Portrait in Prose

Countdown to Mars story

2011-12-09T15:40:00.001-08:00

Countdown to Mars
Doug Stone
November 11, 2011

Tahar al-Handani stood up and cursed the Big Father when the screen went black, then immediately asked forgiveness of the air, the walls, his own father, and everything else in the universe for his being so disobedient.
“Ah, son, it's okay with me. Don't apologize for Assad,” Ahmed said, fumbling around for the kerosene lantern they kept for power cuts like this one. “Persevere, as that computer is teaching you about the world beyond Syria. And I think you've finally made a friend on it, no? It's all you do all day.”
With that his father lit the lamp, and not one to waste a match, also managed to light a home rolled cigarette, winning the race with the flame between burly and fingertips. Tahar watched blue smoke rings drift upwards, up out of the sphere of yellow light. Embarrassed, he stayed in the shadows. He knew his stomach did flips when teased by the hooligans in the streets. He had cursed them in French and wished them dead in English, having picked up a bit of both in his online journalism classes. People were just easier to take at a distance. He wished the computer would come back up.
The crash of a shattered plate brought him back to reality, along with the stench of cardamon and cumin in stale bokharat sauce. In the dark he had backed into the dinner table. He picked up as best he could and tossed the remnants into the sink on top of the even older dirty lunch plates, the two bachelors being what they were. He wiped gobs of sauce from his faded green pants, a drop from his scalp beneath his black unruly hair – how did it get up there? - then washed his large soft hands by feel in the cool water.
Ahmed ignored all of this, busy with his smoke.
“Maybe this is Assad's way of telling us it's bedtime,” he said, looking at Tahar. “It's too late to start my press, and I'm low on tobacco anyway.” Ahmed had a tiny offset press for a secret leafletting campaign he thought was working.
“I'm with you, Dad.”
The older man flicked the smoldering butt into the trash, then rose and stretched. He picked up the lamp and cast the light before them on their way to the back bedroom.
Door-kicking flunkies, not even bothering to mask their faces, arrived uninvited.

###

Tahar woke at dawn in a puddle of oil and blood. His nose was swollen. Touching it, he felt a tender bump. He struggled to get free of the soaked blanket, and when he did so, he slowly stood up. Looking down in the morning light, he saw the oil was from the wrecked press, and the blood from his nose. The goons sent by Raïs, the Big Father, had been very effective.
The rooms had been tossed, objects trampled, and his father gone. Thinking back to last night, all he could remember was two thugs that had come up from behind his dad in the dark and handcuffed his hands behind his back. The broken nose was from the blow he took when he tried to intervene.
In the strong light now coming in the east window, he picked up the place as best he could. The big old glass screen he had plugged into the laptop was smashed. The computer had been kicked under the bed in the fray, a terribly lucky stroke as their attackers had lost sight of it. He placed it back on its small table, and pulled up the rickety chair. It booted up on battery power but showed no connectivity. He decided to continue cleaning and come back to it later. His thoughts stayed focused on the task at hand until much later he sat down with some crackers and date paste at the cracked table. Suddenly his feelings for his father overcame him, and he slumped, weeping, onto the hard wooden surface. Helplessness, wonder, questioning, anger, and denial all blended together. He remained there for quite some time, until he heard bustling traffic in the street outside, and the call for morning prayers drove him to his knees.
After prayers, Tahar went outside with a screwdriver and walked around to the power service box. There was nothing obviously wrong with the incoming wires, but when he opened it, the damage was immediately apparent. Again he was in luck as the goons appeared to have simply pulled out one hot wire. Grasping it by the insulation, and taking care not to ground himself, he replaced it back on the connector where it belonged and tightened the attachment screw. The small box next to it with internet connectivity was badly cracked, but little damage was done internally. He reconnected all its wires and hoped for the best.
Back inside, he sat down in front of the computer, and clicked the networking icon. “Connection Established” it said, and he smiled. Tightening his jaw, he went to work.
First he posted what had happened to his father. Then he networked with his friends to get their mood and see if any others had been arrested. In hours, his posts were picked up by Al-Jazira and he made a name for himself. Over the next few weeks he took up digitally where his father's leaflets had left off, but that came to a halt when he heard from Abul.
“We have someone here Assad's people just released. He knew your dad,” Abul typed.
“Yes, yes, what does he know?” Tahar typed back.
“It's bad news. He had seen your dad brought to the courtyard. He'd been beaten and given electric shocks. His body was covered in sores.”
“Will they release him, to recover?”
“No, it's too late for that. He's certain his was the body they moved out late at night past their cellblock. I'm sorry, Tahar.”
Tahar slammed the laptop closed, his tears washing over the plastic casing.

###

Lots of traffic in the theatre district tonight. He went straight at the intersection, deciding not to chase the slant of B-way uptown, but to stay north and cut back west to his fare's destination.
“Where we going, Cabby?” asked his fare, a large man with a red face stuffed into his suit. This isn't Broadway.”
“We're just avoiding the traffic. It'll be quicker to head up and over,” Tahar said.
“Is this costing me more?” snapped Redface.
“The extra distance will be made up in savings in time,” he replied as his stomach did a nervous cringe.
The fare went back to his cell conversation. Cabby started thinking about the coming weekend. This was a busy Wednesday, enough to get him money to enjoy himself and not have to work either day. Wednesday, the day atonement for last weekend wore off, and hormones were starting to rise again. He turned west as promised, to the satisfied grunt of his fare.
A few blocks, and they arrived at the theatre. His fare tossed him what he owed and a little more. Good riddance he thought. The growl of his dispatcher came over the radio.
“Got a call from George Washington Port Authority. A fare wants you to pick her up and drive her to Hudson hotel, near Central Park. She'll tip well. Got it?”
“On my way. Will be a while in this traffic.”
It was quiet when he arrived at the small bus station near the GW bridge. A slim Asian woman was standing alone in front and he figured it was her. He pulled to the curb and she opened the door.
“This is the City cab company, right?” she asked.
“Yes it is. You're going to the Hudson,” he replied.
She ducked her head, tossed in a tiny overnight case, and slid her silk covered thighs along the cheap plastic seat. “Let's go.”
The cab pulled into the light traffic and took a quick right turn south towards the park. He glanced in the rear-view mirror while she was looking away. Her dress clung tightly to her trim body, revealing the shape of small tight breasts. And the way she moved her legs was fantastic. She turned and met his eyes in the mirror, and he quickly brought his eyes back to the road, feeling his stomach tighten.
Her cell chimed, and she answered it curtly in Mandarin. After speaking another few harsh words, she hung up, shutting the phone off and tossing it into her oversized purse. She sighed and looked up, catching him looking at her again.
“What's your name?” she asked, peering forward in the flickering light for his id.
“It doesn't matter. Just call me Cabby, ma'am.”
“Cabby it is. Ha ha.”
Silence while her jaw worked and he could see her lost in thought.
“Cabby?”
“Yes,ma'am?”
“How can you see to drive with those sunglasses? It's night time for goodness sake.”
“I'm okay. They cut the glare from the headlights.”
“They give you a jaunty air.”
“Thanks ma'am.”
He was never without his sunglasses. From the harsh light of the Middle East to the dark artificial canyons of New York, he wore them. Made life much more comfortable, a buffer against the world.
The skies that had wanted to rain all day began at dark with a cool mist. The tires now swished against the pavement, interrupted with regular clangs on the temporary steel plates street maintenance loved. In the rearview, Cabby could see sadness in her eyes when the streetlights washed across the cab from front to back. She slumped in the corner of the seat.
“Cabby? Do you know the Hudson?” she asked softly. “It's my refuge when I simply no longer can stand my life anymore.”
Oh dear, was this one going to over-share? But then she was so attractive. But no, no. No entanglements he swore.
“It's all the rage with the, how you say, 'up and comers',” he joked.
“Good. I've had enough of being dragged to trade shows.”
More quiet moments passed between them. Cars rushed by, wafts of steam rose up ahead carrying urban aromas through the car vents.
“...so they're making the monthly fare quotas higher and the payouts lower? I have a family to support! Where did you hear this?” came from the radio. “Oh shit, quick, go to the private channel...”
“What was that?” asked Elly.
“Nothing. Just fleet gossip. We'll be there soon,” he replied.
Elly leaned forward, nearly touching the plexiglass barrier. Cabby pushed the slide fully open. Her face now filled the gap, and she began looking around at the ornaments on his dashboard, at his clothes, at his world.
“Tell me more about yourself,” she said, sinking back into the cheap bench seat.
Cabby told her about leaving his patch of urban Damascus landscape, his schooling, his online presence, his hopes and his loss. She listened closely, making supportive sounds at the right times. Then things shifted over to her, how she was born in Shanghai, her father was a trade delegate at the consulate in New York, how she came with him and her mother as a toddler and went through school all the way to a bachelor's at Columbia.
“But what's wrong? I could see you snapped your phone off,” Cabby asked.
“Things are a little too structured right now,” she replied, then laughed to lighten things up. “My boyfriend is great and all, but he expects me to do his bidding. He thinks he's a big shot, has a string of dry-cleaners throughout the city already at the age of 30.” A box truck roaring by distracted both of them for the moment. “I say fuck him. He's not the boss of me. It's so cliché to say this, but I need some space for awhile. I told him we were on break. Hence this trip into the city.”
Cabby felt his stomach muscles relax. He played with the radio, letting the last statement linger, listening for anything more from her. He could see her now calm face in the mirror, watched her tongue wet her lips, saw her poke at her hair when she didn't think he was looking.
“We're here, Miss,” he said as he smoothly pulled into the narrow drive. The cab dove under the Hudson lobby beneath street level and banked right, landing in a parking spot. Clutching her essentials bag in the dark back seat, she sat still, and caught his eye in the mirror.
“Do you want to help me with my bag?”
“Don't they have bell staff for that, Miss?”
“Call me Elly, silly. And maybe they do, but you can still help me. Don't make me have to ask you up for coffee like everyone else does.”
“Coffee?”
“Never mind.”
So they both exited the cab, she heading towards the lobby steps and he following along behind holding the case like a football.
In the stairway she kissed him, and stole his sunglasses. He laughed and tried to grab them back but she reached the lobby and he had to give up for the time being. Express check-in for a regular customer went quickly, just a signature in exchange for a key, and they were done and heading for the room. Brass elevator doors closed on their frisky frottage, and she pulled away, giggling. At the room, the card key actually worked first swipe. Inside she dropped it on the floor along with her clothes.
Cabby hung back against the closed door, watching.
“What's wrong? Haven't you had a girl play with you before?” she said twisting her handsome neck around to see him. “Come and get your glasses.”
“Oh my. Oh my. Allah be praised.”
Elly giggled. “Don't tell me this is your first time.”
“No, no. Well, the first time not paying for it,” he murmured.
She slid up to him, grabbed his shirt and pulled it off. Quickly he was naked with her on the bed, in spite of her insistence on disrobing him with her tongue in his mouth the whole time. His hand swept down to her chest.
“Ouch, no, those aren't stress balls! Gentle there.”
He quickly let go of her breast, then more softly brushed his fingertips across the thick Asian nipple.
“Okay, let's see what you can do with this.” With that she latched her hand onto his shaft while twisting her compact rear towards him.
And suddenly he was behind her, in her, thrusting, watching her dark Asian hair sweep across her back, with the ends perfectly aligned. And when they were done, they rolled and laughed and cried and hugged, until he thought nothing could be better than this, his new crush.

