Sam was building a dog-house. It was of generous proportions, even by Texas standards, but Ursula had been specific. If he needed his space, she wanted him to have SOMEWHERE to retreat. His cell phone rang. It was Travis. While he was not definitively lazy, the dog-house project had not been particularly appetizing, and he welcomed the interruption. Travis was HOT, and not just because he had too many dates for a Friday night.
Travis hardly waited for his "Hello." He started in on a unilateral tirade that made up in volume what it lacked in breathing spots. "Are you spying on me PERSONALLY, or have to lost your mind with conspiracy as well? I want to know just EXACTLY WHY your personal surrender in the war between the sexes should be a hobble, a trap and a crippling of my freedoms and rights as a MALE American! If Ursula had a mind of her OWN, she'd have SOME CHANCE of _NOT_ telling all my friends I'd had a recent heartbreak and was in need of female TLC. She has apparently LOST what little mind she HAD! She told SEVEN WOMEN that I was available for stud, and set 'em up with an E-MAIL ORGANIZATION to hunt my emotional life. I TRIED to play 'em off against each other but they're ORGANIZED. There's one of 'em supposed to go FIRST, and _I'M_ not even _ALLOWED_ to HAVE a date with A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y until she's had her shot. THEN I'm not able to put her on the defensive by makin' Her choose the show. She's got three current so-called 'preferences,' two up-coming releases she'd LIKE to see, and DVD's if I want to have friends over. Meanwhile if _I_ choose the show, this ain't rude or selfish, its -LEADERSHIP-! She calls it Dutch Treat if I make her pay, and Chivalrous if I don't. She thinks the Equal Rights Amendment has it's PLACE, and if ya wanna know, Trey, she thinks p-u-r-e CHAUVINISM would advantage me with Chinese Businessmen." Sam was almost in tears, and these were _not_ tears of sorrow. He had to sit _down_ he was laughing so hard. What Ursula lacked in _anything_ was beyond him, but this joke was better than anything anyone had ever made him party to. His diplomacy had not deserted him either, so he started carefully.
"Travis, if she was worm food already, would you be prejudiced against the worms that ate her?" he led out. This was adequate but not overkill - Travis hesitated. "I'd feel sorry for the FISH that ate 'em if it got _Caught_!" Sam pressed home his advantage. "Would the fish kill the fisherman if he ate the relevant fish?" Travis was mad, but not impervious to reason. His natural Texas cool kicked in. "Nope, that would be going TOO far," he agreed. "Well alright then, can you wait UNTIL she's worm food?" Sam persisted. Travis contemplated becoming responsible for a negative answer, but Sam was known for his Elephantine memory. "S'pose I'll HAVE to," he capitulated. "Murder's against the law, and dueling ain't in season. She doesn't carry a gun around, and you'd probably be personally sore if I used any other weapon. WHAT IS HER _HAYSEED_?" Sam's answer reflected that he was married and Travis was not. "Just how bad IS the vision in the single eye of this lame librarian with a harelip and a cleft pallet?" Travis was shocked, and had not anticipated any such response. "SAM!" he exclaimed. "Ursula's INSANE, not MEAN! All seven of 'em are good lookin' and the first one's _Mom_ ain't really past her prime!" Sam proceeded to score his final point with ease. "OK then, consider HER problem. She can't tell all the other women she's given you a fair shot and move on to the man of her dreams until she's proven open-mindedness, fairness, a knowledge of Texas diplomacy and literally TASTED the soup before she sends it back. Date her without delay and get it over with."
Travis' Texas pride had finally seen it's escape. He let it out with a sigh of relief. "You'll have to represent me to all the other Men," he bargained. "I'll do it and I'll be truthful about everything I've said." Sam replied. "I _CARE_ about you man!" Respect had crept into Travis' voice. "I can see how she Got you," he admitted. "She SMART!" "If I don't tell her, it can't go to her head," Sam acknowledged. "Make sure you don't tell on her either."
The sun was going down and this dog-house wasn't going to build itself.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Bureaucratic Applications of the Protective Instinct;
Sam sat down to compute. He and Ursula had temporarily declared hostilities, and her part in binding arbitration was to list all bets, foreign and domestic, chronologically. His part was to "be responsible, fight fair, be nice and..." the other stuff was hazy. Travis' prediction that she would be feminine upon his return was so 'on target,' that he pondered as he logged in. "I _know_ I agreed with him before he said it. What wrong turn in my mind did I TAKE to get to the idea she _wouldn't_ be mad? I may not be THAT smart a guy, but on balance it isn't THAT complicated a mind." This called for Journaling. He didn't feel introspective, so he logged in to 5t Canada. He did breathing exercises and concentrated as he read the three most recent issues. This reminded him of Jeff Foxworthy's humor, and he followed a policy of engagement with Ursula, by applying for a glass of OJ. By the time negotiations paid off, the sweet refreshment would make his tired brain feel better.
The game in 5ts was to use the 5t archives to post the next article as substantively as possible. The password was NEVER transmitted in the clear, and the democratic process allowed anyone to say pretty much anything. Sam loved the Slashdot concept. The recursive nature of it and it's powerful destination appealed to his inner nerd. The server had been chosen for it's international impunity to American subpoena. Travis persisted in telling other 5ts that Canada was American, and their subpoena's were American too, but this had little bearing South of the Red River.
