Bootstrapping

Moved

2011-08-27T18:14:00.001-05:00

Moved to here. Your comments were preserved.

Games

2011-08-27T17:21:00.000-05:00

I've been working on that game mentioned earlier. I've postponed any work on the miniature LEGO CNC mill so that I can focus on it. I'd be kidding myself if I thought I could work on two personal projects, learn Chinese, and keep a full time job. I should know by now to keep focus and follow things through.

Bootstrapping

2011-07-04T23:15:00.002-05:00

Here is LEGOCNC nearly ready for motor install. I can begin begin testing hardware/software controls soon. (You remember LEGOCNC don't you?)

Intensity Report: Medium

Slowly replacing bad habits with good ones. Over the years I have spent a lot of time writing and thinking about what happens to me, what I do, and what I think. It's a tendency that points to another trend: being caught up in a complex of procrastination and distraction that results in me never getting started and/or never finishing. The one piece of advice I need(ed), above all other schemes and lofty thoughts, is to begin immediately. That means to start with the thing that looks most like the thing I want, and if that doesn't work, change something and try again. That's the message I would send to a former self: Try Something. You don't even need confidence to start with, just try anything and see what happens. Before you write about it, read about it, or start thinking you don't have what you need, just try it.

I'm in the middle of my second night course in Mandarin Chinese. The first class was taught out of children's book. This next one is drastic step change from the last. Most of my class has lived in China for at least a year and they are there to "brush up on their skills". So being at the bottom of the class is something that bothers me a little, but even if I have trouble keeping up, I am learning things.

My brother wants me to help him make a video game because I am one of those people that "knows programming". I'm apt to help, just because I can see that he has similar issues with starting and completing projects. (It's a problem that's been passed down through generations. My father is a model airplane enthusiast in the strictest sense, but he has about 8 unbuilt airplanes in his garage and none that are fully operational as of this writing.)

Just another reason to make good use of my time.

Low Intensity

2010-09-06T11:00:00.013-05:00

It came to me clearly last Thursday that I have been suffering from Low Intensity for a long, long time. I tend to be scatterbrained, but that is less than half of the problem. Having many irons in the fire would be just fine, lots of people operate that way, if only I ever managed to hammer one into something finished. [1] The problem is I lose interest in irons even before they get very hot. I don't see myself as incapable, but I do have a great deal of trouble approving of my own ideas. The histories of inventive/creative people collectively teach us that mistakes and effort mesh to form the central mechanism of learning and creation. I ignore this fact so much. Whenever I first think of something, the second thought is almost always disapproval. [2] Maybe I can't change that, and it is something that is dictated by my upbringing or genetics. Maybe also I can leverage it. I can take the inward discord as a sign that further upsetting the internal state of things will lead to something new and original.

People I knew in High School told me that I was going to do something unique and significant some day. That sentiment always made me feel weird and embarrassed. I hoped that I would work out a way to sustain those brief flashes of intensity before anyone noticed how rare they actually were. The truth is that I haven't lived up to my potential in ages. I still believe that I can reverse the situation through constant, gradual change in habits and outlook. I have tried the fatalistic all-or-nothing attachment of my self (esteem) to A Particular Way and it doesn't work. I just have to do, and work, and fail, and succeed all the time. All the while I will be greedily soaking up the knowledge and wisdom from the increasing pile of wreckage. After all, more mistakes mean more spare parts. [3]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In related news, I started two new projects this (holiday) weekend. (They are really only new in the sense that I actually started work on them rather than just talking about them for over a year.)

The first is a Photobioreactor. Ever since I heard about the abandoned Aquatic Species Program I have been curious about aquaculture as it pertains to algae and photosynthetic bacteria in the production of bio-diesel. It may not be possible to produce enough to fuel my car using the space that my apartment provides, but learning more about, and automating, the process now may benefit me in the future.