###

Cabby drove slowly back to the garage at the end of his shift. The car bounced on worn shocks as it burrowed down underground in the near dark, then leveled out at the entrance to the service garage level. He got out under the glare of unshielded vapor lights, another good reason to never be without his now smudged shades, clutching his id and fare log. Across the lot he could see his boss on the radio. When he reached the dispatcher's window he dropped off the log as his boss nodded, using his neck folds to click off his headset.
“Handani! Good to see you,” Bossman said, picking up and flipping through the log.
“Good evening to you, sir,” Tahar replied.
“Lucrative evening for us both. Plenty of fares here. Looks like you will be doing ever better for us, better soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don't say much, do you?”
“No, sir. Is there something you need from me?”
“I like you, son. In spite of you pulling over five times a day to pray, or refusing to pick up JFK passengers with their duty-free liquor. You keep making money for us with long shifts and I'll keep giving you cabs.”
“Thank you sir,” Tahar replied. How was he to reconcile Bossman's bright future with higher quotas and less money to keep like he had heard? he thought. Let him sit behind his glass until his fat chokes him one day. No, no, can't think like that. Bossman had to make money too. He dropped his gaze, turned and walked away as the dispatcher got another radio call.
The garage was a short walk from his small room in the Village. The neighborhood was not great but not terrible either, although it was not wise to linger at this hour. Cabby dropped his id and stripped off his shirt on the way to the tiny kitchen. He spread some hummus on a few crackers, opened a bottle of cool seltzer water, and sat down on his couch. Cablevision had a talk show with Charlie Sheen. Amazing to get a high grade celeb on the show this late, if you could call him high grade. Charlie was telling the host, “I don't pay the girls to do it with me. I pay them to leave after.” Everyone laughed. Cabby knew there was a grain of truth in that. He sure felt relief when they left. But maybe life was about to change for him. The food and carbon dioxide gurgled in his stomach.
He woke up to the ring of his cell, still on the couch. Unknown number calling at seven thirteen am, local to New York.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Tahar Handani?”
“Yes.”
“I work for Al-Jazira at our office in New York near the U.N. My name is Ghandar. We have an interesting opportunity for you. It took us quite some effort to find you after you left Syria. Seems you made quite a name for yourself with your postings on Assad's prisons over there.”
“Thanks for the flattery but what is the purpose of your call?”
“I appreciate your concern with our contacting you, but please hear me out. NASA has begun publicity work for their Mars launch in the coming years. They have an international crew starting training, and want to embed some journalists to showcase the mission. When asked, we thought you would be someone with few entanglements who has shown the ability to resonate with the Muslim community and hopefully has assimilated into the global culture.
“It's a team of five or so journalists that will live closely with the mission members, eating their food, doing some of the same preparation, and reporting on the difficult decisions that must be made when leaving Earth for several years. Who knows, one of you may even be asked to go along to report on the mission if proven worthy.”
“I'll think about it.”
“Right, we understand you wouldn't want to make a hasty decision. Our center is in Houston, here's the address, and here's my phone number. Please keep this in confidence and we'd appreciate your thoughtful response soon. You can ask for more information or you can show up for a tour and orientation at any time, Mr. Handani.”
“I see. Thank you and good bye.”
Cabby took this new information and pondered it in his heart.
###
The day passed quickly and soon it was time for his shift. Cabby strolled quickly through the neighborhood, noting the much brighter day and the long shadows from the afternoon sun. He logged in, got his fare pad and the keys to the cab, and headed out.
A scruffy looking dude in a Army surplus style coat waved him down near Trinity church, The Memorial at Ground Zero rising across the way.
“Cloisters,” he said.
“Really? Let me put that into my GPS. I have to turn around and head north. Looks like the West Side Highway once we get out of the financial district.” Cabby questioned this guy's need to see the Cloisters museum, near the northern tip of Manhattan. But a fare was a fare.
Facing at a long ride in traffic, he called Elly on his headset. A few rings and she answered.
“Guess what?”
“What,” she replied.
“They asked me about joining some sort of Mars journalism experience in Houston. Confidential, at least until they announce the final team.”
“Really? That's wonderful! You can finally get some recognition.”
“I don't know. It will be challenging. And being cooped up with all those folks for all that time in training...” his voice trailed off.
“No, no, go on. I think it's great.”
Scruffy dude was getting restless, he could see in his rearview. But Elly's voice pulled him back to the matter at hand.
“Okay, I'll give it more thought. Hate to leave all this, ha ha,” he said.
Scruffy now was pretty nervous. He was wiggling around and pumping his leg.
“Let's talk more about it. Gotta go, room service is here.”
“Pampering ourselves are we, on our big adventure?” he teased.
“Yeah, only the best. See you.”
The cab was now passing near Morningside Heights. Streetlights were coming on.
“I've changed my mind, turn off here,” said Scruffy.
“Okay, whatever you say.”
The cab turned off the Henry Hudson parkway and onto a deserted side street. You could just make out Columbia University several blocks away.
“This is a stick up. Give me all your money,” the fare cried, brandishing a decrepit pistol through the slider in the plexiglass panel.
Thinking the pistol exploding more likely than being shot, Cabby stopped the car and pulled out what little he had.
“You're my first fare. I have a little change. I can't get into the fare box anyway.”
“Pass it through the slider.”
Cabby awkwardly handed him the money. Scruffy roughly snatched it away, and cut Cabby's hand against the plexiglass in the process.
“Ow, what was that for?”
But the robber didn't hear as he had opened the rear door and ran off.
Cabby wiped the blood from the side of his hand. Thinking of his activism days in Syria, he remembered that one of the group's web pages had posted Franklin's “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.” In his attempts to shut out the world, the world kept barging in on him and he deserved it.
So it made sense to take this leap to Houston or maybe even to Mars. The next day he spoke with Elly, stopped at his apartment to pick up some clothes and some money, and parked the cab at the Metro Park train station in New Jersey after driving her to her house to pick up her things. Let Bossman find the cab eventually, he thought.
And so it came to pass with the two of them holding hands on the train platform, Tahar looking down the track through his lovingly smudged sunglasses to see the headlight of the Amtrak train.

book info

2011-07-10T17:46:00.000-07:00

Book list

J. J. Rowlands, Cache Lake Country. Story about timber cruiser in northern Maine from the 1940s. Wonderful, sensitive description of land and inhabitants.
Octavia Butler, Fledgling. Intense fantasy story about vampires. Last book from a great sci fi and fantasy author who received a McArthur genius grant and Hugo and Nebula prizes. Anything by her is great.
Lee Denning, Monkey Trap. Member of my writing group who's great at plotting genre novels.
A.D. Bloom, Bring me the Head of the Buddha. Another writing group member who writes some wacky sci fi. 99¢ e-book from Amazon.
Susie Bright, Big Sex Little Death. Memoir of growing up in a liberal family, how she became a writer and activist for feminism's gentler, sexy side. Was instrumental in founding On Our Backs, a newsletter for women, which was very influential, much like Our Bodies Ourselves was.
S. Pinker, The Stuff of Thought. One of several books regarding language, communication, and thought.
McWhorter, The Power of Babel. Easy to read book about linguistics, including the basics of language theory and hints at an original language.
K. D. Harrison, Last Speakers. All about collecting vanishing languages, with learning linguistics sprinkled in along the way. Gets a bit preachy and liberal after awhile, but covers lots of ground doing it.
P. Connors, Fire Season. An iconoclast who leaves his journalism job in NY for odd jobs in New Mexico, the main one being a fire watcher, and channels many famous literary voices who came before him, including Abbey and Leopold.
A. Leopold, Sand County Almanac. Forest service official and nature writer who wrote about Sand county Wisconsin in his retirement, which became the archetype of the nature genre.
E. Abbey. The Monkey Wrench Gang. Beautiful nature writing spanning several books by a union organizer, communist, and practitioner of civil disobedience.
R.Pike, Tall Trees, Tough Men. Story of logging in Maine.
Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran. Story of a women's book club who secretly read classic novels, including the banned books by Nabakov, in oppressive Iran.
V. Nabakov, Lolita. Story of an older man seducing a teenager, and all that says about society and the human condition.
J. McPhee, Coming into the Country. Superb non-fiction writer for the NYT. Any of his books is a work of art. This one is about visiting Alaska.
A. Powell, The Race to Save the World's Rarest Bird. A buddy of mine writing about conservationists working in Hawaii to save the last members of a species, and all that says about humans and their environment.
M. Pollan, The Omnivore;s Dilemma. A great writer about food and some other domestic topics, who is leading the movement to improve our nation's food supply and consumption. Any of his books are wonderful, as are his interviews. Also try A Place of My Own about building a writing cabin for himself.
C. Moore, Fluke. Long series of fantasy books including Practical Demon Keeping, mostly set in California. Completely wacky and absorbing.
B. Stoker, Dracula. The original vampire story as we know it.
C. Ryan, The Forest of Hands and Teeth. A classmate of mine who wrote a somewhat literary vampire story. Very nicely done, including the title.
T. Cotter, The Cobra in the Barn. Series of books about finding hidden treasures of the automobile sort in people's barns, and fixing them up.
B. Bryson, A Walk in the Woods. A story of a greenhorn walking the Appalachian Trail. Absolutely engaging and hilarious. Any of his books are recommended.
K. S. Robinson, Red Mars. First of a trilogy of going to Mars, and colonizing it.
D. Roam, The Back of the Napkin. Discussion of types of working drawings and how to use them. Includes the next generation of flow charts, diagrams, graphs and lists. Invaluable for communicating complex ideas for anyone.
M. Headlay, The Year of Yes. Short book about a woman in NYC who decides to never turn down a request to date.
T. Vanderbilt, Traffic. Full of factoids about dealing with the flow of cars from the beginning to today.
Great for anyone who drives.
J. Kaufman, Literacy and Longing in L.A. Funny genre book that uses literary references inside the story. Can you spot them all?
P. Leeson, The Invisible Hook. About the economics of pirates. One of many books today, like Freakonomics, that applies econ theory to society. The subject matter of this one is great.
K. Douglas, Cowboy in my Pocket. A parody of a Western Romance genre story.
Kankwamba and Mealer, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind. Co-author sets the scene in Africa with considerable interesting backstory of how a family tries to survive, and how a boy cobbles together a small windmill to power lights and cell phones. He eventually is invited to speak at an international TED conference to help spread the word.
K. Silverstein, The Radioactive Boy Scout. Explorer scout who manages to gather together enough smoke detectors and free samples to start a small atomic pile!
A. Spiegelman, Maus. Series of graphic novels covering the holocaust. Intense and touching, it took drawing comics to a new level. His website and interviews are amazing. The best speaker I have ever heard.
S. Foote, various. Authoritative writer about the War Between the States from a Southern perspective. Served as the basis for Ken Burns Civil War series.
M. Shaara, Killer Angels. Best of a series of historical novels about the Civil War, this one set at Gettysburg.
His characterizations of real figures is amazing.
W. Cronin, Changes in the Land. I believe this is out of print, but you should still be able to find it. About the colonists and Native Americans, and what occurred during the settlement of early North America. Ground-breaking in its day.
R. Cohen, Sweet and Low. True story about the family who invented Sweet and Low. I compared the situation to the Crouse family and suggested it to Anita, who may still have the book.
L. R. King. The Bee-Keeper's Apprentice. A series of books about a very young woman who marries Sherlock Holmes and the adventures they have. Very well done. The book about the trip to the Middle East in the early 20th century is extremely interesting. King also has other series, the best one about a lesbian detective in San Francisco, which is very good.
C. Ryan, Sex at Dawn. A ground-breaking book, at the level of Kinsey, for information about how humans became the way we are regarding sex. Explains so much, I couldn't stop reading.
J. Evanovitch, One to Get Ready. Her main wacky crime series about a woman PI who lives in Trenton and tries to solve mysteries. Wonderful description of NJ and its denizens. The current best seller is the 17th.
G. MaGuire, Wicked. Wonderful extrapolation of the Wizard of Oz to a magic land with lots of backstory, from the point of view of the Wicked Witch. Translated to Broadway very well. His other Oz and fantasy books are not nearly as good.
H. Ellison, Dangerous Visions and Again Dangerous Visions. Edited by Harlan Ellison, one of the best Sci fi writers ever. These are stories that had topics that made them unpublishable years ago and so had to be collected and bravely published by a small press. Now a bit tame, but still good.

