Even moreso than toenail fungus, few words generate a stronger impulse in the listener to drive knitting needles through his or her eardrums than the phrase, "hey, wanna hear about my fantasy teams?" Nevertheless, I feel compelled to respond to the clamor I hear in my head for news about my fantasy baseball and football teams. Please put your sewing implements away.
My baseball team, the historic Eefus Aficionados franchise, concluded the season with a solid lock on first place, having spent only a few weeks out of the top spot all summer. I finished with a winning percentage of .603, which translates to 98 real-world wins. For comparison, the World Series champion Chicago White Sox won 99 games; only the St. Louis Cardinals, with 100 regular season wins, won more.
Like the Cardinals, however, the Eefus Aficionados flamed out in the playoffs. I had a bye for the first week and easily won in the second round to advance to the finals. The final round of the playoffs covered the last two weeks of the regular season. Unfortunately, I ran into a buzzsaw in my opponent, who put up otherworldly offensive numbers for the first week. My only hope was to claw back to respectability by catching him in categories decided by averages, as most of the cumulative categories were far out of reach. Sadly, although I had a good second week, victory was not meant to be. I guess I now know how John Schuerholz (general manager of the Atlanta Braves, fourteen straight years of playoffs with only one World Series win) feels.
As for my Fumblerooskies, the football year got off to a tough start. The NFL has had a strange year, with few of the perennial fantasy stars performing up to expectations. I finally bowed to conventional wisdom and drafted running backs first (because someone else picked Payton Manning). However, my running backs have all suffered injuries. My quarterback, Trent Green, has had a dreadful year in fantasy terms. My star wide receiver, Marvin Harrison, has endured an unusually lackluster year from the Indianapolis Colts’ offense. My backup quarterback, until last week, was David Carr of the formerly winless Houston Texans (I replaced him with notoriously inconsistent Jake Plummer of the Denver Broncos, who promptly had a career game … on my bench). Currently, I am the weakest team in my league, although I have managed to scrape out a couple of victories. If the Steelers shut down the Ravens tonight, and if the Steelers’ tight end can get involved in the offense, I might pull out another victory, but I will be coming from behind to do it, as usual.
I do have a couple of bright spots. Plaxico Burress has become the favorite target of emerging star Eli Manning. Even injured, running back Corey Dillon continues to put up solid numbers for the New England Patriots. The Steelers’ defense has been strong all year, and should remain so. Unfortunately, I can’t count on consistently big numbers from my quarterback and both running backs as I have for the past couple of years.
All I have to do is find a way to pick up a few more wins to get into the top half of the playoff draw. Then, anything can happen.
As if you care.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Ruminations From a Business Trip
I had occasion to make another milk run to San Francisco this week. As I’ve noted before, I’m warming to United again. As much as I appreciate the flexibility and convenience of Southwest, sometimes you don’t want to be able to count the hair follicles on the top of the head of the passenger ahead of you. There was enough room in my row that I was able to actually cross my legs (not just my ankles). Plus, the flight up was only about half full, and the flight back still had enough vacancies that the seat next to me was empty. Even better, United allows you to listen to the pilots.
The hotel where I stayed, just south of Candlestick 3Com Monster Park (bleah) offered Town Car service into the city for a couple of bucks more than a taxi. I certainly enjoyed the convenience of not having to worry about calling a taxi and hoping he would pick me up in time to get to court in a timely manner. I also enjoyed calling “my driver” to pick me up when I was done. I realized, however, that I probably gave off exactly the wrong message, if anyone had noticed. There I was, the attorney for an insurance company, involved in a lawsuit with the insured, showing up at a hearing in a dark-windowed limousine. No! It’s not like that! The limo cost the same as a taxi!
