The Fran and Dave Experiment

Chagrin and Bare It - 2P or Not?
Category: Life

chagrin

noun
1.  strong feelings of embarrassment 

verb
1.  cause to feel shame; hurt the pride of; "He humiliated his colleague by criticising him in front of the boss" [syn: humiliate] 

WordNet® 3.0, © 2006 by Princeton University.

I don't know if humans are the only animals to feel embarrassment, but I do know that it's one thing you can't escape, even in the woods.

There are things I do routinely, to which I give little thought, as in my shower ritual. Since I have to use a shower house, it's not quite as simple as doing it in your house. I like to travel light, so I don't like to lug a lot of disused clothing back to my car when I'm done. What I do is to disrobe as much as modesty permits and walk into the shower pre-divested of shoes (and the cumbersome leg brace on the right one), socks and shirt.

One night I performed this ritual outside my car, grabbed my toiletries and started to walk to the shower. Of necessity, my first couple steps were away from the car – and toward a lady with her young children in the adjacent campsite – at night. It didn't register until I was on the other side of the car that she had said "May I help you?"

Madame, whoever you are, I humbly apologize, and I assure you I'm not a creep.

Sometimes, I get to have the laugh. The other morning, I had just exited the tent when Fran let out a yelp. She had been stung by a yellow jacket. Never mind where. Fran was not happy about it, and I'm sure I felt bad on her behalf, but it was funny. To me. Geographically, the incident happened at Fayetteville. Anatomically, Fran does not wish me to say. She won't sit still for it.

The Fickle Finger of Fate is always in motion. Justice was served the following morning. I had gotten up early to photograph the sunrise and afterward come back home for a nap. Fran was still in bed.

Nature was calling, but I've gotten used to sleeping in spite of the burden. When the PSI (pardon the pun) had gotten too high, I decided it was time to TCB.

There are times when people shouldn't attempt to multitask. Instead of going outside and doing the deed forthwith, I decided to grab a load of books that Fran wanted returned to the library. I dropped one, which made Fran laugh, which made me laugh, which made me drop the rest – it looked like a literary explosion.

Now I had to get out of the tent fast, but between the laughter and having to fumble for the (tents) zipper, I wasn't having much luck.

The laughter and urgency had made it hard to open the zipper but I was trying. I started clawing desperately. Fran was laughing to beat all, which only increased my laughter.

I managed to get the door a little bit open and got down on all fours to crawl out. Fran thought this was funny. My laughing only increased. That's when I started to… As they used to say in the shampoo commercials, "That tingle tells you it's working."

It couldn't get any worse, could it?

Now Phoenix got into the act by wanting affection - and blocking my exit.

It was all over. I had exhausted over half my supply. If there was any salvaging of my dignity, it was only this:

After having fought my way past my loving cur, I was able to finish the deed standing. Like a man. In the weeds.*

After that, I turned around and shot Phoenix my dirtiest look. She just smiled.

* I just finished a Hemingway novel.

1:32 PM - 12 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Looking for People for Guitar Jamming in Fayetteville, West Virginia Area
Category: Music

For people who play guitar in the Fayetteville, West Virginia area, I would like to jam with you. I've been playing for over 25 years, but sad to say, there are some areas that need work.

I'd like to have fun and learn. I do mostly blues but I'm open to just about anything. I'm trying to develop some Bluegrass technique as well. I'm open to just about anything.

I have an opportunity to perform at a coffeehouse in about a month and a half.

I will have a set of three songs, and I'm thinking of having the following:

• A cover tune – probably, bluegrass, folk, Americana and the like. I'm thinking of Hickory Wind by Gram Parsons and Bob Buchanon, or Rose of Cimarron by Rusty Young. Both songs have been sung by Emmylou Harris. Rose of Cimarron was done by Poco.
• A song of my own. As mentioned in a previous blog, I've been able for a long time to come up with melodies in my sleep. I've got a few keepers to choose from that I want to work out.
• A traditional tune. At this point, I'm leaning toward Amazing Grace.

This list is subject to change.

Anyway, any responses are appreciated!

10:17 AM - 5 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

Let’s Play Survivor: West Virginia
Category: Life

[I wrote this over a month ago. The items you see in bold are things I meant to research, either to verify their truth, obtain more information or both. I'm going to go ahead and post it as written. I don't pretend to be an expert, rather this is just a mental exercise mostly for fun, but also to help me think of what I might do in an emergency. I welcome any thoughts or corrections you may have. Thanks! Dave.]

I'm going to ask you to imagine with me an exercise I'll call Survivor: West Virginia. I've not seen Survivor on TV but I'm going to do an ostensible sociological experiment in which the real object is to present human beings tearing each other apart for your entertainment. I leave that to the networks and Lord of the Flies. No, this will be you versus Mother Nature if you want to put it into combat terms, although nature can be an ally as well as foe.

Imagine you find yourself naked in West Virginia. You needn't be embarrassed as you are the only inhabitant of the state and of the world for that matter. The world has never seen a human. We will assume that you are reasonably young and healthy. I'm disqualified on both counts because I depend on modern medicine for survival and I'm fifty years old, but we're just pretending.

The object of the game is to survive.

Many of the things that are integral to survival in your former life are gone; there are no stores but on the other hand you won't need money. There is food aplenty and none of it tainted with the pollution that comes with modern technology.

What steps would you take to ensure your survival? I've thought about it and come up with my own list. I've almost surely left some things out and I've likely gotten some things wrong. As you read along, I'd like for you to think about how you might modify my ideas and I'd like to hear from you.

