Quite a price tag, considering two students from MIT did nearly that for about $150.
I’m being facetious, of course. Yes, the launch of Ares I-X was exciting (I quietly turned up the newsroom TV and watched while no one else paid attention). And yes, I’m sure the scientists at NASA will have a ton of data to pour through.
But $445 million? For one flight? On a project whose budget is arguably in even greater jeopardy than it was under former President Bush?
I don’t get it. NASA seems content to aimlessly waft along with the Constellation project. There’s the vague goal of returning to the moon around 2020, nearly 50 years after Apollo 17. And maybe, just maybe … I’ll see an American on Mars before I turn 60.
But I’m not holding my breadth. It’s becoming clearer and clearer NASA can’t function in a world without the cold war as a backdrop. As Americans combat terrorism, launching a rocket to the moon doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s not a symbol of our national unity and strength, it’s a symbol of our decadence. And, in my opinion, it’s a symbol of our scientific stagnation.
In the coming years where going to see the private sector play a larger and larger role in the American space race. That’s a good thing. That’s something that lets me look up at the stars and hope. And in a world without the iron curtain, it could be the only thing keeping NASA on their toes.
$445 million to go 25 miles up …
Today’s moment of intense realization courtesy Iris Murdoch
Perceptions.
It’s not surprising that the act of creating something novel so often ends in failure.
It all comes back to the idea of perception. We are a concept driven race. Images exist in our head of what makes good art, but those images are informed by prior experience.
Simply speaking, we visualize before we see. And if the sensual experience of seeing an object falls in breech of our preconceived notion of what should make an object, we’re likely to throw it out.
Fortunately, the greatest among us aren’t subject to such bounds. The geniuses of art and music are iconoclasts who aggressively question their perceptions. And by questioning what the world tells them something should be, they’re able to tap into something greater — what the world could be. And maybe that’s the true root of artistic genius. The ability to question.
Iris Murdoch puts it best when she writes that good art
often seems to us mysterious because it resists the easy patterns of the fantasy, whereas there is nothing mysterious about the forms of bad art since they are recognizable and familiar rat-runs of selfish day-dream. Good art shows us how difficult it is to be objective by showing us how differently the world looks to an objective vision.
Today’s moment of INTENSE realization spurred on by Matthew Crawford’s wonderful Shop Class as Soulcraft. Check it out. Really. Do it now.
A general word about a bad habit of mine …
I’ve tried to wear hoods and hats to stop it. When I’m watching TV, I’ll regularly sit on my hand so as to not do it. Yet for all my efforts, I can’t fight the compulsion …
I can’t stop pulling out my own hair.
That’s the hair on my head, mind you. It’s an unconscious nervous tick I have, not an inclination toward Brazilian wax.
It was a habit I picked up in middle school. I grew my hair long, got nervous, and over the course of several weeks, progressively yanked fistfuls of it out.
My parents were upset. They recommended a buzz cut to fix the situation. No hair, no pull, right?
Well … yeah. A novel thought. Unfortunately, that didn’t solve the problem of the newly-christened bald spot on my noggin. Let’s just say it was a tough couple of days for me at the middle school.
You’d think the “bald-spot incident” (BSI) of 1998 (never forget) would have taught me a lesson: Stop yanking out your hair or face social isolation.
But, no. I’ve been pulling it on and off since then. And the social isolation … well, there’s like 5 million other reasons for that …
Apparently, there’s a really fancy-pants named for the “disorder” — “Trichotillomaina.”
And while I can’t object to the first part of that word, since my Greek is … well, terrible … I do take issue with the “mania” part.
I mean just because I have a impulse control disorder bad habit, doesn’t mean I’m “nuts,” right?
I equate mania with white walls and pills in little Dixie cups, not the perpetual cowlick and occasional bald spot that have been the only lasting effects of this habit. And I like my cowlick, thank you very much …
Anyway, that’s a general word about a neurotic habit I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to combat for years.
What about you Internets? Any bad habits you’ve been fighting off? Why not share them below.
In the meantime, I’ll just sit here yanking out more hair … settling into, you know, a deeper and deeper state of mania.
Maybe ducks do stand-up comedy too …
I stumbled upon a flock of ducks today. Rather oddly arranged …
One duck was front and center, aligned evenly between what appeared to be an enraptured audience of about 12-15 mallards.
They’d formed a striking half crescent around the head duck. It was quite pretty.
So I stopped, to, you know, observe this.
Anyway, the boss duck was quacking, in what I now assume to be the set up for some kind of duck joke, which I (not being able to decode the varying cadences and pitches of quacks) could not understand.
But the duck is really selling this thing. It’s like 15 seconds of solo quacking. And no other mallards are making a peep. They’re all really focused.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it seemed like Mr. Speaker Duck was building his volume as he spoke. Some sort of fiery quacking-crescendo. Building, building, building …
Until he stopped cold.
And there was silence.
The audience looked on for a fraction of a second and I noticed what could only have been a shared flicker of recognition settle upon the duckies.
