My Six-Word Short

Hemingway famously wrote a short in just six words, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." It's an amazing piece of economy: the first two words place it in a context that tells you where the words appear, a newspaper classified, and additionally paints the image of how the unmentioned speaker is reading them --- you can focus the camera in close on the classified and then dolly back to see the character reading it, encouraging you to not only wonder about the character who wrote them but about the reaction of the character reading them; the next four words set up the aftermath of a tragedy.

Wired recently invited several dozen authors to take their six-word shot, so I decided to give it a try.


btw, I heard about Snowy. Condolences.


Being online, I decided to leverage the medium and add a link, but the link isn't necessary, as the first word does the job of setting the scene. You can see the words on the screen, which could be a computer monitor, blackberry or cell phone. The "btw" works both for email and for text messages, though I think the brevity suggests texting or IM. The mention of Snowy works as is, though it sounds like a dog or cat, but if the reader is really plugged in he will recognize the name as a woman who basically played WoW to death, prompting one of the largest online funerals.

Gave Blood, Got the Teeshirt

I've been trying to write longer posts lately ... or at least I've been thinking that I really should write longer posts lately. I'm guessing that writing little snacks satisfies neither the consumer nor the need of the creator to practice. It took two hours to give blood today, either because the event was understaffed or the staff was undermotivated, not because the blood drive was overattended.

On the plus side, I ran into Jim Kelly again, and I learned that he finally won the Nebula for his novella Burn. Congratulations, Jim! The man has been nominated for the Nebula nine times, so it's long overdue.

Old Skool Gamage

Not quite that old, but for several days I've tried to get System Shock 2 running under XP. I found lots of tips for getting it running, and while I resolved some issues I couldn't get the thing to stop crashing after running it for thirty minutes or so. I've been waiting for Bioshock to be released, so hopefully that will deliver the spiritual successor to SS2.

System Shock 2 got me thinking about another highly rated RPG/shooter hybrid, Deus Ex, which I discovered was for sale via Steam. It's downloading now. I've heard Deus Ex called "the thinking man's shooter," so I think I'm going to like it.

Net Dependence And SPOF

My connectivity has been up and down like a crazy monkey this morning, so hopefully I'll be able to actually get this entry written before I'm dropped on LOST Island once again. I've worked from home for years (and before then was heavily Net addicted), making my connectivity critically important, but since adding VoIP never more so.

Comcast added their own VoIP service maybe a year ago and their price incentive made it attractive. Work has recently signed on with SpeakEasy to provide VoIP business voice service, and the accompanying Linksys phone set currently sits with its attractively backlight display on my desk.

But none of that's worth a packet when your connectivity is down.

You'd think that the several long power outages we've endured lately would have produced the same wonderings in my head about whether anybody would see my smoke signals, but all of those outages were just power, and the VoIP cable modem contains a decent battery, so we've still been able to make calls. This morning, though, no data signal. Bad blinky lights on the modem's display, winking like a twitching short circuited droid. And worst of all, pickup up the phone and getting silence instead of the reassuring mantra of a dial tone.

So my connection is a big single point of failure, and I hate those. Sure, I live with others, but they all have partial redundancies: there's the microwave to the gas stove, the wood stove to the oil furnace, and while lousy there's the fireplace for both. So I guess I need a prepaid cell modem, preferably one I could hang off of my router and only use (and have to shell money out for) when I need it. Know of any company that offers one?

Proving Gore's Point

Remember those times when someone started talking about you as if you weren't there? Or brought up an issue that everyone knew you were passionate about and didn't bring you into the discussion? Hello, sitting right here!

Now watch as Diane Sawyer interviews Al Gore about his new book. Gore summarizes its thesis about how American democracy is damaged in part by the media's obsessive focus on trivialities, and then all Sawyer can do is ask him trivial questions. Seriously, she asks him if he's lost any weight in preparation for a presidential run. It's amazing.

Four Square

My dad and I never played ball. When I say "never" I don't mean once a year during the warm sun of the late Spring family reunion or only when a rare sick day kept him away from second or third shift labors at the factory. I mean never. I'm not sure why, except that Dad's favorite place seemed to be his tan recliner with its long wooden arm sticking out its side like the not-quite-right relation of a slot machine. If Dad wasn't working, he was home, and if home he was in his chair, remote in hand; whether asleep or not a more interesting question.

I knew as a child that other fathers played ball with their sons. My cousin Robbie lived a couple streets away, and I'd seen his father and him tossing whiffle balls and swinging large plastic bats in the fields behind the high school. To my knowledge, Robbie's father always initiated these outings. So I was surprised when I was playing with some legos in the family room one afternoon, the professional wrestlers pretending to beat each other on television, when Dad said without turning his head, "Why don't you go outside? You're not like the other boys, Chris. You don't go out and play ball." If I'm weird, I thought, it's because you made me this way.