The second is a CNC (Computer Numerical Control) Mill/Router, made of LEGO and driven by printer stepper motors. Now, what the wiki article does not fully convey is that CNC machines and their cousins, Rapid Prototyping machines, are the fastest means to turn an idea into a real thing. With it, the thing that was in your mind can be in your hand in hours. I won't be able to cut sturdy materials with this first iteration. What I will be able to do is work out all the software and control issues before moving on to larger, more powerful machines. A home-built CNC machine is fairly common project. All the same, it opens all kinds of doors in what I will be able to manufacture. This will most definitely benefit me in the future.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[1] I am assuming that "irons in the fire" is a blacksmith metaphor. The phrase may refer to something else entirely.

[2] This happens when I deal with people too, especially people I don't know well. Whenever I think about talking to someone, I also think that I am an unwelcome disruption to the flow of their day. Furthermore, I wasn't invited, so how can the person possibly appreciate an irritating collection of bones and grease broadcasting noise at them? That's a really unhealthy way to view the way people see me.

[3] Look at me with my precious collection of mission statements and proclamations. I should get my M.B.A. and travel the country giving talks on Productivity and Cross Functional Synergy Effectiveness Return Management. I could make millions selling books full of empty Business Advice.

Mr. Kettersby, an urgent directaphone text was posted to your inbox, shall I patch it through?

2010-04-20T23:12:00.002-05:00

[-- SEND: ADDR#479302.t.008 RECEIVE:ADDR#479845.w.009 DATETIME: 1924-10-16,14:56 DIRECTAPHONE TEXT BEGIN--]

FROM: Dr. Harold F. Stonefield III, Lead Archivist
State Information Directorate - Financial Division
#479302.t.008

TO: Mr. Daniel Kettersby, Contracts and Billing Advisor
Ticks, Tocks, and Locks: Information Transcription and Security Company
#479845.w.009

SUBJECT: THE BURNIING ANGER THAT RIOTS IN MY HEART AGAINST YOU

Mr. Kettersby,

I have contacted you regarding an apparent discrepancy between our respective views of what constitutes professional behavior.

This morning I was informed that a satchel of voxagraph recordings was delivered to your employees on-site at the Directorate by mistake. These came from a platoon of our own nation's Advance Guard, who may still be on a peacekeeping mission in the Upper Foglands. As you may well know, the government has severed all directaphone communications with the Foglanders pending resolution of certain diplomatic concerns. Therefore, it should be obvious that any word from our greencoats should be routed immediately to the Military Directorate. This, apparently, did not occur.

I have a friend in the MD who is overwrought with anxiety over a missing voxagraph communique from the aforementioned Advance Guard platoon, which should have been delivered to his office some weeks ago. Buffoons under your employ, contracted by the Military Directorate, instead routed those spindles to the State Information Directorate. This action is against state policy and bafflingly contrary to your stated expertise in "Information Security". Miraculously, the whereabouts of those voxagraph spindles have been discovered, thanks in no part to your shoddy record-keeping.

Once located, I was saddened to learn that not only are our greencoats wandering the Foglandish heath with dwindling supplies, but they are engaged in a desperate search for a stranded patriot. The only clues to his location are a collection of frantic voxagraph recordings that were also temporarily lost to your administrative ineptitude. My sense of tragedy, and my shame in hiring you, are deepened by the fact that your company saw it fit to classify this woeful narrative as a personal ad. The poor chap's laments were framed as answers to jaunty essay questions, then posted to "net.cupid_bow". I hope for your sake that the courts find you to be monumentally stupid, because the alternative is that your sense of humor is criminally morbid. In case you missed it (and I am certain you did) I have attached the text ad in full.

To be perfectly clear, your contracts with the State Information Directorate, and all government offices, are terminated, effective immediately. Your office has been billed for the overtime wages necessary to sort out this matter.

Sincerely,
Dr. H. F. Stonefield

[-- DEVICE CHECK FAILED: 257k ticks of data UNSENT for DEVICETYPE **BLUHRN_Remote_Operated_Industrial_Arm**. /////// Server attempting re-route, press the BLOCK key to cancel. --]

P.S. If your office had been properly equipped, I would have torn you to ribbons over the directa'.

[--ATCH 0001 TEXTFILE BEGIN --]

My Self-Summary

All directaphone lines are down, so I am dictating this message by voxagraph in hopes that someone may find it. My airmotor has crashed and I was forced to leave it in a particularly un-airworthy condition. I was able to salvage the power plant and most of the drive train to fashion myself a crude overland conveyance. My estimated position is somewhere in the Upper Foglands, but without a clear view of the stars I am not at all certain. Less certain still is what will happen to me in coming hours and days.