Waiting for my flight home, I picked up what seemed to me to be an interesting book. Recognizing that while my knowledge and study of World War II is fairly extensive, my World War I scholarship is seriously deficient, I delved into Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour: Armistice Day, 1918, World War I and Its Violent Climax," by Joseph Persico. It is written somewhat in the omniscient narrator style of Stephen Ambrose, whose books I’ve greatly enjoyed, in that the book’s narrative relies on first person accounts of many people and presumes to know what they thought, felt and hoped for. Thankfully, it is far less dry, and crafted with more creativity than Rick Atkinson’s “An Army at Dawn : The War in Africa, 1942-1943, Volume One of the Liberation Trilogy (The Liberation Trilogy, Vol 1),” a thorough but frustratingly plodding account of the Allies’ actions in North Africa in WWII. On the other hand, Persico keeps a greater narrative distance from his subjects, perhaps because, unlike Ambrose, he was unable to interview and get to know them. As a result, his book reads much less like the screenplays that Ambrose’s books sometimes resemble.
(The absolutely stellar HBO production of "Band of Brothers"
is based upon the late Stephen Ambrose’s book of the same name. Ambrose was also an advisor to the producers of “Saving Private Ryan,” and was the driving force behind the National D-Day Museum in New Orleans, which I still regret not taking a few hours to visit while I was there in June.)
I had hoped Persico’s book would provide at least some general overview of the Great War, even though it is expressly focused on the last hours of that war. Persico does not disappoint, providing a detailed yet concise account of the genesis of the war. I find that the awkward intersection of ancient dynasties and modern, industrial nation states that resulted in the armed conflict is very interesting and warrants further study. What I find less interesting, halfway through the book as I am, is Persico’s emerging theme that those stuck fighting the war really hated it. This is not a terribly surprising element of the story, considering the true horror that the war of the trenches became. Again, the more interesting aspect of the event is the tragic collision between 19th century warfare-by-parade and 20th century mechanized death-making. Generals parties while privates died, and the privates resented it? Well, yes. Commentary on this point is the least interesting or illuminating aspect of the book.
What is shocking, and the reason I picked up the book, is the fact that although the men in power had signed the armistice early on the morning of November 11, 1918, which fact had been relayed to their troops, strict orders were given to embark on a last attack beginning (depending on the location) within the 10 o’clock hour. Hostilities were not to cease until the agreed-upon hour of 11 a.m. Wow.
I read the opening chapters of the book while listening to Enya’s “Watermark” album on the iPod. “Watermark,” the album of choice for sensitive, romantic college men of half a generation ago, struck what seemed to me to be the appropriate melancholy tone to accompany the senseless slaughter described on the pages before me. After Enya, They Might Be Giants singing about “Particle Man” provided an amusingly discordant soundtrack. Ironically, however, their song “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” addresses the name change of that prominent Turkish city, which came about in large part due to the same collapse of historic dynasties that contributed to World War I.
See, it all fits together.
The hotel where I stayed, just south of Candlestick 3Com Monster Park (bleah) offered Town Car service into the city for a couple of bucks more than a taxi. I certainly enjoyed the convenience of not having to worry about calling a taxi and hoping he would pick me up in time to get to court in a timely manner. I also enjoyed calling “my driver” to pick me up when I was done. I realized, however, that I probably gave off exactly the wrong message, if anyone had noticed. There I was, the attorney for an insurance company, involved in a lawsuit with the insured, showing up at a hearing in a dark-windowed limousine. No! It’s not like that! The limo cost the same as a taxi!
Waiting for my flight home, I picked up what seemed to me to be an interesting book. Recognizing that while my knowledge and study of World War II is fairly extensive, my World War I scholarship is seriously deficient, I delved into Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour: Armistice Day, 1918, World War I and Its Violent Climax," by Joseph Persico. It is written somewhat in the omniscient narrator style of Stephen Ambrose, whose books I’ve greatly enjoyed, in that the book’s narrative relies on first person accounts of many people and presumes to know what they thought, felt and hoped for. Thankfully, it is far less dry, and crafted with more creativity than Rick Atkinson’s “An Army at Dawn : The War in Africa, 1942-1943, Volume One of the Liberation Trilogy (The Liberation Trilogy, Vol 1),” a thorough but frustratingly plodding account of the Allies’ actions in North Africa in WWII. On the other hand, Persico keeps a greater narrative distance from his subjects, perhaps because, unlike Ambrose, he was unable to interview and get to know them. As a result, his book reads much less like the screenplays that Ambrose’s books sometimes resemble.