Sources for new books.

NYTimes Review of Books. The best source I can find for new books and good reviews. Some online versions, like on my Kindle via an open source program like Calibre, are free.
Calibre, an open source manipulator of online reading sources. There are others, but I like this one. It serves as a library for your device, much like iTunes does. You can download books and save them on your device, you can delete them, archive them, etc. Uses a lot of processing power, so be patient or get a quad-core pc to handle the multi-tasking it does! Solves the problem of filling up your device especially if yours does not have an SD card or other removable storage. Automates connections to open source books and news feeds, most of which are free, much like iTunes manages podcasts, so you don't have to struggle with the browser “save target” commands.

Project Gutenberg. One of several online archives of public domain books. This is where I got Dracula, for free via Calibre. Several universities have archives now too. Calibre has a basic list of them.

Podcasts: interesting and usually free, many of them have shows that review books. On Point with Tom Ashbrook has an author almost every day, and he has a book show occasionally. Fresh Aire also has authors every day. Faith Middleton in New Haven has a daily show, with book reviews every month or so. Easiest to use via iTunes but there are other ways to download them.

Countdown to Mars story

2011-05-29T11:18:00.001-07:00

He loved to hide in plain sight; security by ignorance, a faceless persona, an avatar; in the crowds at Grand Central, watching everyone going elsewhere, while he sipped coffee. Or in bars, chatting up dates, wanting shallow and finding it, as always. Or online, sometimes as Joe, or Igor, or Mohamed, or Saul. Ready to talk, but not about that.

And then they went and picked him.

Cabby exited the station at 45th, blinking in the sun that slammed down between the urban towers, and hustled north along Broadway, looking, scanning, absorbing. He preferred to walk as much as he could, to soak up whatever city he's in, which is why he left the subway rather than transfer underground to chase the slant of B-way uptown.

He passed a noodle shop, far from Chinatown but catching the trade near Times square. Through the window he saw four bespectacled Asians peering down through the steam obscuring their bowls. There were some white faces and some black; and someone who caught his eye and quickly looked away.

A bum sat back against a storefront, his tattered box full of change and small bills. DISABLED it's labeled in Sharpie. Below it, clumsily crossed out, Cabby can still make out FREE TIBET. Even his box is a castoff. In goes a subway card with his last ride; a curt nod is his reply.

He's reminded of his own country, where the junta had jailed and tortured many souls, reducing them to begging like this guy. His dad would have been one of them if picked up early. When they finally did come for him, his short-lived underground paper had a following, so his torture ended in death, relatives be damned.

Cabby sifts through early memories of his dad, caressing them like elephants do the long bones of their comrades at their secret burial grounds. He thinks of dinners together in their snug kitchen as the sizzling pans threw strong spices into the air; splashing in the lake in the summer; bellowing along with folk songs on the radio.

Next block has upscale clothing stores, Restoration Hardware, classy booksellers, the ubiquitous StarBux. He peered down side streets that turn onto shopping avenues containing gleaming, polished doors to appointment-only haberdashers. Doors opened gladly for his country's despots and their entourages, the oily pitchmen owners falling all over themselves hawking their latest collections.

Elly. He thinks of her often. More today, as they're due to meet. She didn't tell him her Mandarin name, as her Americanized name has stuck, even within her family, she said when she met him at a trade event he was covering. He didn't share his real name either because his short one has stuck too, a useful label for a citizen of the world. Both of their assumed names being more interesting than the usual Bob, George, Rita or Mary so many internationals took on. Something they had in common.

#

Two small diamond studs set in gold went into her earlobes. The natural double folds of her Asian eyelids reflect in the dressing mirror while she checked her makeup. Her tight red and gold silk dress slid over her head and hugged her toned figure. Just a classy camisole between her perky breasts and the silk; no underwear.

Done dressing, Elly closed the door to the walk-in closet full of perfectly tailored and pressed outfits ready for any occasion. One of the Stepford wife perks available to the fiance of a dry-cleaner. As a Chinese national fully comfortable in America, she was a much sought-after daughter of a high-ranking member of the consulate. Her father had been located in New York and sometimes Washington for years doing trade negotiations, his big win being garnering Most Favored Nation status for the regime. Her mother and then El do their duty as the perfect Mandarin representatives. Both are slim, alluring, flirty with the Americans and others who came to New York on business.

Elly was born in Shanghai to her mother, a child bride, while her father was on assignment there as the city began to grow. When El was four, his next posting was New York, where he fell in love with the stimulating environment, the large multi-national community, and an attractive secretary from the consulate, and had enough clout to remain here for as long as he wanted. El had been sent to NYU to learn communications and marketing to allow her to do summer internships with the trade councils and the U.N. She was introduced to her dry-cleaner upon graduation a couple of years ago.

She grabbed a stylish jacket on her way out of the door, something to cover her sleek dress and to hide it from her mother's eyes. An oversized Coach purse with some makeup and a change of clothes completed her ensemble, and she walked the short two blocks to the commuter station behind large dark glasses, head held high, long black hair shining in the sunlight.

Even after coming of age, her small circle of friends had to balance allure with tasteful composure for their families' sake. She had been allowed to attend NYU as it was so close and she could continue to assist at the consulate. Many of her friends had to attend small, rural colleges that had parietal rules and dorm monitors, boys strictly forbidden. For her, NYU senior year had been a time of freedom, of getting on the pill, on meeting lots of international students, on having and sharing secrets. Before then she had to commute from home, her arrivals and departures monitored. She had managed to wangle that one year away (a whole ten miles across the river, hah!) saying how she had to work with her advisor very closely.

And that was when she had met Mr. Ping, esquire, Man of the World, thank-you very much, an associate of her advisor, and a specialist in emigration and residency law. He was the one who had filed for her permanent residency without her family's knowledge, in exchange for long talks over wine and her virginity.

So now she stood on the train platform, on a big city tryst, with a college degree, some experience in relations both international and intimate, and the world in front of her. If she could figure out how to untangle herself from her fiance.

#

The lobby was empty save for the desk attendant at the far end. The tasteful looped soundtrack was between selections. The two entered from opposite ends of the high ceilinged, brass and glass room, he from the street, she from the polished elevator bank. They spotted each other immediately.

“Cabby!” she called.

“Elly. It’s been too long,” he replied.

They started to shake hands, then locked in a warm embrace.

“Join me over here in the bar,” El said, heading across the room while steering Cabby with her arm into the alcove. “It’s intimate, and we can talk.”

Settled into two wing backs, with drinks delivered by an obsequious waiter, the two caught up.

“Why are you in the city?” he asked.

“I came in for overnight adventure which my mom thinks is for a seminar and some shopping. Your text to hook up was a godsend. Life is dull beyond belief in Jersey. Are you here for an interview? Who is it this time?”

“Nobody. This time I’m the interviewee. Elly, they want me for the launch.”

“For an opinion from the international community? Al-Jezera or something?”

“No. To go.”

Surprise flickered across her face.

“That’s a big step. Why you? To represent a friendly foreign face to the U.S?” she asked.

“Most likely. I really don’t know.”

“Will the media play this up and use your real name? Or will they call you Cabby to make you more ‘palatable’ to Peoria?”

“I don’t know that either, and probably never will. I don’t plan to go.”

“Oh no, this is an opportunity of a lifetime,” she said.

“The risk is too high.”

“The risk of a crash? That's pretty small. Of getting the ultimate cabin fever? After all those space station missions, they know how to handle that stuff now – get you in shape, keep you active, in touch. I’ll be your most active Tweeter.”

“The risk of assassination.”

“What, you think you're fuckin' Trotsky or something? The long arm of Stalin never far?” she wise-cracked, then turned serious. “Tell me more about your Dad.”

Cabby squirmed, and took a long drink. The cold hurt his stomach, as the different liquids fought it out, like his emotions did in his head.

“He was a warm, caring man, with large rough hands worn from doing whatever had to be done. Digging in the earth, inking his little press, loading his old truck. He filled my entire childhood, not knowing my Mom, who died in childbirth with me. We were a small family, but it allowed him to include me in everything, only occasionally having to have my aunt care for me if he got very busy. And as I grew up, we had our small differences, but he remained important to me even as a shy teenager, when most kids would disappear all day to play soccer or throw stones at the patrols.”

“So what happened?”

“He had applied for a job at the big resort hotel outside of town, but it wasn't his turn or perhaps his bribe was too small. Anyway, he was tossed out of the office. Always someone who felt the sting of injustice, he started his tiny press, printing leaflets. The object was to slowly grow a base of people also injured by the regime, having them find others face-to-face and ply them with the broadsides. That way there would be no public gathering easily crushed. They wouldn't act until there were hordes of followers. But it backfired when someone spoke his name.

“They came at night, of course. I was just falling asleep. He was smoking in the front room, the blue rings slowly rising in the hot air. The door stove in, and two large men grabbed him with a shout. I was all man at nineteen, so I leaped to his aid in my pajamas, but one goon simply knocked me to the floor. That's how I got this,” he said in a whisper, running his finger over the bump on the top of his nose. “Took weeks to heal, but nothing compared to beatings and electric shocks. I never saw him again.”

“What a contrast to my life,” El replied. She slid her chair closer, the proper ninety degree conversational angle now turning more acute. Her leg brushed his lightly, her head tilted toward his, her pupils dilated. “I've had everything either prescribed, or proscribed, by my family.”

“Not so different. Both of us are controlled by a regime. It's simply that mine would prefer me dead, and yours brain-dead. If your eyes weren't up to standards, they would have made you have surgical folds done. They would have bound your feet if they could, I'm sure.”

The waiter came by, refreshed their glasses, and departed.

“What do you want, El?” he asked.

“No, what do you want, Cabby? It's time to come out of the shadows. You can talk about that, that which happened to your father and possibly might to yourself. See, you're doing it now with me.

“When I met you, you were covering our delegation's Spring trade announcement. The international equivalent of doing dumb-ass weather and birthdays on local TV.”

“It's a living. And it keeps my hand in journalism, and my limbs safely attached. A low profile that doesn't upset anyone.”

“You can do better,” says El.

Emboldened by the alcohol and the attention, his desire for her and the mission goes up. He fights it back down.

“Imagine what you could do as the spokesman for your country during the entire training and flight,” she reminds him.

He's a bit dazed now, the nearby warmth and soft skin belonging to someone he can respect, someone who's smart and sharp and has a purpose.

“I don't need a man to take care of me, like my stupid fiance, I need a teammate, someone I care about and who cares for me. And I think you do too, babe.”

That does it.

They leaned back in their chairs. Glasses nearly empty, both watched each other suck on the leftover ice. The waiter appeared, El scrawled her name and room number on the slip, and they left the bar.

The elevator doors closed on their frisky frottage, and she pulled away, giggling. At the room, the card key actually worked first swipe. Inside she dropped it on the floor along with her clothes.

And suddenly he was behind her, in her, thrusting, watching her dark hair sweep across her back, with the ends, cut by some talented queer who must have been thinking of him, perfectly aligned. And when they were done, they rolled and laughed and cried and hugged, until he thought nothing could be better than this, except to go to Mars, if just for her.

One woman show

2010-06-06T11:40:00.001-07:00

Myself and Katie at Hall library's One Woman Art Show.

Trip to Venice Florida

2010-05-21T15:32:00.000-07:00

Sis's house.

Did someone say it's dinnertime?

Our private beach.

Night heron on our front lawn.

2010-05-21T15:27:00.001-07:00

Senior Prom.

The adorable couple.

Driver aka Jimmy the Lightning Man drove them in his car, Large Marge, a '69 caddy.

Death in the Dark - Writer's Digest prompt

2010-05-02T15:27:00.000-07:00

Wrote in response to WD prompt: You wake up standing over a body with a bloody knife. Piece together what happened.