Now my father lives with me and a few weeks ago as the first pleasant days of Spring arrived he and I stood in the driveway watching Hazel and Gabriel play. I played catch with Hazel and gently tossed the ball to Gabriel as he ambled by, which he caught with surprising ease, and he rushed to Dad with mad giggles and more dropped it to him than threw it. Dad picked it up and said, "This would be a good ball for Four Square." I hadn't heard of that game so I asked, and Dad described: a square with twelve foot sides divided in quarters, played like tennis but with your hands. He used to play it in the Army.

And then we were playing. It was fun, and he needs the exercise, so we'll do more of it. Besides, we've got catching up to do.

Virtual Law

James Ku sent an email that read, "I was just sitting here doing my explosion simulation and I started thinking - Is virtual rape a crime?"

Here's my reply:

First I need to say that’s profoundly disturbing.

Damn, the metaverse really is going to change things. We’ve had people buying and selling virtual real estate for years now … real money. Honestly, I think these things are going to become criminal acts, and here’s why: because they’ll affect a person’s reputation which will affect their livelihood. Let’s step away from rape and take a less disturbing example of harassment. You’ve got a guy who’s a merchant in Second Life, but some grief-player decides to dedicate his online hours to ruining this guy’s existence. Maybe the griefer is much more technically adept than the merchant, or he’s got a posse of fellow 12 year olds who’ll join him in making his own fun, or in rl the griefer lost a girlfriend to this guy, but in any case he successfully disrupts the merchant’s business. The merchant appeals to Linden Labs but maybe they don’t act quickly enough or he blames them for not taking prior measures and now we’ve got multiple lawsuits. After this scenario plays out enough times, legislators start getting lobbied to do something about it.

There are lots of legal issues that are going to come out of the metaverse. Months ago I saw an interview with one of the big real estate guys in Second Life (if you google “Neverdie” you’ll probably find it), and he brought up several of them. Since your avatar is you in the metaverse, who owns it? Who owns it after you die?

Shmigget Edits Lund

Eric has been writing some nice flash fiction lately, and he and I got to kicking around ideas for changing one of them. I took a stab at it, so here's the original followed by the version with my edits.

An Insistence of Music Appreciation
By Eric W. Lund (c) 2007

Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.

But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. Ron explained his interest in a rapid, salesman-like manner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.

This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"

The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and classical music left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"

"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.

The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.

The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. Sensing Ron's interest, the old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."

Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that failed to extend its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.

Ron absently toyed with the crank, pondering how his ex-wife could help him with this matter. The box obligingly tapped out a song, which the curator ignored. However, something else caught his attention. A stack of magazines that had remained motionless for two years were now sliding off the shelf above him. Ron estimated their likely trajectory, but reached out too late. The entire pile slammed onto the mechanical butler.

He was livid.

The next day he called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." They arranged to meet for lunch.

Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.

"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.

Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."

Ron missed her smile. He wondered if he could get another out of her, and found himself playing the music box again.

The curator became aware of a peculiar sensation. Certain emotions seemed to be draining, gradually, as if a cork had been pulled out of his chest. The pining he normally allowed himself faded, and within moments, he felt empty. The bareness was shocking. Panic groped at his fringes, but before it could take hold he noticed Amanda's smile, and everything felt better.

After work, Ron picked up his ex-wife at her house, which used to be their house. She was hungry, so he pulled into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. Amanda said, "Keep the car running," and ran inside to buy a snack.

The curator was lost in thought. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially.

He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing to normal tempo. It played for over a minute and stopped. And Ron was fine. The anxiety attack from this afternoon did not repeat itself.

Two loud firecrackers interrupted his reverie. Ron looked around, trying to target the source of the noise. As uneasiness took root in his belly, two armed men bolted from the store.

The ambulance arrived too late.

It was two months after Amanda was killed when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.

That evening, Ron stood in the lab, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:

Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may appropriate any types of waves from the listener or, if no waves are forthcoming, may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.

Enormous grief crashed over Ron. He wept and choked. Amanda died in his arms, all over again, except this time he knew he caused it. The thought was unbearable. The curator shook, raising the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, when an idea steadied him like an island in an ocean of anguish.

He turned the crank. The music box spewed its insipid composition once again. A few seconds later, his eyes were dry. Strength returned to his limbs. And he could breathe again. His guilt dwindled. After a deep sigh, he was right as rain.