(The absolutely stellar HBO production of "Band of Brothers"
is based upon the late Stephen Ambrose’s book of the same name. Ambrose was also an advisor to the producers of “Saving Private Ryan,” and was the driving force behind the National D-Day Museum in New Orleans, which I still regret not taking a few hours to visit while I was there in June.)
I had hoped Persico’s book would provide at least some general overview of the Great War, even though it is expressly focused on the last hours of that war. Persico does not disappoint, providing a detailed yet concise account of the genesis of the war. I find that the awkward intersection of ancient dynasties and modern, industrial nation states that resulted in the armed conflict is very interesting and warrants further study. What I find less interesting, halfway through the book as I am, is Persico’s emerging theme that those stuck fighting the war really hated it. This is not a terribly surprising element of the story, considering the true horror that the war of the trenches became. Again, the more interesting aspect of the event is the tragic collision between 19th century warfare-by-parade and 20th century mechanized death-making. Generals parties while privates died, and the privates resented it? Well, yes. Commentary on this point is the least interesting or illuminating aspect of the book.
What is shocking, and the reason I picked up the book, is the fact that although the men in power had signed the armistice early on the morning of November 11, 1918, which fact had been relayed to their troops, strict orders were given to embark on a last attack beginning (depending on the location) within the 10 o’clock hour. Hostilities were not to cease until the agreed-upon hour of 11 a.m. Wow.
I read the opening chapters of the book while listening to Enya’s “Watermark” album on the iPod. “Watermark,” the album of choice for sensitive, romantic college men of half a generation ago, struck what seemed to me to be the appropriate melancholy tone to accompany the senseless slaughter described on the pages before me. After Enya, They Might Be Giants singing about “Particle Man” provided an amusingly discordant soundtrack. Ironically, however, their song “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” addresses the name change of that prominent Turkish city, which came about in large part due to the same collapse of historic dynasties that contributed to World War I.
See, it all fits together.
A Little Midweek Humor
What's the difference between God and a federal judge?
God doesn't think he's a federal judge.
Thank you! Goodnight!
God doesn't think he's a federal judge.
Thank you! Goodnight!
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Entry Level Racing
A few weeks back I had the opportunity to do some real racing. Nearly every top racing driver, especially those from outside the U.S., began his or her career in karts. Karting is a relatively inexpensive way to gain valuable experience in car control and racing techniques.
National Kart News provides this summary of the road racing variety of kart racing:
The typical entry-level race cart has no suspension, no multi-gear transmission, and about 15 horsepower. The stakes rise quickly, with the higher classes of karts sporting exotic chassis and body materials, 4-stroke motorcycle engines, six-speed sequential transmissions and four wheel disc brakes. These are serious machines that can outperform any street car.
I had my day at Adams Kart Track in Riverside. It's a dusty little facility, but the racing is well organized, and the track is challenging. They even give you printouts of your laptimes for each 12-lap sprint race. Plus, you get to wear a driving suit. It fits like Barbie clothes on a Cabbage Patch Doll, but in my mind's eye, I was Mario Andretti in sneakers.
We ran two races, which, as fun as it was, was plenty for a first time. The lateral g-loading and manual steering require a surprising amount of upper body and arm strength to control. Plus, the adrenaline rush of plunging harder into corners with each lap is thrilling, but ultimately exhausting. Racers emerge sweaty from their helmets for a reason.
Weight is the enemy of performance in every racing endeavor. In a vehicle that weighs about 200 pounds, this concept is especially acute. In particular, the power-to-weight ratio changes dramatically based upon the weight of the driver. Let's just say that my sinewy friend who was in his final week of training for the LA Triathalon seemed to have a substantially quicker kart than I did. Despite my extra, um, ballast, I had an absolute blast. I put into practice much of what I've learned through the Skip Barber school as well as countless hours of couch racing (real events and videogames). I discovered that there are limits to my bravery that I would need more time in the kart to explore. I learned that I could discern acutely the handling differences between the two karts I drove, and was pleased to find that I could adapt to their differing tendencies. Karts, by being so elemental, are brilliantly communicative; every physics lesson on car control I've every absorbed could be put into practice, which is part of the reason that karting is such a good training ground for serious racers.