My plan goes as follows:

• Find a rock for protection and hunting. There will be more dangerous animals out there than we find in our old world and you don't want to be caught unawares. I would also carry a stick for rattling bushes to scare away bears and the like and for brandishing if need be.
• Find water. You won't last long without it and you need it to think straight. Since you are in West Virginia, just walk downhill and you'll find a river or stream eventually. Wild plants may be a good source but if you don't know what plant you're eating it can kill you.
• While we're on the subject of plants, they can be a quick source of nutrition, but remember the caveat. I wish I had a list of plants that are good for you – now my life is in danger!
• You'll probably need meat unless you are a dyed-in-the-wool (excuse the pun) vegetarian. I personally could never make a go of it, so in my case some innocent woodland creatures are in for it. It is possible to eat your meat raw, but you are probably at greater risk for disease. At any rate, raw meat would not be very appetizing.
• To avoid raw meat, fire is your next order of business. Also, fire provides protection from wild animals and a feeling of well-being. Your best bet would probably be the old bow-and-stick trick. For the bowstring, you might try birch bark.
• Knives are always good to have for protection and to help in food preparation. Gather some stones and use some to sharpen the others.
• Find vines and braid them into ropes.
• A good stout stick, a sharp rock can be lashed together for an axe.
• Use the axe to cut branches for other tools. One day, when your axe is on its last leg, you can use it to cut a nice branch to replace the handle.
• You can now make other tools such as spears for throwing and stabbing.
• Cut enough branches and you can make a frame for a shelter. Lash it together with vines. You could cover it with the hide of animals you have killed for food. In some parts of the world they cover their shelters with leaves, but I don't think the leaves in West Virginia would be suitable.
• It may have occurred to you by now that you've made some neat gizmos but have no pockets to put them in, so you'll want to make some clothes. Clothing will protect you against the rough edges that crowd the outdoor environment, but mainly, you need to think about the approach of winter. Hopefully when that time comes, you'll be ready to bundle up beside a nice cheery fire.
• We have not addressed your sociological needs thus far. We've established that human companionship is out of the question, so you might like to have a pet. That could be a problem however. Wild animals should generally be considered dangerous. Wolves are social animals but probably wouldn't do well if separated from the pack, and that would probably entail battling them all.

How did I do? What would you add, change, or leave out?

Thank you for playing Survivor: West Virginia. I hope you lived and if not, better luck next time.

10:14 AM - 12 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Married... with Dogs - Sitcom in the Woods?
Category: Life

As you'll recall, our hero (ahem… that's me; Dave) finally got his little traveling circus moved "over the hump" and into the woods.

Fran had resisted the idea for an annoyingly sensible reason. It rains here. A lot. And, as you'll recall from a previous episode, we dang near lost the Blazer and its contents (Fran, Dave, Annabelle, Phoenix) over a steep hillside next to the same road upon which we now reside.

We no sooner got our stuff set up when the rains resumed. The blue sky we saw the day before had been a setup, pure and simple.

I remember on that first day when Fran pulled up in the Blazer and the rain was pouring down. I was outside frolicking with the dogs, chasing frogs, and being wet. I was immediately warmed by my dear one's face burning in the window.

I got in the passengers seat. There comes a time in every husband's life, I imagine, when he flashes that winning smile of his, and he finds that it doesn't always win. No, the rain had found Fran, worked its way into her bones and turned to ice and not even the warmth of her husband's smile could thaw it.

She had the radio on, and the song Shambhala performed by Three Dog Night came on. Having no other answer, I took up the howling refrain and got out and made the woods ring with not a joyful, but a tortured sound, for my voice just can't make it up that hill.

Luckily, the sun came again.

And in their turn, so did the clouds, for this is not Shambhala. And the storms. We battened everything down as best we could and piled into the tent. It was uncomfortably wet in there, but I had a smile on my face. Probably because I love storms.

"How do you manage to just laugh it off," Fran wanted to know? If she'd been reading all my blogs, she'd already know the answer. I explained that I just try to remember when I was a kid and it was fun getting soaked, or at least not the end of the world. "When you were a kid camping at Camp Ploggins [probably spelled wrong but the name makes me chuckle], don't you remember the rain and how you reacted then?"

She did. Oh, yes, she remembered. That was where she had learned to hate the rain, she explained. Not only that, she swore she'd never be stuck in it again.

That was my best argument. Probably my only argument for which I can consider myself lucky, because my next effort might have sent her packing. She went to Best Western to stay the night, but returned, daunted by the price. The rain continued through the night, music to my ears and mine only. The water in the tent you learn to work around.

Last night, I discovered you can lose an argument you don't know you're having. Fran took the soaked bedclothes to the laundromat. Phoenix likes to follow if one of us leaves, so I held tight to her collar. After the droning of the engine died, I let go and Phoenix just stood there looking at me. For about three seconds. Then in the blink of an eye she was pumping four legs and was up the hill and over it before I could get out a good yell.

I waited. About a minute later, Fran doubled back and Phoenix trailed. I found a rope on the ground covered in mud and tied it to her collar. My hands were caked with the stuff and I was just a little cross. Fran left again for the laundromat, and Phoenix just stood there looking at me. I made a terrible discovery – the rope was attached to nothing. The other end was just lying in the mud and if Phoenix made the same discovery, she would be gone in a heartbeat. Luckily, I got it and tied it to another rope that was attached to something solid.

I sat back down at the picnic table and Phoenix just stood there grinning at me. My securing the rope had gotten my hands another load of mud, so I took it in less than good humor. "You can have this!" I said, wiping the mud on her fur.

As I looked down at her in triumph, she shook herself all over and got rid of it. I was covered with it, and I swear her grin got even bigger. She had won; had zinged me, in fact. I could only laugh.

A dog owner will discover sooner or later what I'm about to impart: At some point, your dog, no matter how loving, no matter how loyal, begins to understand that her master is finite. The master's sphere of influence is very small, and the world is oh so large. Escape this tiny bubble, and I'm free, discovers the dog. And she is free because all punishments, all unpleasant consequences are magically banished into that wondrous place we humans call the future. That future may be only five minutes away but it doesn't matter. They might come crawling back on their belly, begging forgiveness, but it's later, in the future.

Fran has her own battles with the dogs. They have recently discovered that when humans partake of victuals, they discard the best parts, and if not for the dogs, then for whom? When we return to camp, we find the frying pan and spatula on the ground. While Fran storms and rages in front of the dogs, who probably have no clue as to why, I'll pleasantly reminisce about when I was just a pup myself, and after my mother baked the cake, I would lick the bowl. And the spatula. I have kept this warm reflection to myself.