Death in the Dark
Doug Stone
May 7, 2010

My eyes crack open. Even the dim light hurts, so I scrunch them closed, tight. I’m dizzy. I retch. I try my eyes again, better.
Standing up, the room spins a bit, forcing me back onto the floor. I lie near a wooden table, and right next to an overturned chair. On the floor, there’s a round thing a few feet away in the shadows. I hear very distant music, laughing, glasses clinking. But here I’m alone. There’s no feeling of immediate danger.
Close my eyes again, take stock. What’s my name? Jim. Good. Time to take a deep breath and go to my special relaxation place, but I can’t remember if it’s a place I’ve been or just imagined. Bad. Bile in my mouth; I gag and spit.
I open my eyes, see little. Patting down my body, there’s no major wounds or missing limbs. My head aches. Reaching back, there’s a large lump, with a bit of wet around it. Not good. Suddenly there’s a persistent vibration from my right hip, then it stops. Must be feeling my cell in its holster. Good.
I take the phone out, open it. I squint as the light burns my eyes. 12:15 am. One missed call. My last outgoing call went to voicemail at 12 am. I try to stand up again, but I’m still nauseated. Back to the floor. I start up the strobe in my cell phone camera. The light is blinding, but I quickly see that the round thing across the way is my ball cap. There’s a knife near my left hand, with blood around it. Picking it up, I can see it’s a large sheath knife, made of soft steel. I wouldn’t purchase anything that cheap. Ah, at least my long term memory is working. I kill the light when can’t bear it any longer.
Worn out, I lie back again and close my eyes. Okay, can you remember anything else? Yes, moved to New Orleans about 3 months ago due to a job transfer. Good. About a month ago I reported a chemical spill to the authorities after my employer wouldn’t. Good. Well, bad for my career. Costs them thousands per day until it gets cleaned up. Put on leave. This happened to another whistle-blower about a year ago who cost them millions; Conor’s still on leave. We’d met for drinks a few times, to share notes and drown our sorrows.
What else? One of my co-workers called yesterday. Wendy felt sorry for me, she did, and wanted to meet for a drink. We’d shared a double cubicle and she had been one of the bright spots in the relocation for me.
She recommended a cozy tourist spot on Bourbon Street, the home of the real pirate Jean Lafitte. Easy to find, it’s a place they’ve kept original, with unpainted wood siding, no electricity, and a rustic interior. A quiet piano bar, with candles in each room. Tours of the French Quarter gather here, with the tourists encouraged to spend money at the bar.
A latrine smell interrupts my thoughts. Whew, where is that coming from? I sit up, flash on the light, but don’t see anything. I hunch back down.
Recent events are coming back to me. I’d gone straight into an empty back room after getting a drink, to avoid the tourists. Wendy didn’t show up, and I tried to call her at midnight. The piano stopped; must have been his break. There was a creaking floorboard behind me, and the candle went out. Some thug walloped me pretty good.
I finally feel strong enough to stand up, for real. The smell is very strong now, and I want to vomit. I turn on the cell light again to find my way out. Off in the corner, I see a dark shadow. Using my light, I see it’s Conor. Blood has drained from a large chest wound. The pants are all stained and smelly. I retch over his body. How convenient – kill one enemy and frame the other for it?
The manager comes in with one of those wind proof super lighters to get the candle going. She sees me with the bloody knife leaning over the body, and screams.

Red Paint story

2010-02-28T16:12:00.001-08:00

Red Paint
March 14, 2010
Doug Stone
2210 words

The slamming metal crash doors cut off Paul’s echoing sobs. The room was still. Kirby turned away from the closed doors, and faced the sculpture. Red paint pooled beneath the Buddha-like figure on the table.
“He had it coming. The entire work is derivative of Murakami’s set of figures, late 1990s,” Kirby spat. “Who’s next? Ah, Lily I see.”
Lily stood next to a large oil painting hanging on the dingy white wall. Mythical beasts such as manticores, as well as hybrids like centaurs and ligers were rampant on a background of modern symbols. She rubbed her hands nervously.
“Great use of figure and color, girl.” Kirby stepped closer for a good look at the background. “What are these symbols? Are they reminiscent of a Coach purse? Too commercial.”
Dipping a cheap brush into his quart of house paint, Kirby spattered red all over the background, covering a few stray beasts in the process.
“Now you know what to fix,” he said.
“Yes, yes I do,” replied Lily.
I’ve never been in a critique like this one, thought Amanda, a few feet from Lily. Senior seminar was challenging, and Professor Downing gloried in his paint, holding grudges against the world. Critiques were supposed to contain strong, yet constructive, criticism, with open dialog between master and student. Not this. This was raw antagonism.
The red paint. An art critic’s red pencil, Professor had said. This was simple house paint, Benjamin Moore Red latex. Not crimson, nor Sedona, but RED. Photoshop palette RBG 255,0,0. No subtlety here. Anathema.
Kirby walked over to the next work, Richard’s self-portrait, in dots.
“Give me a little back story, Richard,” he said.
Richard swallowed hard. “Well, sir, it’s a likeness of myself. I used a range of colors in the work, to show depth and shading.”
“Very well. But isn’t this a derivation of Seurat, the famous Impressionist?” chided Kirby.
“Well, well, sir, sir,” Richard stammered, “It’s now a well accepted technique.”
But Kirby was no longer paying attention to his answer. Taking up a fine brush, he dipped it into his quart of red and began connecting the dots. There being so many, he managed to easily find enough to draw a scowling face. The class tried to suppress shocked laughter.
Kirby stood before Amanda. “Still life. Shadows and depth in the fabric that wraps the fruit bowl, I see,” he said.
“Yes, I spent considerable time on that detail,” Amanda replied.
Kirby adjusted his glasses. He stepped back, gave the canvas a brisk up-and-down sweep of his eyes, then stepped in close to review the shadow detail. His index finger dipped into his quart, coming out red.
“Class, how many times have I told you to draw from life? Not from a photo? You want nothing hindering your representation of reality directly as you see it,” he said as his finger left ugly blotches here and there in the details.
“This was clearly painted from a photoshopped snapshot. See the shadows are not consistent, as she painted them from a printout where they have been copied and pasted over and over. Enough.”
Kirby gave Amanda a hard stare, but she held his eyes.
“Class dismissed.”
His long workday done, Kirby bent his tall frame into his tiny Civic, turned the key in the ignition, and exchanged his work glasses for driving glasses. He was always annoyed by the tight fit of the small, cheap cars he drove. He punched on the radio, and swamp boogie blues throbbed from the cheap speakers. A glance in the rear-view returned a view of his pale skin and thinning sandy hair along with a clear driveway behind him. Piles of art books in the seats shifted and bumped as he backed and turned out from his reserved space. One more day at Mercer County College gone, he thought. He was not getting any younger, in an art world that preferred the next young genius to the aging journeyman.
An uneventful ten miles later, he pulled into the driveway of his apartment complex. Leaving his car, he walked up the path from his space, grabbed the mail from the community box, and went inside his small one bedroom. Dropping the mail and keys on the beat up farm table in his kitchen, he went past the bedroom and used the toilet. That out of the way, he went back to the kitchen, adjusted an original Volkov pastoral that had shifted when he slammed the front door, and began to rummage in his fridge for dinner. Frozen pizza was all he was up to making tonight, after a long day and then his night class for seminar students too.
While the microwave buzzed and hummed, he thought about the past year. Seminar was over, the students having suffered their final critique tonight. Soon he would be teaching summer students, those trying to get their feet wet in the visual arts, or fulfill their arts requirement during the summer. He couldn’t bear another year of this, could he?
After dinner of cardboard with tomato sauce, he cleaned up after himself and did a quick scan of the news on the various TV channels. He turned down the sound, and thought about alternatives to his current employment.
Low on money, but at least I have a job, he thought. I haven’t sold anything for ten years now, and can barely bring myself to lift a brush or palette knife. On bad nights he kept reliving the same nightmare of his famous failure: at Cal Arts, near L.A., fifteen years ago, he was expelled. He had shown tremendous promise in the visual arts from childhood to grad student. Cal was a top school for animators, dance, and visual arts. For his final grad seminar, in his critique he had entered a raw, red head done in brilliant acrylics, with one ear in the process of being blown off. He also brought a handgun. The professor immediately admonished him for bringing weaponry to critique. Ashamed, Kirby had run out into the hall and fired the gun. A week later, he was contacted at home and told he was expelled. Not for carrying a weapon (he did have a pistol permit, after all) but for presenting a crassly derivative work. In 1971, student Chris Burden had an assistant shoot him in the arm for art’s sake. After his incident, Kirby was relegated to teaching at a local college after being blackballed.
He turned off the TV. Walking over to his work table and easel jammed into an alcove between the kitchen and living room, he took a long look at a still blank canvas.
The phone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Kirby, it’s your mother,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m home with Dad, we’re wondering how you are doing.”
“I’m fine, fine. School year’s almost over, just have the final grades to get in. The kids are worse than ever this year.”
“Can you come over to supper tomorrow? We’re going to have spaghetti,” said his mom.
“Sure, sure,” Kirby replied. The spaghetti was not very authentic, just overcooked pasta and canned sauce, but it wasn’t cardboard and it was free.
“What are you doing for the summer? Do you have classes to teach?” she asked.
“Yes, I have a summer contract to cover the beginning studio art requirement for new students. Don’t worry, I won’t starve.”
“Good. Can you finish one of your works? I’ve heard about some big prices on regional works over in Pennsylvania, to say nothing of what they’re getting in New York these days,” she said.
“Um, I’ve tried hard, but nothing is ready right now,” he replied, glancing at his easel.
“Thank God you have that teaching job, Kirby. What would you do without that?”
Unseen by Mom, Kirby rolled his eyes. Middle class values would always be what they were, he thought.
“Okay, I gotta go. See you tomorrow. Say hi to Dad, “he said and hung up.
The next afternoon brought bright May sunshine to light up the lobby of the Princeton Art Castle. The museum was formally named for a local benefactor, but everyone called it the castle due to the stone turrets and crenellated parapets on the façade. Behind the lobby desk, Amanda glanced at the clock. A couple more hours and her shift would be over, she thought. She didn’t mind being busy, but having no visitors like this made the day drag.
Amanda had a beautiful cherubic face, and a model’s poise from years of Barbizon training. Her thin, toned body made her appear taller than she was at five feet seven inches. She was society’s vision of their physical ideals. Eating healthy now that she was getting older (20!), she worked out regularly and was not afraid to get her hands dirty remodeling a room or shoving freight around a warehouse. Sporting interesting bruises from minor mishaps (or something kinkier?), she would toss on some cover-up and hit the town. She had light brown hair she pulled back, and wore practical clothing except when she felt like flaunting it. Currently, she was very serious with school and her art career, and was not in a relationship. She did enjoy dating, but her problem was that she stayed close emotionally and physically to most of her lovers, which became much too time-consuming. Independent like her dad, she was doing her best to earn her own way through community college.
The lobby door opened, and in walked Professor Downing. Not Amanda’s favorite person.
Amanda smiled. “Hello professor. What brings you her today?”