I also suffered the dual humiliations of being slower than a couple of my companions (although still quicker than just about everyone else we had seen in preceding races -- it's all technique) and of spinning off the track and becoming high-centered on the two-inch edge of the asphalt. It was all in good fun, though, and no harm came to myself or the kart. Perhaps the best part of the day was reliving the experience over dinner with the four other guys I raced with, gearheads all.
As an introduction to a couple of pictures below, here is the track layout:
(The long upper bit is not used for the standard "arrive and drive" session we had. Instead, from the upper left corner of the image, the track makes a right-left turn to join the middle long straight. We also didn't use the right-left-right chicane shown in the lower part of the image; you will see it in the second picture below.)
Here are a couple of pictures, which together show just about all of the track. This first shot shows the end of the longish back straight (on the other side of the second line of cones, going behind the light post), which leads into a slightly banked hairpin. Heaviest braking here, right on the limit of locking; the real trick is figuring out the line around the corner and when to start putting the power down again. The "pits" are to the left of the exit of the hairpin; the track goes around the pits in a left-right combination onto the front straight.
This picture shows the rest of the track. The driver in the lower right is coming out of the right hand sweeper just past the pits. Turn one at the end of the front straight can be taken flat out, but I never quite did it. It leads into a very fast left-right-left chicane; the raised curbs can really upset the car's balance, especially if you are carrying full speed through there. If the picture were larger, you could see, out by the hay bales and the couple of guys standing out there, a set of two 90 degree right hand turns. I spun off at the first one as I was still trying to settle the kart down after flying through the chicane and applying too much brake while trying to turn at the same time. The complex around the hay bales brings the karts out onto the back straight toward the hairpin again, between 31 and 35 seconds since the last time you were there. (If you want full size copies of these pictures, let me know.)
Huge fun. Did I mention that these things have no seatbelts?
National Kart News provides this summary of the road racing variety of kart racing:
Sprint racing is by far the most popular. Sprint races are held on road-course type tracks that are anywhere from 1/4 mile to 1/2 mile in length. Sprint karts can also be driven on any of the other types of tracks, which makes them the most versatile of all the karting divisions. This class, depending on engine size, runs speeds in the neighborhood of 45 - 80 MPH and fully prepared, generally cost between $2000.00 and $5000.00. Most Sprint races run short but quick 10 to 15 lap heat races, thus the name "Sprint". Each state usually offers a number of Sprint tracks that run every weekend, which makes it very accessible and the most popular division in the sport.
The typical entry-level race cart has no suspension, no multi-gear transmission, and about 15 horsepower. The stakes rise quickly, with the higher classes of karts sporting exotic chassis and body materials, 4-stroke motorcycle engines, six-speed sequential transmissions and four wheel disc brakes. These are serious machines that can outperform any street car.
I had my day at Adams Kart Track in Riverside. It's a dusty little facility, but the racing is well organized, and the track is challenging. They even give you printouts of your laptimes for each 12-lap sprint race. Plus, you get to wear a driving suit. It fits like Barbie clothes on a Cabbage Patch Doll, but in my mind's eye, I was Mario Andretti in sneakers.
We ran two races, which, as fun as it was, was plenty for a first time. The lateral g-loading and manual steering require a surprising amount of upper body and arm strength to control. Plus, the adrenaline rush of plunging harder into corners with each lap is thrilling, but ultimately exhausting. Racers emerge sweaty from their helmets for a reason.
Weight is the enemy of performance in every racing endeavor. In a vehicle that weighs about 200 pounds, this concept is especially acute. In particular, the power-to-weight ratio changes dramatically based upon the weight of the driver. Let's just say that my sinewy friend who was in his final week of training for the LA Triathalon seemed to have a substantially quicker kart than I did. Despite my extra, um, ballast, I had an absolute blast. I put into practice much of what I've learned through the Skip Barber school as well as countless hours of couch racing (real events and videogames). I discovered that there are limits to my bravery that I would need more time in the kart to explore. I learned that I could discern acutely the handling differences between the two karts I drove, and was pleased to find that I could adapt to their differing tendencies. Karts, by being so elemental, are brilliantly communicative; every physics lesson on car control I've every absorbed could be put into practice, which is part of the reason that karting is such a good training ground for serious racers.