My curiosity has gotten the best of me once again. I had lowered my altitude to get better readings on a patch of phosphorescent ores, and in a moment of inattentiveness, my craft was struck by a sudden downdraft. It was then that I became immediately and violently acquainted with the ore deposit.

The phlogiston compressors are spinning up to speed, so I must end this recording. I can only hope that my creativity and mettle can see me out of this cheerless heath.

What I’m doing with my life

I have been trying to distill a fuel with workable combustive properties from rotting vegetation I find in the swamps that pervade this region. The rest of my time is occupied with scraping aether bats out of my vehicle's air intake and keeping the snakes at bay.

As an aside, I have developed a strong aversion to swamps.

I’m really good at

Re-purposing found objects as a fuel pump.

I am fully conversant with the terrible howls of the creatures that stalk the heath, how far away they are, and how long it will take them to bring their slavering jaws to bear on me.

The first things people usually notice about me

> The lesions that testify to my numerous and unfortunate encounters with the dreadful local fauna

> The long and convoluted discourse that I carry on with myself on a worryingly frequent basis

My favorite books, movies, music, and food

Books - Anything Ada Hargrave is tops, naturally.

Movies - Though I hate to mar it, I made a handy flipbook in the margins of my copy of "Useful Machine Movements". It's about a man that finds a pair of lift planes for his airmotor and lofts himself safely into the heavens. I could watch it every day.

Music - The gentle breeze blowing across an open plain in the early morning, before the larger predators are active.

Food - Whatever I can find.

The six things I could never do without

> A standard-issue Mechanologist's Guild Toolkit - valuable beyond words

> 100 meters of natural-fibre rope - a little mold-eaten at this point, sadly

> Ada Hargrave's Book of Useful Machine Movements (3rd Edition) - I have kept this with me since my school days.

> Ruger-Bellwether "Ifrit" Repeater Pistol - There are only three psychokinetic rounds left in the magazine.

> Canvas tarp - My new, hopefully temporary, living quarters

> A worn journal - Even if I don't make it, maybe someone out there can learn from my mistakes.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

Every few days I cross a stretch of ground that has been cut, ravaged by Flynn-knows-what. Something has left a swath of desolation approximately 12 metres wide, where tree branches are snapped and the earth has been scorched by extreme heat. It leaves a track pattern unlike any sort of machine I have ever seen, and it makes impossibly sharp turns. Sometimes the tracks inexplicably end with no evidence left as to where the blasted thing departed.

This morning I found a set of such tracks not a dozen paces from my camp. I did not hear a thing all last night. I freely admit to you here that this frightens me to the very core.

On a typical Friday night I am

-leaving more voxagraph spindles for someone to find. I hope this message finds you in a better state of affairs than myself. Please exk\/5e the po0r out//////put quality, I think the r3cording he4d is 4bout to g1ve o

[-- Unknown DATATYPE was received. Please contact an authorized Blue Heron Voxagraph service centre. --]

The most private thing I’m willing to admit here

It fills me with profound joy to have found another voxagraph recording head. What excellent luck! I pried it from the death-grip of some chap not so lucky as I. May his soul find peace.

It is my private shame that I never learned to properly calibrate a magnetocollider. I always asked Mr. Druthers to do that for me, and he always graciously agreed. He was my dearest friend amongst all the Guild members.

You should message me if

You found my recording. I can scarcely believe it! Now, you should see a set of narrow wheel tracks leading into a copse of haberdasher trees. Follow that, and keep to the southern shore of the lake, then continue across the field toward the hills. I'm going to try to leave trail markers as long as I have energy to spare.

For the love of all that is good, do not attempt to cross the plains at night! This cannot be stressed enough.