He reviewed his effort and clicked 'preview.' He checked that the links worked correctly, and mashed 'save.' The computer obediently cleared the screen, and returned him to the subject list. His entry was not at the top. Sam did a double take. Then he did an IP release to anonymize his internet connection and tried again. The stubborn refusal of the communal journal to take his direction challenged a temper that was not honed to this environment. His 9 lb sledge was in the garage, and he was truly chastened by restoring Travis to wholeness. The computer had been the smallest part of that operation, and this was himself, not some flunky. He arbitrarily made sure his entry wasn't anywhere _else_ in the list either. He searched Google - access was good, so he retrieved the Canadian Constitution. He reasoned that since it was a Canadian server, Canadian law ought to apply. He checked enforcement practices, and learned that evidence exclusions are subject to exception. He had to find the RIGHT jurisdiction, and FAIR (good for him) and APPROPRIATE (he hoped good for him) is what he could expect.
Sam speculated that such binary graffiti as _this_, would require 'root' access, and he laid in bureaucratic plans. The adherent of Loki would have certain legal rights of his own, so Sam re-assessed the diplomatic competitor's rule book accordingly. As he ran this WAG to ground, he found that Canadians could count on mostly 'bill of rights stuff,' with good attention to language in the rights section. He noted that a jury trial now applied to matters where 'more than five years,' was at stake; up from 20 dollars. (He briefly speculated what 20 dollars might have meant back then anyway.) For humor he checked the mobility rights of the fugitive ("Mobility Rights" was a section in the Charter.) He discovered he couldn't stop house buying or job seeking during any upcoming Police State contest. He dotted the reflexive case 'i,' establishing that the Canadian constitutional basis for his complaint was "Part 1, 2-b. '...freedom of expression...'"
Sam reviewed the Slashdot journal "playground rules," and downloaded relevant web site pages. He started a new dated folder in the root directory of his thumb drive. Then he used liquid paper whiteout to mark it, so he'd know which one it was. Tommy Lee might not have his Bar Association License, but he WAS a Texan, and at the moment there were NO LIMITS to Sam's planning and strategery. These Canadian Colonials were going to HEAR about it.
Ursula arrived with the OJ and the peace offering of a "between meals" portion of Green Bean casserole. "Why don't you just figure out which local paper is the right one to write, and send a letter to the editor?" she asked. Sam employed constructive criticism appropriately. "You bring me the address, and I'll make his EARS burn," he promised. "Just be aware... this is to be 'in addition to,' not 'instead of.'"
Familiarity bread contempt, and she was VERY familiar with his name. "Samuel Clementine the THIRD! If OLIVE trees grew in YOUR garden, THEY'D have thorns on them!" Sam contemplated the available snappy comeback. If Olive Trees grew anywhere HE was responsible for them, he was gonna have to automate weeding. This did not serve his diplomatic purposes, and he directed the current of his intellect around the obstacle by saying, "Rose oil, Olive Perfume and Champagne from England too! I declare Ursula, you MIGHT be an AGGIE!" While not an endearment, this was Texan enough, and she was sensitive about her immigrant roots. She melted. "I love you Sam."
His judicial senses were invoked anyway, and he held her gently as he replied, "Third time pays for ALL Ursula. The Fiddler on the _Roof_ would have told ya he loved ya by now. How am I EVER gonna take you by surprise if you keep on jumping in ahead of me?" She responded like an articulate marshmallow. "I'll be good. I don't know what I hate more, being mad at you or fighting."
Sam responded from the heart. "Care Bear: If anything ever happens to you they'll have to breed a rabid German Shepherd with a Blue Tick Hound just to take a picture of how mad I'm gonna get." She was oblivious to redundancy. "I love you Sam."
The game in 5ts was to use the 5t archives to post the next article as substantively as possible. The password was NEVER transmitted in the clear, and the democratic process allowed anyone to say pretty much anything. Sam loved the Slashdot concept. The recursive nature of it and it's powerful destination appealed to his inner nerd. The server had been chosen for it's international impunity to American subpoena. Travis persisted in telling other 5ts that Canada was American, and their subpoena's were American too, but this had little bearing South of the Red River.
He reviewed his effort and clicked 'preview.' He checked that the links worked correctly, and mashed 'save.' The computer obediently cleared the screen, and returned him to the subject list. His entry was not at the top. Sam did a double take. Then he did an IP release to anonymize his internet connection and tried again. The stubborn refusal of the communal journal to take his direction challenged a temper that was not honed to this environment. His 9 lb sledge was in the garage, and he was truly chastened by restoring Travis to wholeness. The computer had been the smallest part of that operation, and this was himself, not some flunky. He arbitrarily made sure his entry wasn't anywhere _else_ in the list either. He searched Google - access was good, so he retrieved the Canadian Constitution. He reasoned that since it was a Canadian server, Canadian law ought to apply. He checked enforcement practices, and learned that evidence exclusions are subject to exception. He had to find the RIGHT jurisdiction, and FAIR (good for him) and APPROPRIATE (he hoped good for him) is what he could expect.