“Hello, Amanda. I’m here to check out the new Kate Gilmore exhibit. I finally am getting a chance to now that the semester’s over,” he said. He showed his id and Amanda gave him a visitor’s sticker in exchange for a small donation. She noticed his sad demeanor and lack of companions.
“It’s very quiet today. I don’t expect anyone else before closing time. Perhaps I can walk through the galleries with you?” she asked.
“Suit yourself,” Kirby replied, and headed towards the new exhibit, Amanda following behind.
When they reached the gallery, they walked into a web of complex installations that intruded from the walls, hung from the ceiling, or protruded from the floor.
“I see nothing has changed with Gilmore’s work this year,” remarked Kirby, when confronted by a women’s shoe bursting through the sheetrock and called “Walk This Way.”
On her own turf, Amanda felt comfortable with stating “That has considerable impact. I like to see a strong female image. I think I’ll try something like that for my next work.”
“Be careful doing that. Semiotic deconstruction may be past its peak. So 2000’s,” said Kirby. “You know, ‘What does it mean?’ and all that.”
Amanda winced. “I’m still going to do it.”
“Amanda, can I give you some advice?” You have a long way to go before being able to make these artistic statements.”
She pressed on. “I’m tired of painting fruit bowls and nature scenes. I’ve got an old guitar, so I’m gonna have a female mannequin smash it over an amplifier. Girrls rock!
Kirby said nothing, and turned away.
Exiting the new exhibit, they passed through a gallery of traditional oil paintings, the mainstay of the castle’s collection of Romantic nature scenes and buxom women. They continued to make remarks about the works and their context, neither one listening to the other. Next, they entered a gallery of contemporary visual art, set pieces in an updated cubist style. Suddenly, they were back to the lobby.
Parting, Kirby said, “Perhaps I can draw some inspiration from what I saw today. Thank you for your time.”
Amanda shook his hand, and began clearing off her desk while Kirby walked out the door.
Arriving back at his apartment, Kirby dropped his keys on the table, and cleared away his old breakfast and lunch dishes.
They sure pile up fast, he thought. Methodically, he began the dish washing ritual. Hot water filled the sink. Detergent was sprayed in, then dishes and cutlery sunk beneath the sudsy water. Taking a sponge, he lifted one dish, wiped it carefully on both sides, dipped it in the suds again, then ran it under a quick rinse from the faucet. He placed it in the rack to dry. Fishing around in the suds, he found a saucer, and gave it the same treatment.
Like taking a shower, this kind of drudge work was great to let the mind wander. Lather, rinse, repeat. Kirby turned issues over in his brain. He hated his job. What would come next? He had few relationships, with his family or anyone else. Was he inspired by what he saw today? What if he was criticized again? He scrubbed a plate too enthusiastically and got suds on his shirt, but be barely noticed. And foolish Amanda, nothing seemed to stop her, especially not his red paint. But was that such a bad thing, eh?
Dished done, he dried his hands. He walked over to his easel in the alcove, and dipped a brush into Prussian blue. With a shaking hand, he began to paint.

Noel story

2010-01-07T13:13:00.000-08:00

REMOVED

story

2010-01-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

REMOVED

My new Droid phone

2010-01-04T06:37:00.000-08:00

I'll be blogging this week about getting this phone, warts and all.

Mt. Snow

2009-11-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

Incident on Mt. Snow
DougStone
November 4, 2009

Calm blue water, close-cropped Bahama grass, then shimmering black asphalt ran in quick succession below Bonnie just before the turboprop’s wheels touched down. Now rolling on the runway, there was not much left to see in the grainy plane window but a reflection of her wispy brown hair and pale white face. She closed her eyes and squeezed her new husband Mike’s arm.

“We’re really here,” she whispered.

“Uh huh,” he replied sleepily. It had been a long flight from New York, and Mike had dozed the entire way. She had had to plan the honeymoon, and then shepherd both of them through all the connections. Finally on the trip, he was just like the helpless folks in her office, always needing something. She had hoped for a vacation from her daily gotta’s – gotta do this, gotta do that.

The cockpit door opened and the moist air brought in the odor of salt spray and decaying vegetation. They slowly made their way down the stairway and onto the tarmac. A wagon was already filling with luggage and they spotted theirs at one end of it. Mike was awake enough to grab both bags and pass one along to Bonnie. Old enough now at 51 and 50, Mike and Bonnie had learned to pack efficiently. They went even lighter for their tropical vacations. Besides, it gave them the opportunity to shop in the funky little Caribbean markets.

They packed into the oppressive arrivals hall, echoing with multilingual babble. Looking past a German couple whose skin was even whiter than theirs, she could see way up in front of her several counters manned by immigration and customs officers. Similar to a bank’s queue, ropes and standards divided the main queue into smaller queues for each counter. She waited, and waited, while the line sluggishly inched along. She thought back to when life was free.

Late at night, without permission, Bonnie led Royal Standard out of his stall into the aisle, and cross-tied him to the walls to prep for a run. He stretched; his front and back legs fully extended and his back arched. Her pulse quickened thinking about the risk of riding this thoroughbred again, alone in the dark. There was a small vertical scar below her left eye from when she had last snuck out with the frisky colt, catching an invisible piece of barbed wire with her face. At the doctor’s office, she lied to her dad, telling him a pitchfork had slipped while haying. Grimacing at the memory, she tugged harder on the saddle’s girth straps.

After tacking up, she unclipped him from the ties, traded his halter for a bridle, and led him out the barn door into the waning moonlight. The ghostly white rails of the track stood guard around its black dirt oval. Bonnie jumped into the saddle, and with a squeeze of her legs, guided him out at record speed, hooves flying, cool night air buffeting her face.

“Passport, ma’am?” prompted the immigration agent. Sweat from his large belly stained the front of his uniform shirt, contradicting any attempt at crisp formality.

Startled she was next in line, Bonnie looked up at the officer while her hands rummaged in her purse. No Mike in sight. Crap, she thought, where was he? He really is AWOL on this trip. And you’re not? she replied to herself.

“Here it is,” she replied, handing it over open to the photo page.

“Very well.” He matched her headshot to the face before him. “Hope your stay with us replaces that frown with a smile. Welcome to St. Somewhere.”

At least that is what it sounded like. She could never remember the real name of the island nor if it was British or French, or whatever.

“Are you traveling alone?” the official asked.

“No. I’m with my husband. Was he processed through before me?” she asked before she realized the agent wouldn’t know, their passports having different names.

“I’m afraid don’t know. Perhaps roll your things to the taxi line and you will find him,” he said with a vague wave towards the corner of the building. “Next!”

Bonnie caught sight of Mike and rushed to join him in the long line near the exit. A tall, thin gentleman with a goatee approached, doffed his frayed baseball cap, and offered his card.

“I am 007. Please come with me to the most fabulous 007 taxi company.” He gestured for them to follow him, and walked outside. All around them they could hear similar exchanges between tourists and other whimsical celebrities. Out at the curb was a long line of beat-up cars. Turning to the right, the driver popped open the trunk of a dented Impala, dropped in their bags, and slammed it closed while they climbed into the backseat.

They chatted a bit with 007 as the cab bounced along the ancient asphalt highway from the airport to town. The road curved around the entrance to a small park. At the far edge of the grass, Bonnie could see a marked trailhead. She interrupted him to ask where it went.

“That’s Mt. Snow, ma’am,” he replied. “They like to call it that as on top of the hill there is some white sand left over from an ancient beach. Pack a lunch and go for a hike. There’s a great waterfall with a large natural pool. And you don’t need a suit.”

“Is it safe?” Mike asked.

“Oh yes, Mon. No lifeguard, but stay in the shallows.”

“No, I mean from muggers,” said Mike.

“Oh yes, unless you mean how they’ll rob you at the little market they set up in the park on weekends,” he joked. “We have only one homeless guy on the island who gets a little too pushy asking for a handout, but he’s harmless,” said 007.

Around the next bend was an old fort, and another series of questions and answers began between Mike and the driver. The soft lilt of 007’s voice and the long flight had Bonnie space out again.

Weep! Weep! Weep! The monitors chanted, a Greek chorus repeating the tragedy of her mother’s failing organs to the four walls. Little else occurred in the private room. Nurses deigned to look in now and then; doctors avoided a patient they could not cure.

Bonnie sat in the chair next to her father. She read and reread the same page of Calc 301. Her mom was dying of terminal cancer, and taking months to do it. She was in a good university hospital, but it was also the same university where Bonnie was a junior. She felt obliged to be available, if not 24 hours a day, at least as near to that as possible. She studied here, ate here, slept here. Her Dad did the same. She loved her mom, at least what her mom had been before this. Long ago she wished it had been over quickly. But she would do whatever it took to control the cancer no one could control. Trying to focus back on her textbook, she watched the complex equations lay down and die before her teary, tired eyes.

The slam of the driver’s door brought Bonnie back to the island. Their bags were already at the curb, and Mike was digging through the pockets of his out-of-place dark business slacks for a tip. She must have dozed off. She popped out of the cab, giving the driver an embarrassed look. Hand in hand, the couple strolled up the brick path, past a private garden, and into the rented cottage, dragging their twee American rolling bags over the narrow threshold. Rays from the low sun bounced wildly off the brass hardware of the mahogany door as it slammed shut. Exhausted from the long flight, they curled up naked in the soft-spun sheets.

The next day Bonnie peeked out from the bedroom window at Mike sipping Jamaican coffee with his breakfast at the glass table in the garden. The cottage had come fully stocked with both American and Caribbean delicacies. She watched him slowly turn the pages of the local tourist guide, then take another sip. She had cursed him for having no energy, but today it was she who couldn’t get going. I’m fifty years old! And just getting around to marriage! What have I done with my life? And no hope for having kids at this age, she thought. An IT manager, she had spent her career doing computer coding and was now management. Events were always trying to through off her plans, so tight control of projects and people was essential. Tight, tight, control.

Outside, the sun moved higher. It picked out a steeple, then a lighthouse, then a mast in the harbor far below. Letting go of the lace curtain, Bonnie stood up. She tossed on light shorts, top, and sandals, then wrapped her hair in a bandana. After using the bathroom, she sought the safety of the king bed for just five more minutes. But one step away from her sanctuary, she just managed to avoid the raised pincers and waving tail of a scorpion. Doing an about-face, her skin flushed and palms sweaty, she strode out the door and plopped down next to Mike. Trying to stay in control and hide her overreaction, she looked in his eyes and smiled.

“Good morning, my love,” said Mike as he leaned in for a kiss. “I was worried you weren’t joining the world today.”

“Good morning. No, I’m fine,” she lied. “Um, let’s do a little daytrip after breakfast. Get to know the island.” And it would give the exterminator time to do his business.

“Great idea. You seemed interested in that Mt. Snow place yesterday. Wanna go there?”

“Sure. Hey, I just saw a scorpion near the bed. Perhaps we can call an exterminator while we’re gone?”

“What? The service promised to take care of everything before we got here.”

“Well they missed one. I’ve got their number in my cell. Will give ‘em a call after we eat,” she said.

“Okay.”

They both finished their toast and coffee, and while Mike brought in the dishes, Bonnie made the call. After applying some sunscreen, they hopped on the scooter the agency had provided, and went back down the airport road to the park. Upon arrival, they saw four older men at a card table playing dominoes and listening to a reggae beats on their beat-up radio. A short distance from the card players, a large man sat wrapped in a blanket. He was roasting a chicken on a stick, feathers and all.

“What a stink!” said Bonnie.

“I think he’s in a rush to eat his ill-gotten booty,” replied Mike. “Let’s go.” Leaving the scooter at the start of the trail, they started down it holding hands.

The couple’s lean, strong bodies ate up the mile of ascending jungle path. Soon they came upon the promised pool with its waterfall at the far end. The water spilled down about twenty feet onto a flat boulder. The sound rose and fell with the breeze. As promised, the shore was white sand, interspersed with large volcanic rocks. Bonnie slipped her hand from Mike’s.

“Race you to the falls,” called Bonnie, kicking off her sandals and pulling off her top before diving in.

“I’m gonna beat you,” called Mike, also peeling off his shirt and shoes and diving in. Both of them stroked hard and reached the boulder at the same time. Heaving up onto it, they kissed and lay still a moment to catch their breath.

After another kiss, they slid back into the warm water. For 20 minutes more they splashed and played, finally making their way back to the sandy beach. Bonnie was squeezing out her bandana and Mike was reaching for his wallet when the chicken man stepped out from the trees, holding a giant rock over his head. His eyes were glassy, his arms already shaking with fatigue. With him came the stench of greasy smoke and body odor. They froze.

“Eh now, lemme have your wallet,” he said, brandishing his improvised weapon and leering at Bonnie.