Oh, I get annoyed by it, but I figure those things have to be cleaned anyway. Phoenix did manage to get me where I live though. The other night, I had hamburgers. Nice and juicy they were. Ketchup and mustard, mmm-mmm. They would have been pure perfection enclosed in buns, but Phoenix had already dispatched them.

Yes, Phoenix still smells like skunk. She probably will for some time, but we've gotten used to it, and it doesn't seem to rub off on anything. We've not bothered with tomato juice and I wonder if that's just an old wives tale.

So, you see, while we are a big happy family, just like anyone else, we have our trials and tribulations.

Sometimes you find that the enemy is you. Maybe for a minute you're not thinking and the next you're kicking yourself for being so stupid. The other night, I was being attacked by a squadron of mosquitoes. What a sight I must have been, lashing out like King Kong against the biplanes. When I'd finally had enough, I put down the book I was reading, went outside the campsite and sprayed myself with Off!

I came back sat down, read my book, and absently swigged my pop from the can. On probably the third or forth swig, I noticed that my lips were getting numb. I tried again, and yes they were numb and getting more so. Then it hit me – I'm drinking Off!! I spat and sputtered like there was no tomorrow. I don't know if I had taken the can with me when I doused myself (just shoot me if I was that dumb) or if I had gotten some on the can from my hands.

I'm much more careful now.

It seems a lot of bother, I suppose, but if you wonder why I bother, take a look at our pictures. They speak for themselves.

And I'll try to get some more on the site soon.

Your humble blogger as Ward Cleaver?

10:12 AM - 16 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

Mars Face - The Truth at Last
Category: Games

[Um, I just found out that this was posted as a bulletin. *Blush*

I have deleted it. I was just having a little joke and didn't mean to spam 6,000 people, many of whom are not subscribed.

Always read the fine print. ]

These results came from a computer, therefore should be considered indisputable. Why is the government hiding the truth from us? We need to fund an expedition to the great face. Perhaps a probe bearing gifts of jewels, fruits, and precious metals. It's a modest proposal, but whatever you do, don't tease it. Gods hate that.

11:17 AM - 17 Comments - 29 Kudos - Add Comment

Close Encounter of the Worst Kind - A Surprise for Phoenix
Category: Pets and Animals

I predicted this a long time ago. Not because I'm psychic, but because we decided over a year ago to move into the woods, and because we have a dog that is in some ways not very bright.

I woke up to the other night to the smell of skunk. I didn't mind so much – I think if bears became extinct, skunks would be our state animal. I tried to be quiet so as not to wake Fran.

Some time passed before I heard the thing that made me uneasy. It was a quick random sound – it seemed to involve the sudden motion of bush and twig. It wasn't hard to imagine a surprise meeting between a skunk and a dog. Not just any dog – Phoenix.

By sunrise, the smell wasn't too bad. There were remnants, but no more than what you would expect. I more or less put the skunk, and the imagined hostile encounter out of my mind.

The effluvium came over me again the next morning – strong and pretty sure of itself, just as Phoenix showed up at the tent door.

Coincidence, I wondered? I fell back to sleep while considering the question. When Fran and I woke up later, the smell hung thickly in the air, and Phoenix was snoring just beyond the head of our mattress.

"What I find interesting," I said, "Is that dogs have a sense of smell hundreds of times that of humans, and they don't seem to mind."

When Phoenix saw us awake, she gave us a big smile. We advised her to leave the tent. We went to Chimney Corners in the afternoon to enjoy some live music. Fran asked why I was laughing. "I thought it only happened on Disney," I said. What was I talking about, she wanted to know. "Phoenix getting sprayed by the skunk."

I should have been angry, but every time I thought about her getting sprayed, then not minding a bit, then giving us that stoopid grin, I just had to laugh.

That's been a couple days ago and the smell is not gone yet. I wonder how much I could get away with if I'd give a disarming smile every time I did something stoopid.

6:06 AM - 24 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Tales from the Backside: Obsession and Punishment
Category: Games

[From AI Guy Monday May 28, 2007

AI Guy is a blog about artificial intelligence.

I am reposting this because it seems to dovetail nicely with the blogs I've written lately about writing music in my sleep...

I just had another chance to exercise good judgment by not posting this. Looks like I blew it again. If there is interest, I could try to recall some of the fall-out from the experiment described below. It'll probably hurt me more than it'll hurt you, but since I care so deeply for my readers, I would make that sacrifice with barely a whimper.]

It started from a casual remark made by his room-mate just before spring break. It was a joking challenge; it wasn't supposed to mean anything, but the young man couldn't let it go. He did the things he had planned; spent time with his girlfriend, even took a little road/hiking outing with her. He caught up on his reading, called his parents, listened to music, and spent time just plain relaxing. But the obsession, the naked challenge of that offhand remark, never left him alone.

He would need a computer, but he didn't have access to one until after the break. He could, however, think it through. Was it possible? It must be possible. He drew charts, he scribbled them to oblivion, and drew more charts. Finally, he saw the solution take its final form.

It was beautiful. It would work. He would show his room-mate – he would show them all. We'll see who's laughing now! With any luck, there would be laughter aplenty. When he got back to college, he typed in the code. It worked. The challenge had been answered and there was laughter aplenty.

But something went wrong. The software, this thing, fused with his mind somehow. It started almost innocently: He awoke one morning with a groan. He thought about what had happened and gave a little chuckle, then forgot the whole thing. But it kept happening; not every night, just enough to show that maybe this was not going to go away quickly.

It should have stopped, and sometimes he would think it had, but it came back, inevitably. The vivid dream, that sudden surprise, and awakening with a groan. It never left. The software he wrote, somehow had managed to lodge itself in his brain. It hadn't taken over, but it had a way of reminding him of its presence every now and again, even long after he forgot the details of the code.