Sam speculated that such binary graffiti as _this_, would require 'root' access, and he laid in bureaucratic plans. The adherent of Loki would have certain legal rights of his own, so Sam re-assessed the diplomatic competitor's rule book accordingly. As he ran this WAG to ground, he found that Canadians could count on mostly 'bill of rights stuff,' with good attention to language in the rights section. He noted that a jury trial now applied to matters where 'more than five years,' was at stake; up from 20 dollars. (He briefly speculated what 20 dollars might have meant back then anyway.) For humor he checked the mobility rights of the fugitive ("Mobility Rights" was a section in the Charter.) He discovered he couldn't stop house buying or job seeking during any upcoming Police State contest. He dotted the reflexive case 'i,' establishing that the Canadian constitutional basis for his complaint was "Part 1, 2-b. '...freedom of expression...'"
Sam reviewed the Slashdot journal "playground rules," and downloaded relevant web site pages. He started a new dated folder in the root directory of his thumb drive. Then he used liquid paper whiteout to mark it, so he'd know which one it was. Tommy Lee might not have his Bar Association License, but he WAS a Texan, and at the moment there were NO LIMITS to Sam's planning and strategery. These Canadian Colonials were going to HEAR about it.
Ursula arrived with the OJ and the peace offering of a "between meals" portion of Green Bean casserole. "Why don't you just figure out which local paper is the right one to write, and send a letter to the editor?" she asked. Sam employed constructive criticism appropriately. "You bring me the address, and I'll make his EARS burn," he promised. "Just be aware... this is to be 'in addition to,' not 'instead of.'"
Familiarity bread contempt, and she was VERY familiar with his name. "Samuel Clementine the THIRD! If OLIVE trees grew in YOUR garden, THEY'D have thorns on them!" Sam contemplated the available snappy comeback. If Olive Trees grew anywhere HE was responsible for them, he was gonna have to automate weeding. This did not serve his diplomatic purposes, and he directed the current of his intellect around the obstacle by saying, "Rose oil, Olive Perfume and Champagne from England too! I declare Ursula, you MIGHT be an AGGIE!" While not an endearment, this was Texan enough, and she was sensitive about her immigrant roots. She melted. "I love you Sam."
His judicial senses were invoked anyway, and he held her gently as he replied, "Third time pays for ALL Ursula. The Fiddler on the _Roof_ would have told ya he loved ya by now. How am I EVER gonna take you by surprise if you keep on jumping in ahead of me?" She responded like an articulate marshmallow. "I'll be good. I don't know what I hate more, being mad at you or fighting."
Sam responded from the heart. "Care Bear: If anything ever happens to you they'll have to breed a rabid German Shepherd with a Blue Tick Hound just to take a picture of how mad I'm gonna get." She was oblivious to redundancy. "I love you Sam."
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
High Tech Red Neck;
Sam was on the phone to Travis. He had spent the last three days acquainting Ursula with the workings of a spray painter so she could exercise her interior decorating interests. The local Home Depot had marked the 't' at the end of the sign as stolen from 'Lowes,' and everyone in town seemed to agree that this was a pretty good sale; they had marked the sacred rite of passage of newlyweds by buying furniture with income derived from anticipation of savings on rent. Her instructions were to use the paint matching feature at the store to get all the colors exactly like she wanted them, with rocking chairs, dinner chairs, walls, etc. color coordinated to her liking. When she was done she was to get vinyl cupboard linings and line all the China cabinets. Meanwhile he directed Travis to meet him at their regular watering hole.
Cassandra's had relined the parking lot when he pulled up. Travis took his time completing his report on Pork Belly prices since they met last. He was descriptive about letting Sam know just how much effort he had put into the substantial shared proceeds. Sam had listened patiently, and now it was his turn to report. "Travis. I got a mystery on my hands," he explained. "Melbourne's got this bee in his bonnet that an Upside-down cake comes out of the oven upside down down under." "A _Pineapple_ upside-down cake?" Travis verified. "Probably made with Hawaiian Pineapple," Sam rejoined. They pondered this in silence for a lugubrious moment. Melbourne was trying to make SOME kind of joke, but what could be the point of this specific foolishness was not immediately evident. "How's he makin' you think he's _serious_ about it?" Travis asked reasonably. "Well, there's no bank and no bet." Sam replied. The seconds ticked away as Travis turned this imponderable over in his head. Sam relented and added, "He sent me an email with a long experiment to send the U5t research division," he qualified. "Answer came back was supposed to be either 180 degrees or 0, and it wasn't!" Travis' laughter was merciless. "Well if the cake didn't move, and it didn't turn over either, what happened to it Sam? You eat it all already?" A passing waitress regarded a rarity without even knowing what she was looking at. Sam's color rose from neckline to hairline, slowly darkening from tan to reddish brown. It stopped short of purple and subsided. "The answer was some number of minutes and seconds per hours, minutes and seconds," he elaborated. From Travis' point of view this was fodder for more raucousness, and Sam endured the commentary with decreasing disgust as his opinion of Travis and his intellect fell. Travis' amusement fell away as Sam's embarrassment subsided. Travis was a computer nerd by day, and an Algebra professor by night. His own mercy finally took the form of the word "superficially." As Sam adjusted to reality, Travis adjusted to Melbourne's strategy.