And then … incredible quacking! All of them at once!
Duck applause? Duck laughter?
Well, sure … why not, right?
Of course, maybe I’m misinterpreting things. For all I know, this could have been a mallard hate rally aimed at taking the reservoir back from the encroaching Canadian geese.
Whatever. I still think it was a stand-up routine.
I just hope they weren’t making fun of me …
But, weird, whatever it was, yeah Internets?
Will women rule men of the future?
What I’ve been thinking about all day … YES, it concerns you.
It also concerns bugs. Namely – if you were given the opportunity to capture any bug and enlarge it so you could ride it around town, which would you choose?
I should note the insect would be tamed, completely under your control and willing to do your bidding (for good or evil).
I still haven’t decided, but I’m leaning toward one of two options:
1. Hercules Beetle (Can support 850 times its weight, wow!)
2. Grasshopper (Jumping is the new flying! And when you leap a football field in a single bound … well, that’s just like really intense, man.)
What would you pick, Internets?
This is old but …
It’s cool editing and the song is pretty. No more reasons are needed.
600 words a day … or something
Presenting a partly edited rendition of yesterday’s copy, which (not surprisingly) sucks just as bad. Also a few musings on what it’s like to go running in shorts with no drawstring, because, you know, why not?
Let’s address the shorts question first.
I should level and say that I don’t particularly even enjoy running. I do it to stay in shape. And during the fall, especially on days like today, when the air is crisp and there’s a slight rain … it’s actually kind of fun.
Let’s also level about one other thing — I’m not the type of dude who goes all out and buys all sorts of running gear. Never have been. I wish I was one of those guys, but I don’t have the money to put together a decent wardrobe for when I’m not exercising, so, you know, priorities.
I’ve been running in the same pair of shorts for about eight years now. I have many others that I wear, but I’ll come back to Corporal Blackbottom (yup, named them a while ago. Shut up.) about once a week.
Back in high school I stole borrowed the shorts from the lost and found and never put them back.
Hey, the kid who had them obviously didn’t care enough about them. And I’ve worn these damn things for 8 years now. I’m sure the shorts are happy.
Anyway, Corporal Blackbottom really isn’t much for running. The shorts are more like pantaloons and whenever I’m running down a hill the sides will balloon out and nearly fall off.
They never really fit right. But I always had the drawstring. Until I lost it about 2 weeks ago. So now running with Corporal Blackbottom is more a test of how well I can hold the damn things up. And it’s a challenge. I was running by a minivan today and the pair nearly fell off. The mother shot me a dirty look. But she just doesn’t get it. I’m not ready to retire Corporal Blackbottom just yet.
I have a plan. I’ll stop running. Fill out a bit. And then we’ll be back in business.
-1-
“How do you feel about turning into a crow for a few hours?” asked Deputy Minster Anderson.
President Gorman paused and sat back in his chair. “There’s something about this my rivals are just going to love.”
“I know,” Anderson replied. “But look. We need this. Besides, it’s a short time. We’ll run cover on it.”
“And how exactly are you going to do that?” Gorman asked. “Remember Prime Minster Bilken? The Shawnee turned him into a whale two years ago. ‘Bilken Goes Beluga’ was in the headlines for weeks. And the cartoons …”
“Were unflattering.” Anderson said. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Look, if you don’t turn into a crow, someone else will,” Anderson adjusted his tie and sat forward. “This is an arms race Mr. President, pure and simple. If we want to deal with the Shawnee those are the terms. And believe me, we want to deal with the Shawnee.”
-2-
Alexander Blu didn’t want to go camping with his son.
For starters, Jason asked too many questions. A camping expedition with him was like fielding press queries at a congressional hearing. And it was only slightly less scary.
Because when it came to camping, Alex didn’t know anything.
“The fire won’t start,” Jason said.
“There’s no kindling,” Alex said.
“What’s kindling?”
“What you need to start the fire.”
“Where do I get it?”
“The woods.”
“Why didn’t we just bring it with us?”
“Because then it wouldn’t be …
“Dad, what’s that light?”
“Huh?”
“Over there, didn’t you see that?”
“Son I have no idea what you’re talking …”
Then Alex heard the boom.
-3-
The pair waited until morning to explore the wreckage.
Only there was no wreckage to explore, just four carriages and about half a dozen men and women dressed in carnival gear.
Three women set awnings over open carriages while two men fussed over a copper cylinder situated in the middle of the circular wagon train. The carriages looked altogether unremarkable, except for the strange series of glyphs pasted above what appeared to be several white sheep lounging in a pen.
“Heck of a place for the carnies to shack up,” Alex said. “Figures them making all that noise. They were probably shooting off fireworks all …
“What’s a carny?” Jason interrupted.
Alex sighed. “Never mind. Just follow me.”
The pair started toward the wagons. The carnies took no notice of them. The women continued to hang the awnings. As the women worked the men coalesced around the copper tube. One man knelt near the device, extending his hand while an other held up a gray stone. A bolt of blue streaked from the kneeling man’s head, sounding a loud crack as it contacted the device. The tube vanished.
