pages
Star Bird Calypso's Run, by Robert Schultz. 267 pages.
There's Treasure Everywhere, by Bill Watterson. 173 pages.
Read in 2024
92 Stories, by James Thurber. 522 pages.
A Rat's Tale, by Tor Seidler. 187 pages.
Blue Lotus, The, by Herge. 62 pages.
Book Thief, The; by Markus Zusack. 571 pages.
Born Standing Up, by Steve Martin. 209 pages.
Captain Bonneville's County, by Edith Haroldsen Lovell. 286 pages.
Case of the Condemned Cat, The; by E. W. Hildick. 138 pages.
Catch You Later, Traitor, by Avi. 296 pages.
Diary of A Wimpy Kid: Big Shot, by Jeff Kinney. 217 pages.
Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism, by Bob Edwards. 174 pages.
Exploring Idaho's Past, by Jennie Rawlins. 166 pages.
Forgotten 500, The; by Gregory A. Freeman. 313 pages.
I Must Say: My Life as A Humble Comedy Legend, by Martin Short and David Kamp; 321 pages.
Joachim a des Ennuis, by J.J. Sempe and Rene Goscinny, 192 pages.
Le petit Nicolas et des Copains, by J.J. Sempe and Rene Goscinny, 192 pages.
Moon Shot: The Inside Story of America's Race to the Moon, by Alan Shepard and Deke Slayton; 383 pages.
Number Go Up, by Zeke Faux. 280 pages.
Peanuts by the Decade: The 1960s, by Charles Schulz. 530 pages.
Red Rackham's Treasure, by Herge. 62 pages.
Secret of the Unicorn, The; by Herge. 62 pages.
Sonderberg Case, The; by Elie Wiesel. 178 pages.
Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, by David Sedaris. 159 pages.
Stranger, The; by Albert Camus. 155 pages.
Tintin in Tibet, by Herge. 62 pages.
Truckers, by Terry Pratchett. 271 pages.
Vacances du petit Nicolas, Les; by J.J. Sempe and Rene Goscinny, 192 pages.
World According to Mister Rogers, The; by Fred Rogers. 197 pages.
Ze Page Total: 6,381.
The Best Part
Catch You Later, Traitor, by Avi
“Pete,” said Mr. Ordson, “we live in a time of great mistrust. This is not always a bad thing. People should question things. However, in my experience, too much suspicion undermines reason.”
I shook my head, only to remember he couldn’t see me.
“There’s a big difference,” he went on, “between suspicion and paranoia.”
“What’s . . . paranoia?”
“An unreasonable beliefe that you are being persecuted. For example,” Mr. Ordson went on,” I’m willing to guess you’ve even considered me to be the informer. After all, you told me you were going to follow your father. Perhaps I told the FBI.”
Startled, I stared at him. His blank eyes showed nothing. Neither did his expression. It was as if he had his mask on again.
“Have you considered that?” he pushed.
“No,” I said. But his question made me realize how much I’d shared with him. Trusted him. How he’d become my only friend. And he was the only one I hoad told I was going to follow my dad. Maybe he did tell the FBI.
He said, “I hope you get my point.”
Silcence settled around us. Loki looked around, puzzled.
Mr. Ordson must have sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Now, Pete, you don’t really have any qualms about me, do you?”
Yes, perlious times then. Who to trust? And perlious times now, with paranoia running even deeper than during the Red Scare . . .