[--ATCH TEXTFILE STOP --]

[-- DIRECTAPHONE TEXT FULLSTOP--]

[-- SEND: ADDR#479302.t.925 RECEIVE:ADDR#479302.t.ALL DATETIME: 1924-10-16,16:12 DIRECTAPHONE TEXT BEGIN--]

FROM: Ms. Francine Grendel, Archivist
State Information Directorate - Mail Department
#479302.t.925

TO: &AllStaff_SID
State Information Directorate
#479302.t.ALL

SUBJECT: Preventable Fatalities in the Shipping Department

Dear Fellow Staff,

I am writing to inform you of an unfortunate incident that needlessly claimed the lives of 7 employees in the 4th sub-basement of the SID this afternoon. It appears that some stray ticks of data from upstairs were received by the Industrial Manipulator Arm (known to the mail staff as "Lanky Linda") in the Oversize Package Sorting Room. This caused her to go on something of a rampage, rending 6 employees to bits before an intern selflessly threw himself into the works to stop her. Even though the stray data had every appearance of a valid manipulator program, it proved to be poorly written and also more fatal than was perhaps necessary.

In the future, please do take care that such data is correctly routed and meets proper safety standards.

The families of the departed will each be sent a Condolence Assortment of Fruit Jams in memory of service given to the SID.

Respectfully,
F. Grendel

P.S. Linda was returned to service after minor repairs and a good wash.

[-- DIRECTAPHONE TEXT FULLSTOP--]

You are not supposed to do that.

2010-02-23T19:25:00.000-06:00

You are not supposed to get less than 6 hours of sleep for some days.

James, your head is full of crap and I do not know what you want.

Back in the Ring

2009-11-08T22:14:00.000-06:00

Hey, so I scraped an HP-Compaq TC1100 tablet notebook off of eBay for a pittance. I have wanted a tablet PC since the UIUC let me play with one back in in that 200 Computer Science class. I may have learned something, but what I really did during class was doodle. The picture above has some wonky shading, but that is because I was on the phone at the time.

I finally got the spare room cleaned. It has gone from a chaotic pile of boxes to a usable workshop. To celebrate I built a tool rack out of the lumber and parts left over from the gift that I made for my father's birthday.

Frustration Finds Form

2009-09-19T19:55:00.003-05:00

This is the workshop in which frustration finds form. All of the odd jobs, and the odd folk, have been pushed here. The tools and equipment required for those odd jobs are gathering dust here, myself included. After everything had irrevocably settled, the Administration deemed that it was not economical to call in outside specialists in the rare event of an unanticipated concern. The problems here are so deeply rooted in the history of the Facility, the paper trail so immense, that a staff of archeologists would be needed to support the work of any outside help. Our salaries are insurance, grudgingly paid, against the day when our arcane services may be needed. So the listless have been lodged here, and now they languish. All the interesting parts of my work are gone because everything has settled into a worn groove. Since replicators were invented, every single piece always suffers the same failure. So now the maintenance plan has been scheduled to fix those failures just before they occur. [1] Of course, there are those problems, those anomalous failures, which are the synergistic progeny of a myriad of unknown factors. They work on a cycle with a period of decades. Predicting them is like watching a glacier drop its leviathan splinters into the ocean, and attempting to predict the exact size, shape, and location of the next iceberg. We certainly know the mechanisms and the character of the fissures, but to predict them before they manifest themselves as the tiniest cracks would be to know the current state and full history of every ice crystal of the entire frozen landscape. Sometimes I stare at the logs and imagine that I see patterns. I close my eyes, and I see a gate valve close for the last time because the temperature controller for the room that valve is in does not compensate for the grease in the valve. The grease is sensitive to swings in temperature, and every time the ventilation louvers open or close I can just see the hydrocarbons experience the tiniest tug, leading to their downfall in the future. I was thinking about this when the memo concerning exploring unstudied avenues for error was sent. That was of course distributed out about two and a half years ago. I understand that you were hired as part of the project, and it only took them two and fifteen thirthy-seconds years to find someone. I have to say, and I don’t express this often, that I am impressed. You have no idea of the dreadful amount of paperwork that went into bringing you to our happy Facility. Did you know that four of our Employment Resource Generalists died during that span? Don’t look so alarmed, you are only a very small part of their problems. In fact everyone here is someone else’s problem here. That’s why I don’t worry where I go, it is someone else’s problem. Back to your project. I have constructed, during time most emphatically budgeted for the purpose and built from random objects most emphatically not reserved for other utterly insignificant purposes, a device that will test as many of those latent failures as possible. It will reveal weaknesses and chains of failures that will destroy the understanding of those sitting in the upper offices. It is a heartbreakingly rigorous battery of tests that, when executed in sequence, may produce results I am not entirely certain that the system can survive. I originally submitted my proposal as a joke. But here is the punch line: My proposal was approved with the blessing of the Facility Manager, possibly as a clerical error. I was told to execute the plan with all possible speed as soon as the project coordinator arrives, who now stands before me. I must apologize for embedding this technical briefing inside of a frightening soliloquy; it’s a problem I have had since I was a youngster and I really should see a doctor about it. At any rate I hope you are ready to unravel everything you see. Apparently the Facility Manager is, how did the form letter put it, “pleased with your proposal and/or success, and looks forward to seeing your results with the possibility of congratulating you where permitted by law.” He is eager to see us finish this work. So if you could step up to the machine and press this button, we will get the ball rolling in the most literal terms imaginable.