Conversation took no shortcuts, but after considering the axis of rotation, the direction of travel and the speed of progress, it became evident that the only way for the cake NOT to turn over was to make some kind of parabolic trip either through low-orbit space, with a 360 degree flip, or a high-orbit trajectory that required the revolutionary orbit of earth and related moon computations. For this version, the cake was to remain attitudinally stable all the way. This was to be accomplished with the purpose of landing in Australia upside down without having rotated significantly otherwise. Neither of these experiments appeared to support the romantic ideal of a 15 degree per hour progress report. Sam blushed. "You mean the degrees minutes and seconds of the angle around the earth is the _distance_, and the hours, minutes and seconds of the divisor are different; TIME?" Travis' laughter was better received this time, and they were reduced to giggles for a while. Travis spoke to bring matters to a head. "I wonder if his experiment was right, or if he just wanted to bamboozle you?" he asked Sam. Sam was honest with his friend. "These are _Not_ mutually exclusive Travis," he admitted ruefully.
All reports of Melbourne had been good, and the stories were more entertaining than anyone _else_ Sam had ever taken in, so he was neither angry nor mean when he asked, "How we gonna get him back?" "Well, I know this much. after all the stuff we talked about, leaving ONE cake sitting in ONE place for exactly 12 hours OUGHT to be a useful thing to make him measure." Sam opined. Travis chuckled and threw in another puzzle piece. "Tell him what I told a customer on a Tech support line one time," he smiled. "The Abercrombie and Fitch Stock Brokers have a killer position in textile futures, and a small investment -insert short notice here- would pay off HUGE for Andrea. Make him send it Western Union. They have a time difference too! Use that on him if you're mad." Sam was once again at ease. "I'll make him say he sent it from the West Coast to save time and fees," he agreed. He turned to more benevolent considerations. "You make out alright for Valentines?" he asked. "I only sent flowers to one girl," Travis shared, "but I got three buddies to go muddin' by the swamp, and get stuck." "Pull 'em out soon enough?" Sam regarded him sternly. "oh yeah," Travis responded. "They owe me BIG time." "Well," Sam concluded. "This beer's bitter. You promised we'd get BORED." "Want to play Pool instead?" "Actually, that sounds about as good a way to get bored as any," Sam agreed. "Ursula ought to have gotten the bed-springs bucked out by the time I get back. I can't for the LIFE of me figure why I thought she was sweet on Melbourne over the phone." "Probably because you'd be sweet on Andrea over the phone if She came on to _you_," Travis philosophized. "By the time you're good enough at flirting to get their attention, they want to jury-rig a communist monopoly on your affections, and charge interest for the privilege." Sam preempted an old tirade with an old riposte. "You still haven't explained why Hitler wasn't a woman." "It's called POOL, not TALK and play POOL," was Travis retort.
Cassandra's had relined the parking lot when he pulled up. Travis took his time completing his report on Pork Belly prices since they met last. He was descriptive about letting Sam know just how much effort he had put into the substantial shared proceeds. Sam had listened patiently, and now it was his turn to report. "Travis. I got a mystery on my hands," he explained. "Melbourne's got this bee in his bonnet that an Upside-down cake comes out of the oven upside down down under." "A _Pineapple_ upside-down cake?" Travis verified. "Probably made with Hawaiian Pineapple," Sam rejoined. They pondered this in silence for a lugubrious moment. Melbourne was trying to make SOME kind of joke, but what could be the point of this specific foolishness was not immediately evident. "How's he makin' you think he's _serious_ about it?" Travis asked reasonably. "Well, there's no bank and no bet." Sam replied. The seconds ticked away as Travis turned this imponderable over in his head. Sam relented and added, "He sent me an email with a long experiment to send the U5t research division," he qualified. "Answer came back was supposed to be either 180 degrees or 0, and it wasn't!" Travis' laughter was merciless. "Well if the cake didn't move, and it didn't turn over either, what happened to it Sam? You eat it all already?" A passing waitress regarded a rarity without even knowing what she was looking at. Sam's color rose from neckline to hairline, slowly darkening from tan to reddish brown. It stopped short of purple and subsided. "The answer was some number of minutes and seconds per hours, minutes and seconds," he elaborated. From Travis' point of view this was fodder for more raucousness, and Sam endured the commentary with decreasing disgust as his opinion of Travis and his intellect fell. Travis' amusement fell away as Sam's embarrassment subsided. Travis was a computer nerd by day, and an Algebra professor by night. His own mercy finally took the form of the word "superficially." As Sam adjusted to reality, Travis adjusted to Melbourne's strategy.
Conversation took no shortcuts, but after considering the axis of rotation, the direction of travel and the speed of progress, it became evident that the only way for the cake NOT to turn over was to make some kind of parabolic trip either through low-orbit space, with a 360 degree flip, or a high-orbit trajectory that required the revolutionary orbit of earth and related moon computations. For this version, the cake was to remain attitudinally stable all the way. This was to be accomplished with the purpose of landing in Australia upside down without having rotated significantly otherwise. Neither of these experiments appeared to support the romantic ideal of a 15 degree per hour progress report. Sam blushed. "You mean the degrees minutes and seconds of the angle around the earth is the _distance_, and the hours, minutes and seconds of the divisor are different; TIME?" Travis' laughter was better received this time, and they were reduced to giggles for a while. Travis spoke to bring matters to a head. "I wonder if his experiment was right, or if he just wanted to bamboozle you?" he asked Sam. Sam was honest with his friend. "These are _Not_ mutually exclusive Travis," he admitted ruefully.