“Dad … how?” Jason said.
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly one of the men looked up.
Alexander Blu just made first contact with the Shawnee.
-4-
Luckily, he was wearing his wool hat.
The Shawnee who looked remarkably human and spoke English in an accent Alex would later classify as slightly “Wisconsin” briefly glanced around the wagon train. “We could turn you into … that.”
“A deer?” Alexander asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It’s … uh … complicated.” “But we’ll change you back. You just have to give us that.”
Alexander followed the Shawnee’s finger. It was pointing right above his head.
The horrifying revelation settled in. “You want to steal my brain?!?”
“Uh … no. That.”
Alexander grabbed his wool hat. “You want my hat?”
The alien nodded vigorously.
-5-
Alexander Blu would later describe the “deer experience” in his book Sharing with the Shawnee thusly:
It was an altogether incorporeal journey – the center of which I have no recollection. My human consciousness ebbed away as the reality of the deer’s mind pranced forward. My arms lengthened into legs as my feet kicked back, slamming my face into the ground before reoritneing my self in my new quadrapedal manner …”
Alexander wasn’t the world’s greatest writer. But he was the first human to experience a Shawnee transformation and that made him and expert.
-6-
GET HIGH NOW
Don’t worry … it’s totally drug free.
My favorite is the section on lucid dreaming, which used to be an obsession of mine.
But that’s only in the book. If you’re looking for a quick audio or visual fix, this Web site has all the answers.
From Shepherd Tones to Hermann’s Sparkling Grid, you’ll find it all.
600 words a day …
I’m starting this crappy experiment again.
Why?
Well, mainly because it feels like I’m trying to cut through a steak with a crayon every time I sit down to write.
The wheels just aren’t turning. And the prose? Yeah … totally lame.
This being the Internet, however, I feel inclined to share my lameness with the whole world five readers here.
Enjoy. Remember: be abusive in the comments.
Note … all this is unedited, stream of consciousness drivel. But the mental head trips are fun, kids. Write! Don’t do drugs.
-1-
“How do you feel about turning into a clownfish for a few hours?” asked Deputy Minster Anderson.
President Gorman paused and sat back in his chair. “There’s something about this my rivals are just going to love.”
“It would only be for a few hours,”
“Too bad I’m not one of them.” Gorman said. “And how exactly are you going to run cover on it? Remember Prime Minster Brown? The tabloids are still all over the ‘minister goes monkey’ debacle. How do you live down eating your own feces, Anderson? Explain that to me.”
“Look, I get it. You’re concerned. But we’ll cover this. And if you want to deal with the
-2-
Alexander Blu didn’t want to go camping with his son.
It wasn’t that he was a bad Dad, he was just busy. And Jason asked a lot of questions.
“You’re a journalist Alex,” Mariana would say. “He asks questions because he’s trying to imitate you.”
After four days Alex was just about questioned out. And as the pair doused the fire and settled in for their last night camping Alex nearly ignored his son’s query.”
“What’s that light?”
Then Alex heard the boom.
-3-
Alex and Jason waited until dawn to leave their campsite to investigate the disturbance of the preceding night.
Three miles later they were at the crash site. It looked as if nothing had been disturbed. And for an instant, Alex wondered if maybe Jason had somehow tricked him into investigating the crash as a way to lengthen their trip.
Then he spotted the carriages. There were four of them, all wooden and adorned with cheesy advertisements similar to the magazine ads Alex’s dad used to collect back in the 1950s. Three women were setting awnings over the open carriages as two men focused on a copper cylinder in the middle of the wagon train.
“Heck of a place for the carnies to shack up,” Alex said.
“What’s a carny?” Jason asked.
Alex sighed. “Nevermind. Just follow me.”
The pair walked toward the wagons. The women hanging the awnings didn’t seem to notice them. The two men with the copper tube knelt near the device, one extending his hand as the other held up a gray stone. A bolt of blue suddenly streaked out of the man’s hand, connecting with the tube. It vanished. The air filling with a crack into the previously occupied space.
“Dad … how?” Jason said.
-4-
Alexander Blu was lucky to wearing his wool hat.
The
“A deer?” Alexander asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“It’s … uh … complicated.” “But we’ll change you back. You just have to give us that.”
Alexander followed the
The horrifying revelation settled in. “You want to steal my brain?!?”
“Uh … no. That.”
Alexander grabbed his wool hat. “You want my hat?”
The alien nodded vigorously.
-5-
Alexander Blu would later describe the “deer experience” in his book Sharing with the
It was an altogether incorporeal journey – the center of which I have no recollection. My human consciousness ebbed away as the reality of the deer’s mind pranced forward. My arms lengthened into legs as my feet kicked back, slamming my face into the ground before reoritneing my self in my new quadrapedal manner …”
Alexander wasn’t the world’s greatest writer. But he was the first human to experience a
Uh … that’s about 600 words, right????