[1] An interesting part of the history of replicators should be noted here. The invention of Supermacro Atomwise Manufacturing processes, popularly and collectively referred to as “Replicators”, brought the capability to reproduce nearly any physical object with atom-for-atom fidelity [2], assuming both that the requisite ablative-scanning technology and a supply of atoms in the appropriate ratios of elements are available. This technique has recently become economic even to small businesses. The opportunities to improve the composition of material and correct defects at the atomic level are surely not lost on the reader. However, it is less known that this error-correction capability is prohibitively expensive, financially and computationally. Especially in the case of metals, it is not beneficial to render a material as a seamless, homogenous chunk of compounds. It is the small structural defects generated by conventional manufacturing processes that provide strength, as well as the origination points for cracks. Simple repeating patterns are also not sufficient. Full Atom Scale Utilization (FASU) results in a network of micro-scale regions within the finished product that provide strength, rigidity, impact absorption, and energy transfer between micro regions, all with respect to the macro-scale object as a whole. The FASU process all but guarantees reliability of the product on the order of centuries, but this kind of assurance is rarely needed in the private sector. In many cases where a cost effective material optimization is desired, scans of application-specific regions on actual, laboratory-tested parts are sold on the open market with prices depending on the proven reliability of the original part. Some firms choose to scan a presently installed part rather than deal with the varying quality of third-party vendors. The vast majority of firms still source conventionally manufactured goods for their needs.

[2] The use of replication on living creatures, including sentient synthetics, (i.e. atomwise “teleportation”) has been banned in most systems on account of the process not reliably reproducing the electric state of parts of living brain tissue, resulting in brain death of the “end product”. And though it has been theorized that ablation-scanning is fast enough to record velocity information of fluids in transport at the time of scanning, such as blood, the reconstruction process does not allow material particles to be set in motion at the time of build. Thus, fluid transport would need to be manually restarted within the product. This is, of course, in addition to the ethically difficult fact that ablation-scanning destroys the original living subject. Educational institutions looking to reproduce tissues or entire living entities by this process must seek a permit.

Polenta Recipe

2009-08-09T17:13:00.005-05:00

I had a polenta recipe on my previous blog. I erased the blog, but I made polenta again recently so I thought I would re-post the recipe.

Ingredients:
=========
Course-Ground Corn Meal (Grits) or Instant Polenta: 1-1/2 cups
Water: 4-1/2 cups
Green Onions: 3 to 4
Small Sweet Peppers: 3 (they are about 1/4 the size of a bell pepper)
Cilantro: 6 to 8 sprigs/sticks
Grated Cheese: 1 handful
(Medium) Salsa Verde: 1/2 cup
Ground Beef: 3/4 pound

Equipment:
=========
4 Qt. Pot
Stirring Spoon
[Optional] Whisk
Medium Mixing Bowl

Directions:
========
Brown and drain the beef. Slice up the onions, including the greens. Chop the peppers into smallish pieces. Cut the long stems from the cilantro, and finely dice the remaining leaves and branches. Put the corn meal, vegetables, cilantro, beef, and cheese into the mixing bowl and mix it a little bit. Pour the salsa on top of the mixture. Bring the water to a rolling boil in the pot. Pour the mixing bowl into the boiling water, then immediately remove from heat and begin whisking. (Stirring is okay if you don't mind tiny lumps.) The mixture will begin thickening in 20 seconds or less. Stir with a spoon for a few minutes or until your arm is tired. Serve in a large plastic container, or a small casserole dish with a large spoon.