Later, Ron reconsidered destroying the music box so its power could not be abused. Eventually he relented because it was an antique.

---

Ron was the curator of The Ancient Oddities Museum, which was the name he gave to his basement. He saw beauty in bizarre antiques, and kept a collection of dysfunctional inventions. In this particular shop, however, hidden far from the highway, he saw only the usual: chairs you can't sit in, tables you can't eat off of, and lamps giving poor light.

But it never hurts to ask. "Do you have anything unusual?" he said to the old man in the corner. The proprietor eyed him for an awkward duration, and finally mentioned the box.

This music box wasn't that old: early 20th century, with a typical cylinder and comb design, and a metal crank to serve as the windup key. Other than being small for the period and utilizing porcelain housing, it was downright common. "Does it work?"

The proprietor turned the crank and a simple, baroque tune sprinkled out. This sound seemed to please the man, but not Ron. Ron rarely listened to music, and the toy piano-like tones left him apathetic. He shrugged. "What's strange about this music box?"

"The text on the back," said the old man, who tenderly flipped it over. Ron squinted at the tiny characters.

The music box ("the box") agrees to play music upon its crank being turned by a second party ("the listener"). The listener, by turning the crank, agrees to enjoy said music and provide waves of enjoyment ("waves") to the box.

The letters got smaller as the legalese blathered on, finally becoming too minuscule to read. The old man casually mentioned, "Cash discount is five percent."

Ron returned home with his new curio, and set it on his workshop bench, pushing aside the prize of his collection: a late-18th century mechanical butler that extended its arm and offer you a drink when you stepped on its foot. He examined the music box with a magnifying glass, but the final clause was no more legible now than it was at the store.

Ron absently toyed with the crank and the box obligingly tapped out a song, which he ignored. Suddenly a stack of Antique Trader weeklies that had remained motionless for two years was sliding off the shelf above him. The 1935 painted iron hen, which once laid Hartwig & Vogel chocolate eggs, fell from its perch on top of the stack and fell squarely onto the mechanical butler’s foot with a crunch.

The next day Ron called his ex-wife. Amanda laughed. "Oh, you're calling to talk about antiques? I'm shocked." He arranged to pick her up for lunch.

Amanda beamed at the music box. Ron eagerly showed her the writing, but she didn't share his fascination. "This is your nicest piece so far. I really like it." She reached over and turned the crank, smiling at the music it made.

"Do you think you could read it with the electron microscope?" he asked.

Amanda pursed her lips. "I don't know about that, but we've got other machines in the lab that might help."

“Play it again,” he said, missing her smile.



After lunch, she asked if he could pull into the Kwik Stop, near the University where she worked. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

Ron barely heard her. A preposterous notion was gnawing at him. He put the music box on the dashboard and stared at it conspiratorially. He rotated the crank. Then again, and again, winding until the spring resisted and left his grip. Notes fired quickly at first before slowing. He heard several loud firecrackers and thought of sitting on a blanket next to Amanda on the fourth of July, feeling her next to him.


Ron turned his head as two armed men bolted from the Kwik Stop.

The ambulance arrived too late.

It was two months later when Ron heard that tune again. He was in an elevator. Normally oblivious to speakers, this time a familiar melody bit his ears. He rushed to a phone, and coerced Amanda's friend at the University into granting a favor.

That evening Ron stood in his apartment, soberly reading an enlarged, off-color image of the contract from the bottom of the music box. He reread the final clause, in the smallest print:

Failure to provide waves puts the listener in violation. In such cases, the box may take necessary steps to stimulate their production.

Grief crushed him like falling metal. Amanda died in his arms all over again. He raised the music box high, intending to hurl it against the floor, but hesitated. Eventually, he placed it on a shelf next to a few other 20th century oddities.

Thank You, Bill Maher

Finally somebody in the media exposes the Right’s bigotry towards the French, and points out how France gets so much right that our government gets wrong.

If you need any backstory on this, you can read it here.

Yes, He Did

You hopefully heard the Congressional testimony of a former deputy attorney general who recounted that the President ordered then White House Chief of Staff Andy Card and then White House Consul Alberto Gonzalez to the bedside of then Attorney General Ashcroft, who was on his sixth day in the Intensive Care Unit, to try and get him to reauthorize the warrentless wiretapping program. According to the testimony, Ashcroft had previously stated his opposition to the program on the grounds that it was illegal (Yes, Ashcroft actually doing something right). Ashcroft, though disoriented from illness, still told Card and Gonzalez that he wouldn’t sign. Listen to how Bush doesn’t deny when a reporter asks him if he did in fact order Card and Gonzalez to the hospital that night.