That man was myself. This is a true story.

Here's how it started. I was in a college dorm with 3 other students. I was a fairly normal student and if I wasn't popular, at least I didn't give people reason to despise me. I didn't go without showering or get sloppy drunk and make messes. I just had a propensity to utter a bad pun when the occasion arose, and that was pretty much whenever I could think of one.

So, as I was about to leave for spring break, my room-mate said, "Why don't you write a computer program to generate puns?" I'm sure he meant it as a joke, but I thought, well, why don't I write a computer program to generate puns?

The weirdness started after I wrote the program and got it working. I had a dream that I was in a library looking at various books, and I picked up a coffee table book that had color pictures of the bums of strange animals I had never seen. My girlfriend asked, "What is that book you're looking at?" I didn't know so I looked at the cover. It was Weird Tails. I awoke with a groan. And this has been happening ever since.

I have forgotten the exact algorithms, but I'll tell you as much as I can remember.

Puns rely on two sorts of relations between words: Phonetic and conceptual. Maybe instead of conceptual, you could say semantic, but conceptual seems to have the right meaning for me.

So let's write some words on the board. We'll scatter them all about so we can draw the appropriate connections. Here are the words: shoe, sole, soul, soul-food, Hungary, hungry, turkey, Turkey.

Right away, you'll see some relations: The words relate to shoes, food, and countries. You could come up with puns from this list without even trying; admittedly this is a bit contrived, but stay with me.

We'll draw lines to represent the relations. Since this is formally known as a non-directed graph, we'll call the lines arcs, and the words nodes.

I can draw an arc from the shoe node to the sole node. Let's make this a solid line. All we're showing here is that they are conceptually related, and in fact, what we are creating is called a concept network. Soul-food and turkey are related because they relate to food. Hungry relates both to soul-food and turkey because hunger and food are related. Finally, Hungary and Turkey are related because they are countries.

We've completed our concept network, but unless you've been asleep, you'll have noticed that some of the words sound similar, or even identical. We'll connect those with dotted lines.

Extracting puns is simple now. You won't get complete puns, but you'll get word pairs that anybody with a little imagination can make into a pun (I'm not a miracle-worker). In fact, I came up with two traversal algorithms; one for what I call week puns, the other for strong puns. The strong puns are the real groaners that can result in having you ostracized.

The problem is that I don't fully remember the algorithms, but I'll try to give the flavor. You can start with shoe, jump to sole via conceptual connection, then to soul-food. Or if you are Hungary, have some Turkey. Ahem – sorry.

If anyone can figure out the algorithms, let me know and I'll give credit (or blame).

There are still things we can improve on right now. If you build this network by hand, there will be no surprises for you, and it becomes pointless. The really interesting AI programs are the ones that can construct their own knowledge bases, so let's get started.

First, we need a concept network. CNs have been around a while, but they have limitations. They show that concepts are related, but not how. Is one included wholly inside the other; are they both part of a larger concept; do they overlap...? Fortunately, for our purpose, we don't need that level of knowledge. Puns are flexible like that. There are all kinds of software packages that let you create CNs by hand, but it clearly wouldn't be worth it.

I'm going to propose a home-grown method. I'll scan the dictionary and make a data structure for each word. I'll keep a list of the words in the definition, and I'll also update tallies of each word that contains it. The larger the tally, the stronger the relation. Of course, I need to filter out "noise" words like "the" and "a". If my initial results don't work so well, maybe I'll omit adjectives or adverbs. Before I abandon the dictionary approach, I'll try just nouns. I'll probabilistically weight the network to make more strongly related concepts more likely to be traversed. I've not tried this out, but AI, particularly the "Scruffy AI" involves experimentation and trial and error. Usually, my instincts pay off, so even though I haven't tried it, I'll stick my neck out and say I think it has potential.

Now for the phonetic network. Have you ever noticed that when you call directory assistance and they don't have what you're looking for, sometimes they'll suggest a similar sounding name? They have already solved the sounds-alike problem via an algorithm called Soundex. Two words with the same Soundex ("sound index") are deemed to sound alike. What Soundex does is keep the first letter of a name, or in our case, a dictionary word, and encodes it with the first letter followed by a 3 number representation of remaining consonants. Vowels are not encoded as such, but may affect how the consonants are encoded.

Here is the exact algorithm from the Soundex article in Wikipedia:

1. Retain the first letter of the string
2. Remove all occurrences of the following letters, unless it is the first letter: a, e, h, i, o, u, w,
3. Assign numbers to the remaining letters (after the first) as follows:  b, f, p, v = 1
4. c, g, j, k, q, s, x, z = 2   
5. d, t = 3   
6. l = 4   
7. m, n = 5
8. r = 6
9. If two or more letters with the same number were adjacent in the original name (before step 1), or adjacent except for any intervening h and w (American census only), then omit all but the first.
10. Return the first four characters, right-padding with zeros if there are fewer than four.

Will our set of algorithms work for generating puns? The truth is, I don't know if it will work the way I've loosely specified it, but I'm guessing you could get satisfactory results with a little more tweaking. Graph theory, topology theory, and related fields might help. There are formulas that measure connectedness, closeness, and quite a few other metrics that might help in tuning an algorithm to weigh the various arcs in the graph.

There is a whole lot more I'd love to get into, and maybe I will as time permits, but I'd love to hear what you come up with.

And to think, it started from a minor obsession, once upun a time.

10:32 PM - 14 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Banshees in West Virginia? - The Accidental Songwriter
Category: Music

If there's one thing I cherish in life, it's unpredictability. I don't know where I'll be five years from now (hopefully outside), and I don't want to know until five years from now. It's fair to say that my evolving methodology of songwriting suits my style.

For the past few days, I've been recovering from a cold which is now making its last stand in my chest, which is unfortunate for me since it has caused some minor asthma to kick in. I've been doing less walking as a result, but it's not incapacitating. It's been a great time to devote to music.

The silver lining here is that I managed to wake up once with a good melody that I heard – it was my wheezing. You take it where you find it.