All reports of Melbourne had been good, and the stories were more entertaining than anyone _else_ Sam had ever taken in, so he was neither angry nor mean when he asked, "How we gonna get him back?" "Well, I know this much. after all the stuff we talked about, leaving ONE cake sitting in ONE place for exactly 12 hours OUGHT to be a useful thing to make him measure." Sam opined. Travis chuckled and threw in another puzzle piece. "Tell him what I told a customer on a Tech support line one time," he smiled. "The Abercrombie and Fitch Stock Brokers have a killer position in textile futures, and a small investment -insert short notice here- would pay off HUGE for Andrea. Make him send it Western Union. They have a time difference too! Use that on him if you're mad." Sam was once again at ease. "I'll make him say he sent it from the West Coast to save time and fees," he agreed. He turned to more benevolent considerations. "You make out alright for Valentines?" he asked. "I only sent flowers to one girl," Travis shared, "but I got three buddies to go muddin' by the swamp, and get stuck." "Pull 'em out soon enough?" Sam regarded him sternly. "oh yeah," Travis responded. "They owe me BIG time." "Well," Sam concluded. "This beer's bitter. You promised we'd get BORED." "Want to play Pool instead?" "Actually, that sounds about as good a way to get bored as any," Sam agreed. "Ursula ought to have gotten the bed-springs bucked out by the time I get back. I can't for the LIFE of me figure why I thought she was sweet on Melbourne over the phone." "Probably because you'd be sweet on Andrea over the phone if She came on to _you_," Travis philosophized. "By the time you're good enough at flirting to get their attention, they want to jury-rig a communist monopoly on your affections, and charge interest for the privilege." Sam preempted an old tirade with an old riposte. "You still haven't explained why Hitler wasn't a woman." "It's called POOL, not TALK and play POOL," was Travis retort.
Monday, March 2, 2009
The commerce of friendship;
Melbourne awoke after 6 hrs of sleep. The sun was high, and he calculated he could barely make it to Mortimer's sheep sheering concern by 6:00 PM. Over coffee he raised the foreman on the ham radio. "Gid die mate," came the otherwise normally accented voice across the ether. "Hey there First," Melbourne began. "How's tricks?" First came back without missing a beat. "Still paying them in 'ones,'" he replied. "What if I bring 'round a mess of Jumbo Shrimp later?" he asked. "Oh, Boss remembers your Shrimp. What's on your mind?" "It's sad, I got snagged by the preacher man. Her name's Andrea." "Word gets 'round," First replied noncommittally. "I hear she's a real sheila!" "Eh, well. Got any fleeces for market? I got a full tank of petrol in the Rover." First seemed genuinely relieved. "Mel, I really got to tell you, I hired three new guys, and NONE of them can fleece a sheep, but they keep trying and trying, and between the three of them they STILL get a lot done. It's late today, but tomorrow I'll have a batch as high as your eye." "Right then," Melbourne promised. "Make a list of what you need from market, and I'll be by 9:30 or 10:00." "I'll tell Boss to expect you. Cheerio" They signed off amicably, and Melbourne stretched. It seemed strange to go about his daily business without a journal to keep, but his survival sense of urgency was surprisingly strong. He soon lost himself in his labors, and the next morning found him on his way with a bucket of his favorite diversion in tow, while Andrea pondered a list of chores. She was willing and able, but knowledge was not the same as experience.
Melbourne rolled up just as First tossed another fleece up on the pile. "Did you hear Bob won the Lotto?" First asked. Melbourne was surprised. "No... what's he gonna do now?" "Oh he was real happy," First said with a twinkle. "He's gonna keep farming till at least half of it's gone!" Melbourne laughed delightedly. Bob had always been a friend. They proceeded to ready the Rover load with the efficiency of men who had to do it again if it wasn't done right the first time, and the pile fell as the Rover settled.
Melbourne's memory stirred. "How long's it been since YOU won a bet, mate?" First flashed a ready smile. "Not long as you I _bet_," he said with more than normal deliberation. "See that row of Crows on that fence over there?" "Oh yeh," First took them in. "I BET that the one farthest on the right is the last to fly away," Melbourne ventured evenly. First was quite amenable. "What's in the pot?" he inquired. Melbourne smiled inwardly. "Three Fosters," he promised. First could see no possible way that Melbourne could have a house advantage. "You're ON!" he cried. Melbourne lost in less than 90 seconds. He didn't blink. "Double or nothing," he re-upped. First was quite amused. He knew Melbourne, but this seemed to be a sure thing. "Hey GUYS," he yelled, "Mel's got a new strategy for PARTIES. He's gonna buy us all beers." 30 seconds later a crowd of laughing jesting sheep -shearers was gathered. Melbourne had been readying the barbecue, and a generous portion of shrimp was in the offing for all. He quickly outlined the stakes, and he used his hat to hold the chits of IOUs. His own stack was not insignificant, but he was confident. They had chosen a referee for the bank, and he held up the stop-watch. "Farthest on the RIGHT is LAST to fly away," he announced in a booming bass voice, and started the timer. No sooner had he spoken that Melbourne's .22 spoke too. The Crow farthest on the right fell. Three of the workmen turned green, and started to yell, but First's laughter led the rest. The more they laughed, the more they saw the joke. Melbourne could afford to laugh with them; he was still holding a rifle. As the laughter died down, he divvied up the Shrimp. All jokes aside, the shrimp were well proportioned. Since each worker had lost little, they collectively felt no pain, and Melbourne stuffed the IOU's in his pocket uncounted for later; it had been fun. "Well First, I guess I'm the one that's won most recent _now_," he grinned. "I'm off to town to make the exchanges and ship the goods." "I'll be drunk from now 'til Christmas on that one Mel," First chortled. "Just don't warn them I'm coming!" "Bob's your Uncle," agreed Melbourne. The rest of the day was a breeze.