Makes a lot of servings.
Refrigerate leftovers.

Notes:
=====
* When scaling the ingredients, remember that a 3:1 ratio of water to corn meal makes soft polenta.
* Some may prefer to saute the vegetables first. The hot water will partially cook the raw vegetables, while leaving them just a bit crispy.
* Use whatever salsa you like, but I think that salsa verde goes well with the cilantro. Use hot salsa if this mix is too bland for you.
* After refrigerating, polenta will congeal completely. This makes it easy for you to slice it into servings, or fry it.

Happy Thoughts

2009-06-06T23:02:00.002-05:00

Maybe people don't actually fall in love. Maybe people feel less and less like throwing up as they endure contact with other people. Eventually, people find that One Person that hardly churns their stomach at all, and then they give in to the urge to reproduce. It's a crazy little thing called love.

A Very Special Dirt

2009-04-30T21:52:00.000-05:00

When Great Great Great Grandpa Hurscht emmigrated from Germany, the only thing he had to his name was a single cow. Having no land on which to graze it, Grandpapapa Hurscht would poach grass from the local graveyard at night. In order to do this, he had to muffle the cowbell with cotton blown from a nearby field. Now, at the time, this was considered base and immoral on two counts; suspending the natural course of a cowbell that was crafted with honest intentions, and using cotton to dishonor the dead. Dishonoring the dead was not such a big deal, because so few were even on speaking terms with the dead. It was the cotton that got Hurscht in trouble.

At the time, the sight of picked, unspun cotton was considered an omen of idleness. It was for this reason that ladies wore bonnets. Spinning cotton was naturally women's work, so ladies wore bonnets to shield their eyes from great, heaping piles of cotton at the side of their spinning wheels. Such a sight would undeniably send a lady into hysterics. Filthy orphans were employed to carry the cotton from the fields to the spinning floors. At the end of each day the orphans were whipped for such a callous display of idleness as carrying up to 4 tons of unspun cotton each day, paid their wage of 2 pennies, then flogged for being filthy. Hurscht was walking his cow from the graveyard to the town tree in the early dawn hours when a lady spied a spot of unspun cotton peeking from the cowbell. She immediately fell into a fainting fit. Grandpapapa would have helped, but he was fearful of letting go of his cow's lead rope (which he had braided from the hair of discarded bees) and letting his only earthly possession run away forever. He would pay dearly for this solitary act of selfishness. As it turned out, a passing throng of orphans saw the lady swoon, and they selflessly carried her to the town doctor. The orphans were burned for touching a lady, then flogged for being filthy. A week later she regained her wits, and reported that a backwards immigrant known as Hurscht had offended her with cotton.

The Town Assembly unanimously agreed to run Grandpapapa Hurscht out of town. It was decided to strap him to a cart pulled by his own cow for the greatest humiliating effect, and chase the cow away, leaving them both to be devoured by gypsies. The town had no cart, for there was no wood to build one with, save for the town tree, which could not be cut down for the sake of town pride. One would have to be purchased from the city at great expense. The Town Assembly reckoned that it would take over a year of saving and scraping profits from their crops of skinbeans to buy a cart. This was because skinbeans made for a pitifully poor crop, as they contained no actual bean, but the skin of a bean only. The fact that skinbeans were not seeds, like normal beans are, presented a problem at planting time. The skinbeans had no way of germinating on their own and required a great deal of shouting to get them going. The healthy-lunged farmers of the town did a bang-up job of shouting at skinbeans, but eventually even they became horse, and orphans were brought in to shout at the skinbeans through the night so the farmers could rest their voices. Every morning at dawn the orphans were beaten for speaking without being spoken to (for skinbeans had not the power of speech), then flogged for being filthy.