My best melodies, as I've mentioned, come to me in my sleep. I've become more finely attuned lately. When I'm falling asleep, sometimes conversation will morph into music – and not necessarily singing. The less control I try to exert, the better.

Once in my semi-conscious state, I heard a voice and tried to make it into music. It just wasn't happening - there was some stuff that sounded forced and strained, but nothing great. As I was giving up, I noticed that there was a radio playing in the background. As I listened, I heard a wonderful melody that had nearly slipped by.

Generally when I record songs from my dream- or semi-dream-state, I'll hum the melody, but every once in a while I'll sing the lyrics. I never remember them but I "discovered" a few tidbits while listening to the recordings. They range from pop psychology, to the ridiculous, to the nonsensical: 

"No-one can tell you what to do; you'll have to figure that out for you."

"I swear these old memories will come back to me, come back to me."  

"Whenever you go gigging, you'd best be nice and quick, for then you'll have for supper a froggie on a stick."

"You know what drive-in movies are 'cause they're from around here."  

"Let the red dog go free, there's a song for you and me."

Sometimes I'll just be playing with the guitar (while awake), and melodies will drag themselves, battered and bleeding, out of the wreckage of some improvised chord expression. I managed to get some of that recorded for later improvement.

The other day I was listening to one of these recordings and was surprised by a haunting sound. I could hear a chorus of banshees wailing! I played it through several times. I was baffled; surely I would have heard that racket while I was playing. I played it back slowly and heard it as a low mournful moan. Perhaps one of the saddest sounds I've ever heard.

It took some thought, but I finally figured it out. The sounds came not from the woods, but from me! The voice recorder in my pocket had picked up my wheezing and provided some sound effects.

I am fairly satisfied that the melodies are workable. Where I need to make progress is in being able to haul the hard-to-reach melodies into the real world without shattering them. There's some great stuff, but the better it sounds, the harder it is to get back to consciousness with it intact.

I hope there are some better lyrics in there too.

11:39 AM - 14 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

"Well Hello There Dave" - Welcome Back Squatter
Category: Life

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Fortune has smiled on me finally and this morning I have been privileged to open my eyes and stare into the forest primeval, or as close as you can get to primeval in a new-growth forest.

There were all kinds of creatures on hand to welcome me back to the earth. I found me another red-spotted newt. I picked him up, examined him, then let him go. Along came Annabelle, so I had to keep her away from where the cultural exchange had taken place, lest there be an inter-species incident – a dinner-date with the guest of honor doubling as the main course.

I was just plum full of joy – that sort of emotion that makes me thankful I'm a tea-totaler, or I would have wound up crying and trying to come up with maudlin poetry that I would mistake for good.

One way to let it all out and maintain most of your dignity is to find a musical instrument and make a joyful noise, and that's just what I did. I got my old beat-up-bought-twenty-years-ago-in-a-pawnshop guitar, plunked down in my comfy folding chair, and picked and grinned. The girls (Phoenix and Annabelle) heard me playing and seated themselves nearby – Annabelle after digging a cool trough in the detritus just large enough to cradle her. "I'm the Pied Piper," I said to nobody in particular.

In a few minutes, I was serenaded back by a tiny goldfinch. Then a cloud of Tiger- and Black-Swallowtails danced for me and disappeared into the woods.

Of course, as the song says, there is a circle of life, and one eventually will see things from the less lovely end of it. Later that day, I saw the result of a butterfly and moth massacre – wings scattered on the ground from three unlucky individuals.

5:55 AM - 15 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

It – The Final Scene of “North by Northwest” Explained! *
Category: Art and Photography

Let's say you're at a coffee house or some such; a place where the smart folks hang out and you take that proverbial glance across a crowded room and you see her, or him, according to gender and taste.

Chances are, you would like to impress this person with your erudition. That's a fancy word I just now had to look up. You could try to impress her with your knowledge of science, which would be comparatively easy, but you might be peddling your fish in the wrong market, since she's more likely the artsy type.

That's too bad really, because as I say, science is pretty easy in the sense that scientists tend to say what they mean and mean what they say. They can really get to the heart of a thing, and you can pretty much follow along until they start throwing equations between you and comprehension.

For example, some eggheads had to upset the Newtonian applecart and go around saying that the speed of light was exactly the same, no matter how you were moving in relation to a source of light or vice-versa. This claim seemed preposterous until a bored Albert Einstein woke up one day in the Bern patient office and said, "If zee light iss alvays the same, then vee know that space and time must bend and make vay!" That's the theory of relativity, but he lost me at E=mc2.

Art is not so straightforward. If you find yourself admiring a painting of, say, a man hoeing corn, you can be sure that's not what the painting is about.

It could be a painting about death. A good example of this sort of misdirection can be found in Robert Frosts' Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. A man stops his carriage in front of the woods on a snowy evening. That's what the title implies and that's what the poem plainly says. In seventh grade English class, I learned that it is in fact a poem about death. I felt like a huge ignoramus, because I could detect not a whiff of grim reaper in it.

Death is a big hit with the art crowd.

There is another, more delicate subject, that is ever the rage with the art crowd and I'm certain that sexagenarians in the audience will recall a time when people in polite company were circumspect in discussing it.

It is everywhere in art. I was looking at a book of paintings by the Dutch artist Vermeer. I found I really liked his stuff. Now, lets pretend that I'm single and I am transported through the magic of imagination to an art gallery and I see the future Fran admiring a Vermeer. There is a woman seated at a table looking into the camera and she is wearing a shy smile. There is a man pouring wine, and another man sulking in the corner. I might have tried to show my smarts by saying something like, "Nice dress she's wearing."

I would have missed the fact that I was looking a picture who's real subject matter was It. If only Eric Idle would have jumped up and cried "Nudge nudge, wink wink," it might have sunk in.

In the art world, nothing is what it seems.