Mike still didn’t move. Bonnie wrapped the bandana around her chest.

“Is money what you want?” she asked.

“Yes, yes, here you go,” Mike answered for him. He began to toss his trifold, but Bonnie grabbed his arm.

“Wait. We can stand up to this guy.” She looked back at the bandit. “Look, we’re strong, we don’t care what you do,” she said.

At this, chicken man stepped closer and raised the rock. They both backed up. “Come on, don’t got all day for this crap.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, deciding to take a chance. “But what do you really need? A hot meal? A place to stay? Some dope? Maybe we can take care of your needs and ours too.”

Their mugger looked thoughtful for a moment. His arms weary, the rock lowered. “Some herb be good,” he answered, pronouncing the “h.”

“Okay, we can split our cash with you. Maybe get you some real chicken fingers, no more burnt bird. We can get you a place for the night. You must have family, or a special girl? We can help.” Bonnie continued to talk slowly and rhythmically until she could see the bandit losing focus, the rock slipping lower and lower, his eyes turning into slits from the fatigue and the drugs. She and Mike gingerly edged towards the trail.

“Now!” she cried. Mike tossed twenty dollars American in chicken man’s general direction, and they both fled down the trail. Looking back, Bonnie could see a startled bandit lose control of the rock in his haste to pick up the money.

Reaching the park winded and scared, the two jumped on their scooter and headed back past the erstwhile domino players. At the house, Mike called the police from his cell phone, while Bonnie changed.

The police stopped by to take their statements, said the mugger was known to them, and, yes, ma’am, he would be picked up, as where could he go on such a small island? Afterwards, they both fell into the soft sheets for a long nap after their adventure.

Bonnie woke up first, and tiptoed out to the private garden. She could see the sun sinking into the western waves of the harbor, and stars glowing in the darkening eastern sky. Things had worked out. Maybe taking a chance now and then was a good thing, she thought.

Moved on the facebook facebook.com/douglas.r.stone

2009-06-19T15:20:00.000-07:00

See my postings here:

limonchiki

2009-01-05T17:33:00.000-08:00

Had a great time at a surf night on Friday after New Years. The visiting Russian band the Vivisectors did a great tune, mixing in Russian dance music with the surf. That's our own Negative Ed filling in on bass on the left!
Limonchiki

Culture day

2008-11-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

Finally found a day where we could take Katie and few friends to some art galleries.
Three are pretty close by, in western Massachusetts, about 100 miles from home.
MassMoCA had a new retrospective of Sol Lewitt.
MASSMoCA

Also did a quick stop in Williamstown at the Williams College Museum of Art. They were part of building the retrospective of Lewitt, by partnering with Yale to draw and paint the works. When you purchase or borrow Lewitt works, you receive instructions on how to paint them, so about 100 students worked for several months creating the works in a space larger than MOMA in NYC! If the work is exhibited elsewhere, it generally must be taken down or covered up while you display it.
WCMA

WCMA also has several displays going now, including Tina Barney's portraits of the privileged classes.

After an Indian meal on Spring Street, my old stomping ground, we quickly toured the Clark Art Institute, a wonderful place also in rural Williamstown where Sterling and Francine Clark moved their collection to protect it from atomic attack.

They have mostly old masters, much like a European museum.

Summer weekend

2008-07-25T05:32:00.000-07:00

About to enjoy a sunny summer weekend in Connecticut.
Last week went to RI beach under slightly overcast skies, but that made it more pleasant without burning sun.
This weekend will be around the house.
Almost finished with my workshop setup. Pics to follow.
Training class and vacation almost here! Woot!

Burial

2008-07-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

Attended my uncle's burial last week in NJ. This is me with my cousin.

Simsbury parade

2008-05-27T06:33:00.001-07:00

Here's a quick shot of the chopper bikes and '59 caddy waiting to go in the Simsbury Memorial Day parade. Perfect weather!

Back at work

2008-05-03T06:52:00.001-07:00

Home from Florida. Katie enjoyed riding Gloria, a friendly and very strong mare.

The wedding went well. Rutty is now married again!

WOW Characters started today

2008-04-24T17:46:00.000-07:00

Writer's Online Workshops Creating Dynamic Characters workshop started today. Let's hope it's as good as their past ones have been.

Goodread

2008-03-21T08:47:00.001-07:00

I discovered Goodread yesterday via NPR. I signed up and started a bookshelf and reviews. Click the sidebar images to link to my profile or reviews.

R.I.P. Arthur C. Clarke

2008-03-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

Arthur C. Clarke passed away in Sri Lanka last week. He was best known as the author of 2001: A Space Odyssey as well as a scientist who advanced the idea of geosynchronous satellites.

Star Trek convention

2008-03-14T06:31:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I'm pretty much a geek. I went to the Star Trek convention last week at the Meadowlands. It was not so hot, but it was fun to see a few of the stars.
The pics did not come out too well, but here's two.

Here is Patrick Stewart talking about bringing MacBeth to Broadway.

Here is Brent Spiner heckling Patrick.

Back from the islands

2008-02-24T11:42:00.000-08:00

Had fun and enjoyed the sun, in spite of 2 of us getting bad bugs.

Wrote a small piece for entry in a competition by the pool.

Here is a sunset photo Katie took:

Ubuntu is here!

2007-12-31T07:04:00.000-08:00

The easiest OS install I ever did! I love it!

Prints are done

2007-12-29T08:12:00.000-08:00

Cold finally over right after Christmas.

I picked up some prints of an ink wash Katie did right before Christmas. Here's one:

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-21T17:01:00.000-08:00

and Happy New Year.

Got another cold; let's hope it goes away by Christmas day.

Our hard drive has been recovered and the websites are almost all rebuilt. Norton Ghost arrived and will be put to good use to avoid this happening again.

The Christmas marathon begins

2007-12-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

Just getting over a bug, and now it's Christmas. Shopping started, work peaking, ice balls falling from heaven. Happy Horrordays, indeed.

Visiting Portland, ME for MECAH for Katie. Will keep you posted.

New PC is working fine, now just have to recover what I can from the old Hard drive and pray.

Homecoming 2007

2007-11-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

It's official: Williams beat Amherst 20-0. Go Ephs!
Had good time at a house party afterwards - thanks Kristen!
Check out the photos below:
A walk up Spring Street after homecoming win
Girls gone wild

My dorm senior year
The church in the center of campus
New library

Holy Cardinal, It's Art Spiegelman

2007-11-03T15:38:00.001-07:00

Went to the Wesleyan - Williams FB game today in a N'oreaster. Left at halftime where the Ephs had a sizeable lead (we won, 33-13, go Ephs!) to see Art Spiegelman in the chapel. Wow, what a great lecture. He raced through the history of comix, with lots of educated comments about his and others' work. Borat Cohen on satire was the next lecturer in another building, but most of stayed well past Art's scheduled ending and missed Borat.

Art won the Pulitzer prize for his comic Maus.

Art Spiegelman

And here is a link to the Wesleyan student blog:
LINK

Maus

Ride tonight!

2007-10-27T08:23:00.000-07:00

If the weather permits, we'll ride in costume at NoHo. Pics later.

In the meantime, here is a self-portrait of Katie:

Katie at the Appy show

2007-09-23T15:43:00.000-07:00

Here's Katie and her horse at the local Appy show.

Buffett!

2007-09-11T04:22:00.000-07:00

Had a great time at the concert!

Labor Day Boating

2007-09-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

Jack and Jimmy were kind enough to invite family and friends down to their house on Niantic Bay. The band played and fun was had by all.
Jimmy's antique boat was launched the next day. It held water, but had a bit of trouble later in the bay and needed a tow back from brother John.

Fanboat with classic styling

2007-08-26T15:02:00.001-07:00

This was a cool fan boat we saw parked at our local American Legion hall.

Greenwhich cemetery grave shots

2007-08-26T14:57:00.001-07:00

Visited family graves late last month in preparation for Crouse reunion next month.

Photos:

Bike show and swap meet

2007-08-26T14:41:00.000-07:00

Enjoyed the Great bike show and swap this year. Thanks to all who came out from all over the Northeast. The Clams and Melon Farmers played all day. Daren even came across the pond to visit all. It didn't even rain for once!

The show

The clams

The bike museum. Katie was chief of security this year.

The melon farmers classic rock

Scot on a vintage Harley Sportster

The award winning British Velocette police bike from the 1940's. Won last week at British bike show.

Rob's birthday

2007-07-30T17:10:00.000-07:00

Traveled to Main Line PA for Rob's 50th birthday. Had lots of fun.

Managed only a few photos as the light or weather was never right.

Downtime

2007-07-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

Back from the beach cottage and relaxing.
Took Musclebikes in Old Home Days parade in East Hampton with band party after.
Working on Grid Girl story.

Some work from Katie

2007-06-10T10:54:00.000-07:00

An impressionist style horse

And a portrait

Fox 61 video link

2007-05-30T17:19:00.000-07:00

Hey, they put our video from May 15 up on google video! Check it out!

Retro bikes

A Hole in the Ground

2007-05-07T15:36:00.000-07:00

Link to article in Palm Beach Post about folding of company that was developing condos on site of the old Rutledge Inn, our family's hotel.
Here is a shot of the old sixties style place:

Now it's a hole!
Here is the link:
Link

And some text:
RIVIERA BEACH — The pink walls of the 1960s-era Rutledge Inn, for years the only hotel on Singer Island, fell to bulldozers last year. Owned by three generations of the Crouse family, the hotel was razed to make room for Mirasol Beach of Singer Island.
Mirasol Beach was to be an 18-story condo resplendent with spa, fitness center, library, theater, lounge and billiards. No more. Last week developer Taylor Woodrow Plc pulled the plug on the project.
"I wish we had never sold it," 77-year-old Doris Crouse said after being told of the developer's decision. "It's just like I lost my best friend."
Among the regulars during the Rutledge Inn's happier hours was Jupe Hash. She was disappointed when the hotel was demolished and is disappointed again that it has been shoveled under for nothing.
"It's just dirt now," she said.

Fox 61 ride

2007-05-06T09:17:00.000-07:00

Last weekend we were interviewed by Fox 61 for a feature on collecting.
Jimmy and Wanda are the big bike collectors around Hartford. Here are a few shots of the ride around the capital.
The camera dude mounted a small video camera on Katie's bike and got some cool action footage.
Special will be 3 minutes long and will air sometime on the 10 o'clock news in May, with teaser ad footage during lead-in shows, perhaps American Idol. More details to come.

Cinco de Mayo was great!

2007-05-06T09:11:00.000-07:00

We had four bands and a great party at our house.

Here is a shot of Wanda's new band, Hey Steve and The Melon Farmers.

It'll never work...

2007-04-24T16:00:00.000-07:00

Just read an overview of web "beams" by David Galernter, a Yale prof of computer science. The idea is to provide a customized beam of info that is only relevant to you or your group, from cradle to grave (well, at least from somewhere in the past into the future). Your documents and pages would be served up as a parade from past to future. Your PC would only serve to view this info, not store it. You could access it anywhere. The info would be safe from hackers and eavesdroppers. The idea builds on another web 3.0 idea called "Lifestreams."
Nice idea, but it will never work. The idea is to have some structure to the info on the web, and to make it feel as if you control it so you feel empowered. The technology would enable these things, but they would have to be used and directed properly to work. And that is the problem. Right now the web is built from the bottom up, which is messy but effective. To lose that would be to create a directorship (awfully close to dictatership for me). I don't see people buying into this.
When Windows was being developed, there was lots of competition. IBM's OS/2 was just one other alternative. Windows won because it put a messy but effective interface on top of current simple computers and operating systems. The internet and the web both work this way.
After working in the IT industry for a long time, as well as knowing human nature, I think that people will look for the next effective, simple answer or improvement and to hell with this new control scheme.