Now as a matter of town pride, landowners in the town could not be run out of it. Instead, landowners who committed moral tresspasses were lashed to a gypsie and rolled down a hill as punishment. In short, Hurscht had one year to become a landowner if he were to remain in the relative safety of the town. The members of the Town Assembly all smiled to themselves, for they knew that all the land within a mile of the Town Tree had been claimed, and it was considered immoral to build a homestead further from it. Hurscht was undaunted, and quickly concocted a plan. First, he wove reeds from a nearby pond into a berm that circled his cow's back. Next, he set about getting soil to place in the berm, thus creating his own land. For twenty hours each day he rubbed together rocks he found at the pond, eroding and liberating particles from the rocks' surfaces, letting the debris fall onto the cow's back. In the remaining four hours, he spent his time snatching specks of dust from the air, licking them, and sticking them to the back of his cow. He conducted himself so for 8 months. There was very little topsoil on his cow to speak of, and certainly not enough to impress the Town Assembly.

Inspiration struck as Hurscht passed by orphans shouting in the field on his nightly walks to the graveyard. He had learned to walk by the skinbean fields at night, so that the shouting would drown out the sound of a cowbell un-muffled by unspun cotton. Tying his cow off to one orphan, he snuck up on a second orphan that was on the verge of collapse from shouting. He gripped the orphan by the ankles, swung it over his head, and smacked the orphan against the back of his cow with such a blow as to rattle the little orphan's bones. All the filth was shaken loose from the orphan, and behold, a tiny pile of dirt was orphaned from its orphan. He released the dazed urchin back to its shouting and repeated the process well into the night. When morning came, confused orphans walked home to their mud pit with concussions but not with floggings (but obviously still beaten for their noise). Confused floggers gazed in wonderment, for they saw that the orphans were unfilthed.

Hurscht made great progress in this fashion, and the orphans, though still suffering beatings and burnings, were all too happy to assist in his dirtmaking in exchange for relief from their continual flogging. In three months' time a healthy layer of soil was now on the cow, and Huscht planted grass, skinbeans, and flowers on it. In the last month before Hurscht's sentence was to be carried out, the orphans shouted for his cow rather than for the fields of their cruel employers. The cow-bourne crop flourished into a bounty far greater than any of the townspeople. When the smirking Town Assembly strolled up to Hurscht, smirking smugly, he moved to the side and showed showed them his plot of land. He offered to buy the cart from them, for he was now far wealthier than those gathered. His neighbors were so shamed that they forgot all about tying Hurscht to carts or gypsies. Grandpapapa Hurscht took the cart for his home, and he sat down for the first time in three years.

Doctors like blood.

2009-04-29T18:00:00.000-05:00

Doctors like blood. They must, otherwise they would not always have their hands in it, regretting that hygiene protocols place a latex barrier between it an their expectant skin. Doctors like blood so much that they keep collections of stale and otherwise unused blood. The accumulation of some of this treasure is a natural consequence of the craft of doctoring. However, discerning doctors seek out rare and antique bloods to impress their colleagues as much as to satisfy the sanguine hoarding urge that wells up inside. "Look at this sample," one beams, "It is O-Positive and laced with an infection of Whooping Fever from the 1978 outbreak. Just sniff it and see." The IV bag passes from nose to nose, and each nose in turn bobs up and down in a nod of agreement. "That's nothing," boasts another, "I've got a whole gallon of A-Negative, absolutely filthy with the Rhinoceros Flu; vintage NINETEEN-TWEN-TY-THREE." All those gathered drop jaws in awe, as if made ready to receive tongue depressors. Their friend with the jars of Rhino Flu will get referrals from all his peers now, regardless of how many dozens of patients he has lost.

Still alive!

2008-11-11T04:32:00.001-06:00

I started the new computer I just put together, and neither the computer nor I caught fire! It's a Veteran's Day miracle!

FIRST POST

2008-10-27T22:59:00.001-05:00

Okay, here is the deal. I kind of got tired of my last blog, to such a point that I hadn't really thought of it that much until someone actually asked me about it. I felt that it did not reflect me anymore. I think that I was trying too hard to write something interesting. I think that maybe I should try writing for the sake of writing on a regular basis as something that benefits me and I guess people can read that if they like. It can be like a scratchpad for what is going on and what I am thinking.