Take another Vermeer, a painting of a woman writing a letter. I would have thought, wrongly, that it was a painting of a woman writing a letter. What I should have noticed is the picture on her wall of Cupid holding a playing card. Somehow, this is suggestive of illicit love, of It. The love aspect is easy as pie; it's Cupid. I suppose the playing card is the thing that should have tipped me off. Maybe he's off the job; maybe he's playing instead of working; maybe cards were considered "bad". The other thing I should have seen would be the stained glass on the window, which depicted a woman holding a saddle and a ruler. That's the symbol of temperance trying to warn the young lady of her impending ruin.

I don't know about all the Dutch artists of the period, but Vermeer must have been a randy old goat. It seems that all he ever painted were pictures of It. Insofar as I'm aware, he never directly depicted It. That only stands to reason; remember I said that artists never talk about what they're really about, and that Vermeer (and probably most artists) seemed fairly consumed with It. If they showed what was plainly It, then it would not be It, but something else, which would have been of little interest because they were mostly interested in It. 

So, what's an art pretender to do? I'll tell you: you just claim that whatever piece of art you and that perspective someone are contemplating is either about death or It. If she asks you to elaborate, you just pick out something in the painting and make something up. "The pearls symbolize fertility," for instance. [No they didn't; they symbolized vanity. Some exceptions apply.]

If you can't think of anything quick, just pretend to be bored and sophisticated and ask if she's tried the wine and cheese.

__

* It did not represent death.

8:03 AM - 20 Comments - 15 Kudos - Add Comment

God for an Hour - The Entertainment Potential of the Lowly Ant
Category: Life

Consider the lowly ant. I did, just the other day. Ants seem to have a limited repertoire of activities, yet they somehow get it all done. Let's see, they can find dead insects to eat, they can carve up the carcass and transport the whole thing piecemeal back to the colony.

Other than that, they can march between the colony and dinner and when two ants encounter each other, they seem to communicate via their antennae. I don't know what they're saying; maybe "not much further pal."

Scientists tell us that when ants go-aforaging, they follow a chemical trail. Some ant can wander far and wide over hill and dale until he finds a meal. He wants to tell all his ant buddies about his find, so he follows his wandering trail back to Ant Central and the tribe goes out to fetch the rest before some other insect gets in on it.

It would be unseemly for an entire army to wander the same semi-random trail to the bounty. Ants have figured a way out of this. I'm not sure I completely understand it but I'll try to explain: Let's say you have a bunch of ants following a trail out to the mother lode, and this trail is all over the place. A few ants will wander off and reconnect somewhere else and trim some inches off by dumb luck. Maybe a few others follow.

Not a very good explanation, but you can read it somewhere. They've even got java applets that simulate the process by which ants find the shortest trail. Some eggheads have even designed computer networks that find the most efficient message routing using ant principles.

Individual ants are pretty dumb apparently, and it's easy to feel superior, but I've read that you could consider the colony as a whole to be an intelligent entity. I'd like to see the ant colony that has composed a symphony. Then again, neither have I.

I read a book recently where the author claimed that all species, be they animal, plant, bacterium, or virus, are roughly of equal intelligence. That seemed a tall claim. I've never heard members of the other species weigh in on this, but the author does make a surprisingly good case.

Talking to animals fascinates me. One time I took Annabelle to the front yard and asked her if she wanted to go outside. I don't think she actually rolled her eyes at me, but it looked it. It looked like she really rolled her eyes at me.

Could we communicate with ants? I don't know, but you can play tricks on them and see how they react. As I hinted earlier, I had an encounter with some ants the other day. A bunch of dedicated little soldiers were traveling along the corner support on the pavilion where we are temporarily quartered. Up went the soldiers, meeting soldiers coming down with legs, wings, and all kinds of delicacies. Sometimes they would do the little antenna greeting when they crossed paths.

What would happen, I wondered, if I were to interrupt their little chemical trail?

I rubbed a gap into the trail with my finger. The ants traveling up from the colony simply made a u-turn. It's easy to imagine their embarrassment at showing up empty-handed.

The ones descending down from the movable feast also took a u-turn. This must have been more embarrassing. You have an ant loaded down with bug parts returning to where he got them. I just think that would have to be awkward.

A few confused souls milled around, not quite sure what to do. By and by, they were joined by other dispossessed individuals until they had accumulated quite a crowd.

After a while though, the ants set it right. I saw a few random explorers from both sides of the divide wandering around until the trails overlapped and things were back to normal. I saw an ant hefting a wing back to the colony and wondered how many times he went between the dead bug and the divide until he finally got it right.

A lot of people get upset seeing an ant supply-line in their house. I wasn't bothered because I was in their house, but I'm the exception. When you encounter ants, you just know you're going to be shelling out some loot to some people in white uniforms who will use who-knows-what kind of chemicals to put them in their place. If you haven't the stomach for that, then know this: you might not be able to turn back the tide, but with a little time and imagination, it's nice to know you can really annoy them.

6:03 AM - 20 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Be It On Your Head – When DIY becomes DI2Y
Category: Life

Tucked snuggly in the West Virginia hills, one fairly breathes independence, and like any narcotic, it's hard to get enough.

It was past time for a haircut, which means that my hair was of a length that made it uncomfortable. I often like to shower in the evening; when my hair is long, in the morning it resembles the gnarled tree you always see in old movies brooding over a haunted house. And it feels icky.

Getting a haircut is not difficult really, but I do have a couple problems with it. First of all, haircuts are expensive. By the time you tip the barber (or barbette), it's already growing again.

The other problem is that haircuts happen indoors. Yes, I know, I'm being picky, but the truth is that any time I spent indoors feels like penance, and I never hurt a fly. My job is spent indoors and sometimes I have to shop, so by golly, that seems like enough.

I don't know if Fran got tired of hearing me moan and deliberate over getting it cut or if she just got sick of looking at my graying mop, but she went out and got me a hair-trimming kit.

In principle, it's pretty simple. You might say foolproof. It is said that if something is foolproof then only a fool will use it. Well, I did.