Submitted to 400words.com

2007-04-18T05:48:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since my last post...sorry 'bout that. Been fighting a bug, and busy otherwise with taxes and estate work.
Submitted a story to 400words.com about breakups. Hope Katherine publishes it.
My next plan is to write something for the Writer's Digest short short story contest. They say they get over 8,000 submissions a year so I may be drowned out in the noise, but it gives me something to aim for.
Will post a link to my story if 400words puts it up.

Cayman photos

2007-03-09T17:39:00.000-08:00

Here are two photos from our swim with the stingrays in Cayman.

Here's Katie swimming towards one.

This is me petting one.

Man gone down

2007-03-02T05:34:00.000-08:00

This appears to be a great book. Heard an interview with the author on NPR and will have to run and get the book. The book transcends race and talks about life. The descriptions and characterizations are amazing. And this is his first novel!

http://www.amazon.com/Man-Gone-Down-Michael-Thomas/dp/0802170293/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-2249135-0637637?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1172842512&sr=8-1

We're back from Cayman

2007-02-25T08:40:00.000-08:00

Pictures to come.

www.400words.com published my little blurb about my first job.

Turning 50...

2007-02-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

...and feeling good. Had a big talk today with Wanda about where I stand in life and career and we both agree that flashy, splashy people get all the press and influence too much.
Here is a great link to that thought regarding technology. The linked blog is about a book by David Edgarton, The Shock of the Old.
http://www.hughpearman.com/2007/01.html

Here is some from the link:

There are certain bits of received wisdom that nobody normally challenges. Such as: we live in an era of constant, accelerating change, that innovation is the key to economic survival, and that we all travel everywhere by personal jetpack. OK, I made that a bit obvious. That's the problem with yesterday's futures. They're so yesterday. Yet the same people who were so sure about the jetpack future didn't have the slightest inkling that by 2006 we would be flying to Budapest for lunch on a whim, for pocket money. On planes seemingly little different from the machines the world's elite used to fly in the 1950s.
What's happening? Why do things not change according to the headlines? Why is white-heat-of-technology Concorde a fading memory while the utterly conventional Boeing 737 rules the skies? Why won't vinyl records go away? Why are killer diseases such as malaria not eradicated, as everybody assured us they would be in the 1960s? Why don't we live in titanium pods, served by robots? Because people were thinking jet-pack when they should have been thinking bicycle.
This is the fertile territory explored by Professor David Edgerton of Imperial College in his new book, The Shock of the Old. In it he eviscerates our obsession with novelty. It's time, he argues, to look at the history of science and technology in a new way. It's blindingly obvious, really. Instead of recording the history of when devices and processes were invented or predicted, why not look at the way we really use things?
For Edgerton, the problem is not that technology has been ignored - we can't get away from accounts of it - but that those accounts have been idealistic rather than pragmatic. They incline towards glamour, drama, spectacle. The humble soldier's rifle - Lee-Enfield or AK-47 - was massively more important in 20th century warfare than the V2 missile or the atom bomb, he points out. But a basic killing tool like the rifle doesn't make good television - or good political capital - like the V2 missile or the atom bomb. Weapons of mass destruction, anybody?
"A lot of our understanding of 20th century global history is shaped by a very particular understanding of technology that may not be that useful," he remarks. "I'm not saying that there isn't very, very dramatic change. On the contrary, I want to highlight the fact that there is change. But in terms of the technology that is actually used, it's very different from the stories of invention and innovation that are told. Those stories are very narrow - our creativity is much more general than we think."
In other words, we've got it all wrong. Corrugated-iron sheeting and bicycles feature more prominently in all our lives than the Apollo moon missions and nuclear submarines. "For example, motor car technology continues to change. Steel-making technology continues to change. Textile technology continues to change. And all those are changing our lives today," he says. Glamorous, no. Important, yes.

Great weekend, bad weather

2007-01-15T12:06:00.000-08:00

Cuzzins came to visit for the weekend. Visited the CT shoreline for some photo ops, but the weather was dreary and mizerable all weekend.
Best Clam show in recent memory though!

Relaxing

2007-01-06T15:07:00.000-08:00

Not perky after the holidays, and fighting a bug. Quiet weekend off.

Posted a short anecdote to 400words.com. Let's see what happens.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T07:56:00.001-08:00

Greetings to all for 2007.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

2006-12-27T11:22:00.000-08:00

Not much time for posting, as we hosted Christmas in our new house. Seems like everyone got what they wanted and more. Katie's new camera should produce some great shots, so check them out soon!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

2006-11-23T15:46:00.000-08:00

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Interesting language and music tidbit from Discover mag

2006-11-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

Variety could even decrease over time. In fact, there may be a bizarre
example of that happening right now in human song. We can easily explore the
changing amount of variety in songs over the last hundred years because of an
amazing data archive: audio recording. Since the beginning of recorded music,
the sound of human song has changed with each new generation of people.
There's no confusing a 1930s song with a 1940s song, or a 1950s song with a
1960s song. The pattern sticks until roughly the end of the 1980s. It's not
easy to tell whether a song came from 1990 or 2000.

This might sound like an extraordinary claim, but you can test it yourself.
Listen to random clips from the many sources of songs available on the
Internet and don't peek at the year they were produced. You'll discover that
it's harder to date songs from the last two decades than songs from previous
decades. Terry and I are now considering this experiment on a more formal
basis.

If you accept that there has been a recent decrease in stylistic variety in
human song, the next question is "Why?" There are plenty of possibilities:
Maybe the Internet makes too much information available, so everyone has the
same influences to absorb—and songs lose flavor and take on a generic
quality. To be more cynical, it could be a sign of cultural decline.

Another explanation, which is the one I suspect, is that the change since the
mid-1980s corresponds with the appearance of digital editing tools for music.
Digital tools are more suggestive about results than previous tools: If you
deviate from the kind of music a digital tool was designed to make, the tool
becomes difficult to use. For instance, it's far more common these days for
music to have a clockwork regular beat. Some of the most widely used music
software becomes awkward and can even produce glitches if you vary the tempo
much while editing. In predigital days, tools also influenced music, but with
not nearly such a sharp edge.

So this is an ironic moment in the history of computer science. We are
beginning to succeed at using computers to analyze data without the
constraints of rigid grammarlike systems. But when we use computers to
create, we are confined to equally rigid 1960s models of how information
should be structured. The hope that language would be like a computer program
has died. Instead, music has changed to become more like a computer program.

Link

Completed house on Halloween

2006-11-04T12:06:00.000-08:00

Our completed house on Halloween morning.

We're in!

2006-10-19T04:48:00.000-07:00

We just got cable hooked up as well as phone.

Here is a photo of our fireplace with the reflection through our slider:

Storytron

2006-09-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

A new idea in interactive story telling, storytron may become a successful way of creating more interesting, more dynamic computer games.
http://www.storytron.com

Here is a clip from their overview:

Storytronics - Lots of Both Story and Interactivity

Even though Storytronics has the strengths of both the previously described methods[branching narrative & narrative games], and the weaknesses of neither, it is not "the best of both worlds" - it is a radically new paradigm that redefines everything. The basic concept in Storytronics is that interactive storytelling is first an interactive experience - that is, it is not an experience where the player's main role is to read text or watch footage, sometimes getting the attractive opportunity to "choose the lesser of two evils". It is an experience where the player has volition, and is at liberty not merely to choose between narrative possibilities, but to behave in whichever way he or she likes, thus freely directing the course of the drama. The computer-controlled characters, likewise, behave according to their unique personalities, reacting dynamically to the player's behavior.

This is made possible using the concept of the Verb. Storytronics uses Verbs to define what may happen in interactive storytelling. Each Verb represents one possible dramatic action, like a kiss, a demand, or an advice. Once a Verb has been defined, it may be used indefinitely. For example, once a single Verb Kiss is defined, any character will be able to kiss any other. Depending on the context and the Adverb used, this kiss could also mean several different things, from a friendly greeting to a statement of reverence to a passionate lovemaking, or even a murderous act (think Judas). When more than a thousand Verbs are used together, the richness of possible behaviors stretches across horizons. When each Verb also defines what kinds of consequences it has and what reactions it may warrant, these possibilities can be organized into complex cause-and-effect relationships that allow the interaction to maintain a coherent and narrative form, no matter how adventurous the player's behavior.

Best in show

2006-09-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

Katie won best in show at our local Four Town Fair for her horse drawing.

site work is done and we have a front yard!

2006-09-18T17:32:00.000-07:00

No more pile in the front yard. See pic below.

goat peak

2006-09-10T16:45:00.000-07:00

Went up to Goat Peak today. Perfect conditions to see lots of hawks on the annual fall migration south, but saw very little. Two redtails, two Cooper's, and an immature eagle. Perhaps it's too early. However, the camaraderie of those of us on the tower made it all worthwhile.

The view of the holyoke range is to the northwest from where the hawks are supposed to come.
The photo of the tower was hard to take because of all the leaves are still on the trees.

siding

2006-09-10T16:40:00.000-07:00

Our house is nearly sided. One month to go.

David Foster Wallace

2006-09-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

Just read his piece on tennis in the NYT. Amazing writer, but infuriating too as he makes half his points in huge footnotes. Am most interested in his views on irony. See the Wikipedia treatment below:

**********************************************************************************
Wallace's fiction is often concerned with what he considers the prevalent contemporary mode of irony, which he believes hinders and complicates authentic communication in fiction and culture as a whole. His essay "E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction," originally published in the small-circulation Review of Contemporary Fiction in 1993, pointed out the often corrosively ironic effect of television's influence on fiction writing, and urged literary authors to avoid irony's many pitfalls. Wallace himself does use many different forms of irony in his work but he also focuses on individuals' continued longing for earnest unselfconscious experience and communication in a deeply self-conscious, cynical, media-saturated society.

Sold my first story!

2006-09-09T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sold my first story. We'll see what comes of all that.

Entered a contest. I get feedback in a couple of months; winners to be published Feb 2007.

Memory molecule

2006-09-09T13:27:00.000-07:00

For those of us approaching our senior years and having senior moments, the following article will be of interest. Apparently, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, you can erase memories and replace them later. Perhaps there is hope after all for those of us who enter a room and can't remember why we are there.

Scientists at SUNY Downstate Medical Center have discovered a molecular mechanism that maintains memories in the brain. In an article in Science magazine, they demonstrate that by inhibiting the molecule they can erase long-term memories, much as you might erase a computer disc.

Furthermore, erasing the memory from the brain does not prevent the ability to re-learn the memory, much as a cleaned computer disc may be re-used. This finding may some day have applications in treating chronic pain, post-traumatic stress disorder, and memory loss, among other conditions.

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2006/08/060830204206.htm

6 weeks out

2006-09-03T16:20:00.000-07:00

We are six weeks out from moving into our house. The siding has started, so pics to come when siding complete.

99 mpg

2006-09-03T16:14:00.000-07:00

Gotta love this guy!
This is the future: he's tweaked the Honda Insight hybrid so that you can manually control the gas engine/electric engine combo. Most hybrids are designed to conserve battery life, so they use the electric powertrain less. He says you can easily use it more or charge the battery more when going downhill, and get 50 mpg.
By adding a small extra wheel, you can have the electric powertrain run that only during highway cruising and get 99mpg!
It appears that Toyota and perhaps other manufacturers are going to do something like this, now that it is easy and battery life has been proven.
The gentleman is a contracting engineer doing this in his spare time. You can order kits to modify the Insight from here:

Here is his photo:

pardon the lag...

2006-08-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

...but I've not had time to post.

We have a contract on our current house! Hooray! Closing is now Oct 13 2006 so our new house has to be ready before that. Dave the Builder is running as much as he can concurrently. It looks like a scene from The Money Pit, with contractors running about like The Crusades or something.

We've picked furniture, tiles, carpet, doors, handles, lights, fans, paint, walkways, insulation (placement), cabinets, pulls, countertops, mantel, hearth, and drains. And that was just this week. Siding comes next week and painting should be finished then too. Photos to come when the siding is done.