Melbourne rolled up just as First tossed another fleece up on the pile. "Did you hear Bob won the Lotto?" First asked. Melbourne was surprised. "No... what's he gonna do now?" "Oh he was real happy," First said with a twinkle. "He's gonna keep farming till at least half of it's gone!" Melbourne laughed delightedly. Bob had always been a friend. They proceeded to ready the Rover load with the efficiency of men who had to do it again if it wasn't done right the first time, and the pile fell as the Rover settled.
Melbourne's memory stirred. "How long's it been since YOU won a bet, mate?" First flashed a ready smile. "Not long as you I _bet_," he said with more than normal deliberation. "See that row of Crows on that fence over there?" "Oh yeh," First took them in. "I BET that the one farthest on the right is the last to fly away," Melbourne ventured evenly. First was quite amenable. "What's in the pot?" he inquired. Melbourne smiled inwardly. "Three Fosters," he promised. First could see no possible way that Melbourne could have a house advantage. "You're ON!" he cried. Melbourne lost in less than 90 seconds. He didn't blink. "Double or nothing," he re-upped. First was quite amused. He knew Melbourne, but this seemed to be a sure thing. "Hey GUYS," he yelled, "Mel's got a new strategy for PARTIES. He's gonna buy us all beers." 30 seconds later a crowd of laughing jesting sheep -shearers was gathered. Melbourne had been readying the barbecue, and a generous portion of shrimp was in the offing for all. He quickly outlined the stakes, and he used his hat to hold the chits of IOUs. His own stack was not insignificant, but he was confident. They had chosen a referee for the bank, and he held up the stop-watch. "Farthest on the RIGHT is LAST to fly away," he announced in a booming bass voice, and started the timer. No sooner had he spoken that Melbourne's .22 spoke too. The Crow farthest on the right fell. Three of the workmen turned green, and started to yell, but First's laughter led the rest. The more they laughed, the more they saw the joke. Melbourne could afford to laugh with them; he was still holding a rifle. As the laughter died down, he divvied up the Shrimp. All jokes aside, the shrimp were well proportioned. Since each worker had lost little, they collectively felt no pain, and Melbourne stuffed the IOU's in his pocket uncounted for later; it had been fun. "Well First, I guess I'm the one that's won most recent _now_," he grinned. "I'm off to town to make the exchanges and ship the goods." "I'll be drunk from now 'til Christmas on that one Mel," First chortled. "Just don't warn them I'm coming!" "Bob's your Uncle," agreed Melbourne. The rest of the day was a breeze.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Tautological Grace;
Sam came back from the shower with goosebumps all over his skin. Ursula has finished cooking and set aside the apron before setting the table. He finished drying his hair and folded his robe carefully beside her apron. "I'll throw these in the hamper later, with the towel," he explained. He proceeded to fix his hair with a comb; his hair dryer was for extracurricular expeditions, not evenings at home. She eyed his well defined eyebrows approvingly.
He returned her labeler (with which she had personalized his tools,) to the computer desk and asked casually, "What temperature does water freeze at?" Ursula answered without thinking. "32 degrees," she said absently. "You labeled the fridge wrong," was his laconic conclusion. Chagrin is a word that means vexation. Ursula put the "grin," in chagrin. His tools reflected her preference of children's names for years to come.
Ostensibly checking the weather report, Sam reviewed his email for messages from Melbourne. The new subject line was "Methodology." The body of the email was bifurcated. The first half was quite informative. "Sam: Print the following and use it to define the problem for the relevant Academic. It explains that the postman is going to carry the 'fragile' package 'this side up,' at all times, and _yes_, the 'Great Circle Route,' is specified to the nearest meter." The "regards, Melbourne," had the customary spacing, and the hash line after it was followed by a detailed listing of technical language that looked like a cooking recipe. The first part had "vocabulary," and "equipment," and the last part was a detailed description of active voice jargon, with arcane verbs and adjectives. Sam examined it critically; the spell checker went crazy. Oh well, Melbourne was responsible, not his dad. He printed the email, and carefully addressed it to the U5T System campus, "Attn: Physics Department." He used the "reply" feature to let Melbourne know he understood. "Sent Your 'Son of Sam' S**t off to the University. Give my love to Andrea, Sam (Trey.)"
If Travis had been watching personally, Melbourne couldn't have opened the answer faster. He felt more like a fly fishing bass-master than a Marlin catching sea-fisherman. He delayed slightly, and returned his "lasting gratitude," and returned to the crib, where Andrea was anxiously spelling the Veterinarian. Their sow had produced a fine litter of piglets, and he lavished his exhausted affection on his equally tired loved one as the Vet resumed his labors. "He'll never guess," he said confidently. For her part, Andrea was feeling much better. "What if we plant an acre of English Roses?" she asked him. "The land wouldn't be totally barren then." "Lying fallow means letting it rest completely," Melbourne reassured her. "We'll put it back to work soon enough. Dad will gladly front us seed for _something_, all we need is a reliable way to access the market." "He's _SO_ _old_," she said one last time. "The wear-out rust-out thing? He really believes in wearing out," Melbourne reiterated. "He's just glad he's hale and hearty. He keeps Mom's memory alive in the work." "...if he ever _does_ wear out," she added. "He makes it look easy!"