The kit comes with these plastic doodads you snap onto the trimmer to cut the hair to a certain length. I snapped on the shortest on and happily buzzed away until the mulching sounds stopped. I looked at my reflection in the window of an ancient van parked next to our pavilion and saw that it was good.

While I had been digging with all the enthusiasm of a 49er, Fran got in the car and vacated the scene – she just couldn't watch. If she had stayed, I think she would have liked the way my hair turned out.

She also might have saved me from larger ambitions.

While my hair looked good, it was all the same length, and I know that barbers (and barbettes) like to do all kinds of fancy stuff to your hair. The like to shape it, taper it, give it body, bounce, and luster… oh, heck, I don't know what all.

I found some directions that tell you how to taper yourself. The principle is simple. You leave it long on the top, then you get closer on the sides. Since I had used the shortest plastic doodad I was on bare metal.

I didn't have a mirror to use for the back, but I thought the sides looked reasonable given the abrupt change in altitude at the transition line. On the back, I went by feel.

Having done the best I could, I felt around my noggin and discovered that I had gotten trigger-happy at approximately cranium left, rear. There was a nice divot that approached the crown.

I wondered if it was noticeable. I figured it would grow in anyway.

Feeling somewhat accomplished, I decided to rest on my hammock. I had the back of my head resting on the open netting, facing where we pull up to the pavilion. After a while I heard Fran pull up. The engine stopped. The door opened. The next sound I heard was "Oh My God!"

I tried to affect an air of nonchalance. We went out and at hotdogs. Still nonchalant. When we got back to camp and snug under our blankets, I asked Fran if it really looked that bad. I instantly got up and buzzed it right down to the skin.

It was the first time since the 1960s that I'd seen my head in all its queue-ball glory. I have a scar on the right side from surgery I had as a baby. I got tired of the comments about it in grade school and kept it covered all these years. Now I just tell people I got kicked by a horse for luck and it didn't take. One of the great things about being fifty is the things you are no longer self-conscious about. I have a great conversation piece I suppose.

The other day I thought I'd shave it. I didn't like the results at all. It felt like some other person's skin up there, probably grafted from their gluteus maximus and if there is one thing I can do without, it's having some stranger's rear-end perched on my head.

Being one of the millions of men who have taken control of there hair loss, I must say it's so comfortable I wish I'd done it years ago. Fran had asked recently if I'd consider Rogaine shampoo and I replied that I'll use whatever she buys. For now however, unless the hair that is of recent years camped on my back decides to mount an attempt to take the high ground, I'm afraid my hair will keep thinning. It's alright – it's just nature's way.

Speaking of DIY, I've taken the next steps toward composing music.

I bought a voice recorder the other day and started humming ideas into it. It's a good thing because I can't remember any of them. Last night on the way home, for every song I heard on the radio, I would sort of mentally "resample" it and see if I could mutate it into something else. I think I did fairly well. At least I have some things I can tweak.

After I went to bed, I did what I've been promising myself for a long time: I started recording pieces of music that came as I was drifting off in my sleep. I hope they are as good as I've been claiming. At any rate, I'm pretty sure I've got things I can turn into respectable songs.

The other day, I wrote about how I wanted to "be an artist", whatever that means. I've taken some steps here too. I was messing around with PaintShop and came up with some abstracts I'd like to try to paint. I think my first lesson will be in controlling what I'm doing so I can get on canvas what I see in my mind. I appreciate all the encouraging and constructive comments I got.

12:02 PM - 9 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Beast in the Beauty - Oh, Artist, Where You At?
Category: Art and Photography

I read a quote on someone's page that said, "There is beauty in my imperfections." I thought wryly that there might be some hope for me. Then I recalled another quote: "There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion" by Sir Francis Bacon.

There are a several reasons that I think about beauty. I suppose the most obvious reason is that my life is lousy with the stuff. First off, I get to wake up every morning next to the one I love. Anyone so privileged should rejoice. When I walk outside, I'm greeted by a spectacular sunrise. And of course, there are my two adoring dogs. I have to shield myself from Phoenix's affection as she has been known to leave bruises. Annabelle is more reserved but I'm sure she loves me too. 

Of course, we have breathtaking scenery, being within walking distance of the New River Gorge. If you've not been a stranger, you know like to take pictures of the sky, of plants, of animals and people. 

Beauty is a thing not only of space, but of time. The earth itself has rhythms, and shifting shapes, colors, and textures.

Yes, beauty, however you define it, is something I have in abundance. 

I have another reason I think about it: I want to be an artist. In the last few years I've become aware of a yearning to express myself artistically but honestly, I don't know if I have the talents. It's as if I was passionate about running but deprived at birth of legs.

I read an article about becoming an artist and the things that people tell themselves as to why they can't be one. You need talent, schooling, time, all sorts of things. The artist who wrote the article, while acknowledging these realities, said that step one is to tell people you are an artist. Well, I did admit I wanted to be one. 

I greatly admire people who truly are artists. They can make pots, draw, paint and probably do a hundred nifty things with Clorox bottles. A lot of these folks say I could do it too. Perhaps, but I tell you, sometimes looking at a blank canvas can be unnerving. I suppose you have to have something to say first.

Maybe I do have something to say. Maybe it's something that goes beyond words. I'm not exactly sure what it is. Probably I want to convey how the earth I live in affects me. 

Another reason I think of beauty is that I'm curious as to what, exactly, beauty is. It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That may be true, but there must be something our eyes and other senses respond to and there must be some reason humans have this response.

Perhaps it's just evolution's way of helping us to value order over disorder, but that doesn't seem exactly right. The paintings that engage me most don't display formal symmetry. They seem to dance on the line between order and chaos. 

There are things that you can say about beauty that, although they don't provide a definition, may have some truth. When I was in college my roommate said he was trying to cultivate the philosophy that there is beauty in imperfection. I thought it was an interesting idea, but I didn't know what to make of it until a few months later I heard on the news that someone had taught a computer to sing opera. It was, of course, perfect in execution, and people who heard it gave it high marks. On the other hand, they also said that "something" was missing.