This weekend is the big bike swap meet. Daren couldn't come from England due to flying standby being a trip to purgatory, so we will soldier on without him. No bike ride the night before so photos will be minimal.

Katie attended freshman orientation at EHS. I'm sure she will like the place once she gets used to it.

I am planning to post my latest story on a website if they agree. I've had mixed reactions to it so I want to see how the webmasters like it. I like the updates to the Writer's Digest website and have done some exercises from their magazine.

Tax waivers arrived for the estate from NJ, so I have started converting assets into Katie and my name. That's a full-time job in itself for a few weeks.

We gave the attorneys in Florida 90 days to come up with an accounting of the Crouse wills and trusts. I hope this gets things out in the open and leads to a resolution soon.

Later.

Katie at the beach

2006-08-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

Here's Katie in the old classic caddy at the beach house.

Northampton bike ride tonight - pics to come.

this and that again

2006-07-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

No new pics of our house yet. I'll wait for the siding to go on, which is about 2 weeks away.

Wrote a letter to the editor of the JI about global warming. I need to edit it down to fit. When published, I'll post a link.

Here is a pic of Wanda on her new Honda for the TSI MS ride (sorry you can't see her behind the helmet):

Ancestor photo

2006-07-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

From Wanda's side:

Genius types

2006-07-14T11:21:00.000-07:00

Interesting to see from the latest Wired mag that Daniel Pink (author of A Whole New Mind: Moving from the Information Age to the Conceptual Age) claims that there are 2 kinds of geniuses - the early bloomer and the late bloomer. More at http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.07/genius.html

And a great commentary on writing for Wired is here: http://www.pauldifilippo.com/glass_preface.pdf

Here is an excerpt:

Here's what I believe was done to my original story to bring it into a state of
supreme Wiredness. I think than anyone willing to read both the version here and the
version that appeared in Wired will second these assertions.
* All references to "the little people" were eliminated. The elite world that
matters according to Wired is full of Big Actors. Whether professor, millionaire, artist,
manager, engineer, hacker, or eccentric, they are all Important People. The grunts and--
God perish the thought!--the "unwired" who actually keep things running are unnamed,
invisible and unworthy of attention.
* Ambiguity was minimized. Everything in the Wired universe is known with
certainty. This is good for you, that is bad. You're part of the Movement, or you're out in
the cold. No dissenters from the reigning cyber-Babbitry are allowed, no grey areas
permitted.
* Facts were cloaked in "hipness." It's not enough to convey the information,
but it must be delivered in such a way as to inculcate the feeling that both the writer and
his readers are already intellectually above whatever scene is being described, more
expert than the experts. This results in a prose that reads as if written by a team of
Austin Powers and Dustin Hoffman's Rainman character, and paradoxically gives the
majority of Wired articles a curious sense of "been there, done that" even if the topic is
brand new.
* The past was dismissed as unimportant. History does not matter except as
prelude to the future. Even the present is merely a waystation toward Technotopia.
* Quotidian matters were de-emphasized. Boredom does not exist in the
Wired cosmos. Only "peak" experiences count. The immense amounts of hard work
involved in getting from conception to reality--work which can even have its own simple
meditative pleasures--is just something to skip blithely over.
* Drama was injected into basically undramatic situations. This is a corollary
to the previous problem, and perhaps the one flaw in this list shared by magazines in
general. "Why are we devoting space to this story? Because it's exciting!" Are we
having fun yet? We'd better be, or our advertisers won't feel they're getting their money's
worth!
I'm not paranoid enough to imagine that any of these dicta exist as a written
stylesheet. If quizzed, Wired editors would probably deny that they had any agenda other
than to present "cool" stuff to their audience. But when a well-funded, image-conscious
juggernaut like Wired gets rolling, it's inevitable that all of the harnessed team has to pull
in unison. The corporate attitude becomes just something in the air, inhaled like
Strontium-90 and passed down from veteran to novice to freelancer.
For a few bleak days, I toyed with having my lobotomized story published under a
pseudonym. "J. Ives Turnkey" was going to be my choice. I thought the byline would
leap out fairly effectively as "jive turkey," a kind of analogy to Cordwainer Bird. But in
the end, I chose to go with my own name.

House is weathertight

2006-07-14T06:54:00.000-07:00

The shingling is done except for the porch, and the windows and sliders in.
The floors of the garage and basement poured yesterday.
Pics to come this weekend.

david copperfield's reverse mugging

2006-07-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

WEST PALM BEACH, Fla. - David Copperfield has magically escaped getting robbed.
The 49-year-old illusionist was walking with two female assistants to their tour bus after his show Sunday at a performing arts center when four teens pulled up in a black car, a police report said.
Two armed robbers allegedly got out of the car and demanded the group's belongings. One woman handed over $400 from her pockets and the other gave up her purse with 200 euros, $100, her passport, plane tickets and a cell phone. Copperfield refused to empty his pockets, the report said.
Copperfield says he turned his pockets inside out to reveal nothing in them, even though he was carrying his passport, wallet and cell phone.
"Call it reverse pickpocketing," Copperfield told The Palm Beach Post for Wednesday's editions.
Copperfield read the license plate number of the car to an assistant while she called 911, the report said.
Four teenagers were arrested and charged with armed robbery. They were held without bond, police said. The women's property was recovered.
See his site at http://www.dcopperfield.com

danolight

2006-07-14T06:44:00.000-07:00

Check out the danolight at http://www.danolight.com
Highly recommended, great price, light weight.
Dan, the lead guitarist of The Clams (http://www.geocities.com/wedontsing, designed the light to be much less expensive than competing xenon lights. As they say, the definition of an engineer is someone who can do for $1 what everyone else does for $2.

We have shingles!

2006-06-29T18:20:00.000-07:00

And the ponds are draining...no rain today.

the front is fixed

2006-06-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

The dormer between the main house and garage was set back flush with the first story, and needed to be extended out 4 feet.

Katie's horse drawing

2006-06-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

We all like this one!

Some technical problems with blogspot

2006-06-19T14:59:00.000-07:00

I'm working on moving to my own site soon. Please be patient.

some more pics

2006-06-18T17:03:00.000-07:00

Here is the front with the roof:

And here is the start of the deck:

Beach vacation next 2 weeks!

Lyre bird

2006-06-09T07:54:00.000-07:00

This was voted the best nature clip of all time:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/showbiz/tvandsoap.html?in_page_id=1887&in_article_id=385372

Katie honored at capitol

2006-06-08T03:47:00.000-07:00

Here she is with her drawing:

Second floor

2006-06-08T03:43:00.000-07:00

Here are some second floor shots:

splash!

2006-06-08T03:41:00.000-07:00

Here's a truck in the pond in Newington.

first floor

2006-06-03T11:15:00.000-07:00

Here are some pics of our new house that actually look like something. Prior to this, all we had was a foundation.
The framers had to place a beam over the garage entryway and hallway to carry the load that was to have been supported by the half bath. The too small bath and the too small hallway were gladly given up to give us more space.

we now have a basement...

2006-04-30T06:10:00.000-07:00

Pics to come when we have a frame.

I stood where our deck was to go and enjoyed the sun yesterday for a minute.

Had a great week in spite of my back spasms. Went to book discussion at library, and went out twice having a great time both times.

Later.

Frodo

2006-04-11T06:09:00.000-07:00

Saw a great bumper sticker this morning: Frodo failedBush has the ring. OMFG.

Still housecleaning in anticipation of listing. The fill piles on our lot are growing. Digging should start soon.

Later.

Day off...

2006-04-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

...and spent most of it working on bills, taxes and all that good stuff.

Signed the papers last week and put down the construction deposit. They will start to dig any day now!

Packing, boxing and cleaning is taking its toll on us, but we are looking forward to our move.

Lazy Sunday

2006-03-26T04:57:00.000-08:00

But no, not eating Red Vines today.

Had a great time following UCONN so far, and hope it continues.

Cleaning the house goes on...

New story

2006-03-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

I wrote a quick erotic story I have been meaning to get on paper for awhile now. Sent it to Susie Bright at audible.com as she asked for greetings and submissions. Also sent it to Steve for review and flagellation.

Busy with taxes, packing our household belongings, and choosing furnishings for our new home.

St. Croix

2006-03-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

Finally got a chance to post about our trip. Loved the US island. We will want to buy land there for our old age. Friendly locals and help that comes down every season from the mainland. The picture is of our family and another we met that came down from Rhode Island. Also, Patrick, John (in front row) and Lindsay (in Hawaiian shirt) that work there. They really made our stay fun!

Snowed in...

2006-02-12T05:59:00.000-08:00

Well, sort of. Lots of snow overnight. We'll see how long it goes today.
It just makes our upcoming trip to the islands that much sweeter.

Yesterday full of errands and chores, but nice weather and a sense of accomplishment made for satisfaction.

Making last minute changes in our house plan before the final plans are drawn up on Tuesday.

Deaf hack

2006-01-06T05:33:00.000-08:00

Wonderful story about a guy who got involved with reprogramming his cochlear implant to improve his hearing.
From boingboing.net and Wired:

http://www.boingboing.net/2006/01/05/deaf_geek_mods_impla.html

2006 and our house

2006-01-02T16:34:00.000-08:00

Busy day today trying to get the house clean from Christmas. Took out the tree and did the requisite dusting and vacuuming. I always like the look of our house in January, with the dull sunlight reflecting in the front windows off of the snow. Lots of snow tomorrow, or so says the forecast.
Below is the front elevation plan of our new house. We finally got excited about it today, with the turmoil of 2005 and then Christmas out of the way. We have the interior first and second floor plans laid out in the kitchen, as we mark them up and plan how we’ll be living sometime this year.
Spent some time thinking about building a new workbench, one that won’t have oil tanks in the way for 12 years like mine does now. Wow.

Why? ...and flags

2005-12-30T07:45:00.000-08:00

Why are Japanese schoolgirls such arbiters of coolness, at least with technology? I guess for a reason similar to why CIO's get tech pointers from their kids (and airline magazines, of course).

For those of you bored around the holidays, you might enjoy this great flag judging site:

http://ahpc-jp30.st-and.ac.uk/~josh/flags/ratings.html

Holiday posting

2005-12-29T09:38:00.000-08:00

No time to write much today. The usual busy-ness during the holiday.

I love this drawing of the tree of life from Darwin's diaries:

Mid December...

2005-12-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

And we are frantic. Christmas is coming, as well as estate tax filings on the 28th. Whew!

Got our tree today from the usual place. God bless our family, we chose the first one we saw, and the nice man dropped it into the truck bed for us.

Been jotting down notes on things to blog about, so will update with more shortly.

Vacation Day

2005-11-10T09:23:00.000-08:00

Day before Veteran's Day and I have it off (sorta). Katie's glands are so swollen her neck bulges out, so she's off at the dr. Wanda fell of George yesterday and cracked 2 ribs, so she is in considerable pain. I have had my hands full with the estate tax forms, the datawarehouse loads not going well, and the powersupply to this pc going dead. We panicked as this pc is our main storage for our websites and data. I swapped ps's with our other pc so we are up and running, but we have taken a closer look at the design of our next office/computer lab to provide for at least 4 pc's with better backups and interchangeable parts. Also some tables, better power access, and shelves for manuals. Wow.
Frustrated that iTunes broke Jhymn even though the Jhymn DRM removal is legal. I am not buying anymore songs for now until that's fixed.
Cool idea of playing Risk via google maps:

http://www.boingboing.net/2005/11/09/risk_implemented_via.html

A scary idea

2005-11-06T14:29:00.000-08:00

Here's a guy who thinks he can get a patent on a storyline. He's applied for several of them. I don't care for this idea, and think things are getting out of hand.

http://www.emediawire.com/releases/2005/11/emw303435.htm

On a related topic, congrats to Google for adding a search by Creative Commons license on the printed matter they are scanning into their search engine.