The Vet took his leave, and when they were left alone Melbourne pulled a trick he had learned from an old girlfriend. He looked deep into Andrea's eyes and sighed. "I love you Andrea!" he intoned. Her response was that of a wordless passionate marshmallow; she was ambushed by love and had no defense. His self esteem was insecure from Ursula's reckless bargain, but it seemed _Very_ important to her to win the bet with Sam - he and Andrea could never thank her enough. He clung right back to Andrea and the sun came up quietly.
He returned her labeler (with which she had personalized his tools,) to the computer desk and asked casually, "What temperature does water freeze at?" Ursula answered without thinking. "32 degrees," she said absently. "You labeled the fridge wrong," was his laconic conclusion. Chagrin is a word that means vexation. Ursula put the "grin," in chagrin. His tools reflected her preference of children's names for years to come.
Ostensibly checking the weather report, Sam reviewed his email for messages from Melbourne. The new subject line was "Methodology." The body of the email was bifurcated. The first half was quite informative. "Sam: Print the following and use it to define the problem for the relevant Academic. It explains that the postman is going to carry the 'fragile' package 'this side up,' at all times, and _yes_, the 'Great Circle Route,' is specified to the nearest meter." The "regards, Melbourne," had the customary spacing, and the hash line after it was followed by a detailed listing of technical language that looked like a cooking recipe. The first part had "vocabulary," and "equipment," and the last part was a detailed description of active voice jargon, with arcane verbs and adjectives. Sam examined it critically; the spell checker went crazy. Oh well, Melbourne was responsible, not his dad. He printed the email, and carefully addressed it to the U5T System campus, "Attn: Physics Department." He used the "reply" feature to let Melbourne know he understood. "Sent Your 'Son of Sam' S**t off to the University. Give my love to Andrea, Sam (Trey.)"
If Travis had been watching personally, Melbourne couldn't have opened the answer faster. He felt more like a fly fishing bass-master than a Marlin catching sea-fisherman. He delayed slightly, and returned his "lasting gratitude," and returned to the crib, where Andrea was anxiously spelling the Veterinarian. Their sow had produced a fine litter of piglets, and he lavished his exhausted affection on his equally tired loved one as the Vet resumed his labors. "He'll never guess," he said confidently. For her part, Andrea was feeling much better. "What if we plant an acre of English Roses?" she asked him. "The land wouldn't be totally barren then." "Lying fallow means letting it rest completely," Melbourne reassured her. "We'll put it back to work soon enough. Dad will gladly front us seed for _something_, all we need is a reliable way to access the market." "He's _SO_ _old_," she said one last time. "The wear-out rust-out thing? He really believes in wearing out," Melbourne reiterated. "He's just glad he's hale and hearty. He keeps Mom's memory alive in the work." "...if he ever _does_ wear out," she added. "He makes it look easy!"
The Vet took his leave, and when they were left alone Melbourne pulled a trick he had learned from an old girlfriend. He looked deep into Andrea's eyes and sighed. "I love you Andrea!" he intoned. Her response was that of a wordless passionate marshmallow; she was ambushed by love and had no defense. His self esteem was insecure from Ursula's reckless bargain, but it seemed _Very_ important to her to win the bet with Sam - he and Andrea could never thank her enough. He clung right back to Andrea and the sun came up quietly.
It's a 5t Small World;
Sam was surprised: His email reflected news from Darwin, Australia. That Melbourne should conquer six degrees of separation and contact him unannounced was not mathematically the same a 1/6 x 10 E 9, but still, intelligent design had not really been his style. The subject line was dumbfounding: "Rotational Velocity of Inter-Continental Cakes." Sam opened the mysterious missive with secret delight. He was a little disconcerted, but surprises from Melbourne were likely to be unanticipated happinesses. The instructions inside were scientific in nature. He was to obtain the audience of such Academics who would listen, and ask them to compute for him the rotational velocity of an upside down cake, if it rotated one degree at a time, half way around the world. His warning was specific. "Make sure that the relevant product does NOT agree with 180 degrees," he wrote. "180 degrees is the difference between that half of the earth and this half. Compute either zero or something else." Sam pondered this from a linguistic point of view. It was perfect grammar. He recapitulated with a view to what he knew of logic. It appeared to be a true dichotomy. False dichotomy was when your boss gave you two bad choices, and made you pick the lesser of two evils. For example, "Do you want to get off your ass and fix that money dryer, or do you want me to KICK your _ass_?" was a serviceable prototype. “Zero OR something else” evaluated to logical true. In fact, Melbourne's lesson on tautology applied: You might as well hang up your spurs trying to compute anything else. He decided to confide in Ursula. He looked up and She walked into the room, but not in that order. Her apron appeared to not quite reach around her at the back. She was examining her ring ostentatiously. "Why would Melbourne know about our German Chocolate upside down cake?" he asked innocently. "Oh I doubt he does," was her reply. This seemed paradoxical, and quite feminine to Sam's mind, but in his current state of incredulity he felt the need to verify aloud. "This email right here states in ENGLISH that Melbourne wants to know SOMETHING about cakes turning over in the mail." he began. "Now, _IF_ he doesn't know about OUR German Chocolate upside-down cake, _THEN_ WHY is he asking questions like THAT?" Ursula managed to look as shocked as he felt. He studied her face. Yep, he felt EXACTLY that shocked. "Andrea probably asked him to go to the store for pineapple upside-down cake ingredients," she replied reasonably enough. "Did he say that he and his sheila were going to send US one?"