One day, years ago, I was looking at some pictures of an airplane in an aviation magazine. I was captivated. The airplane was beautiful and I found myself wondering why I responded so strongly. Then the answer came: It was beautiful because if the lines of its shape were pushed any further, it would look hideous. The plane looked as though, even sitting on the runway, it was straining to become airborne; yearning for speed. 

There may be some merit to this idea of strangeness in proportion. It is said that you have to know the rules in order to break them. A book I read some time ago stated that in music, it was necessary to break some rules. You break a rule to create an imbalance, then you have to fix it. This occurs on many levels. If you don't break any rules, you are left with silence.

I expect sometime this summer, I'll be out there with a canvas and some paint, cursing ambient dust and detritus, trying to figure out the rules to break and trying to force some strangeness in proportion.

I have to start somewhere. Who knows, maybe this time next year I'll be able to call myself an artist.

11:26 AM - 22 Comments - 37 Kudos - Add Comment

Over the Hump or Bust - I’ll Hold My Breath ’Til I Turn Blue
Category: Life

If there's one thing worse than engaging in childish behavior you're not proud of, it's having to admit it in front of thousands of people, but I said I would be honest in my blogs, so get out those poison pens.

If we look at possible contributing factors to my misbehavior, I could point out that my blood sugar bottomed out on the way home and I had to suck on a tube of sugar goop I keep for such emergencies. Or maybe it was because I was still smarting from reading about the federal government's great idea of tracking all of our movements via automobile GPS.

When I got home, Fran fixed me a couple of hotdogs to put my sugar right. I told her about the GPS idea and said in all seriousness that if it came to pass that we would have to emigrate. I don't want to leave, but I don't think I could handle being tracked like that. You might recall yesterday that I posted a link to the article. I don't presume to tell you what to think, and I know I should bear in mind the government's inability to do just about anything, but it seriously freaked me out.

Right now, I'm privileged to be one of the few citizens of the United States alive today that can honestly say that no agency of the federal government knows where he lives. I have a legal address, but I don't live there. I derive considerable satisfaction from this whether it makes sense or not.

No sir, I don't want big brother watching me. It has nothing to do with having something to hide. It's because unless I'm a suspect in a crime, I should not have to give an accounting of my whereabouts on a continual basis.

It is said that a reason to track us via GPS is so the government can tax us for miles driven. If so, why not use the odometer? I smell a rat.

Since ranting is not my style, we'll let that rest.

I told you all of that to tell you the thing I'd rather not talk about. Fran had said that while I was at work she might possibly move our stuff "over the hump", as we'd been planning for some time. She hadn't and that was okay. What took me aback was that she admitted to second thoughts about going back there. She was comfortable on the pavilion where we've been staying.

The problem was that I was rarin' to go and the GPS article made me feel an extra urgency. Admittedly an emotional reaction that wouldn't really change anything. I just wanted to be in the woods where I could at least pretend to escape the madness.

In any event, I decided to take a nap and forget all about everything for a while. Later I woke up restless. I went outside and told Fran, "I'm going over the hump for a while. Care to join me?"

She declined but asked if I wanted my fold-up char. I took it and threw it in the back seat. She asked if I wanted the dogs to come. I told her they could follow if they wanted. I didn't care.

It's not like I had any idea what I would do back there. I felt a sort of desperation and I just acted.

I drove to the campsite we had picked out and got out my chair and sat for a moment. That didn't quite satisfy me so I went back and grabbed the supply tent from the back seat and set it up. Maybe I thought I'd stay in it for the night. I'm not sure why I pitched it, but it felt right. I was reliving a lot of great memories from last year.

My next order of business was to start a fire. I had a couple really good blaze-ups, but nothing sustained.

Between sitting in my chair and staring into my reluctant fire, and grubbing about on hands and knees trying to coax it into life, I kept wishing Fran was there. It would be great, I thought, if she came and brought the dogs.

Presently, she did show up. I told her I was glad she came, and it was great when the dogs greeted me before going off to explore.

I invited Fran to have a go at the fire, and she soon had it going. That always gives me a good feeling because I taught her last summer. She also recalled some of the old feelings of last summer. She mused that I might have had that in mind. I said I was only human and that perhaps I might have.

I told her I was sorry for acting like a little kid and she said that I hadn't acted that way at all. We were at an impasse not only because we wanted different things, but also because we each wanted to be fair to the other. This is one of the great strengths of our marriage.

In the waning twilight, we went and picked some wild strawberries. When we got back to the site, I took the tent down.

She said, "I'm proud of you for putting up the tent." That threw me for a loop because I saw it as some desperate act of a little kid not getting his way. She explained that she was proud because I was passionate about this and I followed through on what I had to do.

Then she thanked me for not being a jerk. I told her I thought I had been, then I said, "Thank you for not being a jerkette."

Things were right. We were reeking of wood smoke, the squadrons of mosquitoes were staying away, the dogs were wagging their tails, and we were steeped in memory.

I told her, "I see good times ahead."

"I do too," she said.

At that instant, Phoenix started running in circles, and in a show of frenzied idiocy, repeatedly charged at Annabelle and retreated and charged again. Annabelle just stood there looking patient and helpless.

At least our time should be interesting.

This morning I woke up and asked Fran if she was still ready to go. She was, she said.

The other day, Fran had mentioned that she wished she had the same kind of luck I had when it came to seeing rainbows. This morning, as I was driving to work, with Rare Earth's I Just Want to Celebrate playing on the radio, I saw a faint rainbow against the mist rising from the river.

I couldn't help but smile.

5:39 AM - 8 Comments - 21 Kudos - Add Comment

Big Brother - Tracking You Via GPS?
Category: Life

According to this article in ZD Net, there are plans to track your driving via GPS. This article was posted on Dec 5, 2005, so I can only hope that saner heads have prevailed...

http://news.zdnet.com/2100-1009_22-5982762.html

5:55 AM - 19 Comments - 27 Kudos - Add Comment