Sam took the maximum allowed timeout before he answered; it was otherwise a no-brainer. The naked truth would do. "Nope." Normally this abbreviation would have conflicted him. He did not consider himself a verbose conversationalist, but his economies were of ideas, not exactness. Other than that, he hoped she CHOKED on her peace of mind.
His email to Melbourne was cryptic in response. "My map is unclear. Will the relevant transport be taking a 'Great Circle Route,' or an elevator straight through to China, and an over-land route from there? For completeness, literally ALL Interstates transecting Hawaii have an 'H' prefix, instead of the continental 'I' prefix." He reviewed his effort before clicking the "send" button. He was a little overwhelmed, but of THIS much he was sure. There were _NO_ clues about Germany or Chocolate here. He launched his improbable electronic bottle off on its symphonic journey through digital space, and went off in search of refrigerated Texaco. Ursula had anticipated his needs, but he generously reminded her that he had not long before been completely on his own; he nearly went off on HER. Upon returning the iced Fosters she proffered him with instructions to evaluate the newest lemon-lime balance, he compromised with a glass of 4 degree Fahrenheit water (over ice for good measure,) from the dispenser in the door of the refrigerator, and retired to the shower.
Ursula's peace of mind was inviolate. She re-dialed Andrea's number as soon as Sam had left the room. "Dish," she invited. Andrea was innocent of the machinations of Rube Goldberg, but her feminine feline instincts were aroused. "My 'womens intuition' tells me you're right, but I'm still worried," she professed. "Are you SURE Melbourne _can't_ fool Sam into thinking all Pineapple upside-down cakes made in Australia come out of the oven reverse of everywhere else in the WORLD?" "Is it worth it to make Melbourne replace the old Land Rover?" she replied, answering a question with a question. Andrea could not deceive her heart and answered unaffectedly. "Yes," she admitted, her eyes filling with tears. "There, there," Ursula comforted her softly. "It's worth it then, dear," she confirmed. "I'll make Sam help him out with a string of horses later." She was aware that Andrea was deeply moved, but the scheme was labor intensive, and there was DIGNITY in labor. She was sure the kindness would not be misunderstood. "If I ever need a friend, I'll know you would do ANYTHING for me." she finished. Andrea blubbered helplessly into the phone, and Ursula cooed in reply until she felt better. By the time Sam returned Ursula was setting the evening table with a seven layer salad, barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes with stir-fry on the side. The Li's address had been child's play to infer; the zip was available from USPS._com_; a government web site with a NORMAL extension, and Mrs. Li's recipe had been simplicity itself.
Sam took the maximum allowed timeout before he answered; it was otherwise a no-brainer. The naked truth would do. "Nope." Normally this abbreviation would have conflicted him. He did not consider himself a verbose conversationalist, but his economies were of ideas, not exactness. Other than that, he hoped she CHOKED on her peace of mind.
His email to Melbourne was cryptic in response. "My map is unclear. Will the relevant transport be taking a 'Great Circle Route,' or an elevator straight through to China, and an over-land route from there? For completeness, literally ALL Interstates transecting Hawaii have an 'H' prefix, instead of the continental 'I' prefix." He reviewed his effort before clicking the "send" button. He was a little overwhelmed, but of THIS much he was sure. There were _NO_ clues about Germany or Chocolate here. He launched his improbable electronic bottle off on its symphonic journey through digital space, and went off in search of refrigerated Texaco. Ursula had anticipated his needs, but he generously reminded her that he had not long before been completely on his own; he nearly went off on HER. Upon returning the iced Fosters she proffered him with instructions to evaluate the newest lemon-lime balance, he compromised with a glass of 4 degree Fahrenheit water (over ice for good measure,) from the dispenser in the door of the refrigerator, and retired to the shower.
Ursula's peace of mind was inviolate. She re-dialed Andrea's number as soon as Sam had left the room. "Dish," she invited. Andrea was innocent of the machinations of Rube Goldberg, but her feminine feline instincts were aroused. "My 'womens intuition' tells me you're right, but I'm still worried," she professed. "Are you SURE Melbourne _can't_ fool Sam into thinking all Pineapple upside-down cakes made in Australia come out of the oven reverse of everywhere else in the WORLD?" "Is it worth it to make Melbourne replace the old Land Rover?" she replied, answering a question with a question. Andrea could not deceive her heart and answered unaffectedly. "Yes," she admitted, her eyes filling with tears. "There, there," Ursula comforted her softly. "It's worth it then, dear," she confirmed. "I'll make Sam help him out with a string of horses later." She was aware that Andrea was deeply moved, but the scheme was labor intensive, and there was DIGNITY in labor. She was sure the kindness would not be misunderstood. "If I ever need a friend, I'll know you would do ANYTHING for me." she finished. Andrea blubbered helplessly into the phone, and Ursula cooed in reply until she felt better. By the time Sam returned Ursula was setting the evening table with a seven layer salad, barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes with stir-fry on the side. The Li's address had been child's play to infer; the zip was available from USPS._com_; a government web site with a NORMAL extension, and Mrs. Li's recipe had been simplicity itself.
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