I also suffered the dual humiliations of being slower than a couple of my companions (although still quicker than just about everyone else we had seen in preceding races -- it's all technique) and of spinning off the track and becoming high-centered on the two-inch edge of the asphalt. It was all in good fun, though, and no harm came to myself or the kart. Perhaps the best part of the day was reliving the experience over dinner with the four other guys I raced with, gearheads all.
As an introduction to a couple of pictures below, here is the track layout:
(The long upper bit is not used for the standard "arrive and drive" session we had. Instead, from the upper left corner of the image, the track makes a right-left turn to join the middle long straight. We also didn't use the right-left-right chicane shown in the lower part of the image; you will see it in the second picture below.)
Here are a couple of pictures, which together show just about all of the track. This first shot shows the end of the longish back straight (on the other side of the second line of cones, going behind the light post), which leads into a slightly banked hairpin. Heaviest braking here, right on the limit of locking; the real trick is figuring out the line around the corner and when to start putting the power down again. The "pits" are to the left of the exit of the hairpin; the track goes around the pits in a left-right combination onto the front straight.
This picture shows the rest of the track. The driver in the lower right is coming out of the right hand sweeper just past the pits. Turn one at the end of the front straight can be taken flat out, but I never quite did it. It leads into a very fast left-right-left chicane; the raised curbs can really upset the car's balance, especially if you are carrying full speed through there. If the picture were larger, you could see, out by the hay bales and the couple of guys standing out there, a set of two 90 degree right hand turns. I spun off at the first one as I was still trying to settle the kart down after flying through the chicane and applying too much brake while trying to turn at the same time. The complex around the hay bales brings the karts out onto the back straight toward the hairpin again, between 31 and 35 seconds since the last time you were there. (If you want full size copies of these pictures, let me know.)
Huge fun. Did I mention that these things have no seatbelts?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Time Out
Sometimes you just need to be someplace pretty and peaceful. Thankfully, our back yard now fits the bill:
"I Don't Believe ... What I Just Saw!"
In another October moment worthy of the late Jack Buck's call of Kirk Gibson's improbable game-winning home run in the first game of the 1988 World Series, Albert Pujols reversed the fortunes of two teams in a heartbeat last night. With his St. Louis Cardinals down by two runs in the ninth inning against the Houston Astros, the Houston crowd generating afterburner-level noise inside Minute Maid Park, Pujols launched a home run against Houston's closer Brad Lidge, one of the best closers the game has to offer. Pujols' home run, scoring the three runs that would give St. Louis the win, was epic not only for the fact that Houston was one out away from eliminating the Cardinals to go to its first World Series in its 45-year existence, but for the sheer no-doubt-about-it-ness of the hit. Unlike the homer that Astro Lance Berkman had poked into the short seats in left field two innings before to put Houston in the lead, Pujols' shot was worthy of the All-Star Game Home Run Derby. There was no question, from the nanosecond his bat made contact with the ball, that he had hit the ball out ... way out. The assured violence of the stroke instantly sucked the air from the throats of the Houston fans, turning what had been a boiling cauldron of hope and excitement into a vaccum of shock and, for those who really cared, despair. There was no need for an Astro fan to wait for the ball to come down to know the awful truth.
Every kid with a wiffle ball bat in his hand in his backyard dreams of doing something like what Pujols accomplished. Even in those contests of fancy, however, boys seldom dare to dream of bring misery on the opponent so powerfully, so convincingly.
I like football. This past weekend had some truly exciting games (Go Bruins! Oh yeah, nice win, USC). I like the seventh game of the Stanley Cup finals in hockey. I like the last frantic seconds of a low seed's last desperate attempts to pull an upset in the NCAA basketball tournament. For my money, though, nothing compares to the drama of October baseball.
Every kid with a wiffle ball bat in his hand in his backyard dreams of doing something like what Pujols accomplished. Even in those contests of fancy, however, boys seldom dare to dream of bring misery on the opponent so powerfully, so convincingly.
I like football. This past weekend had some truly exciting games (Go Bruins! Oh yeah, nice win, USC). I like the seventh game of the Stanley Cup finals in hockey. I like the last frantic seconds of a low seed's last desperate attempts to pull an upset in the NCAA basketball tournament. For my money, though, nothing compares to the drama of October baseball.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Redemption, For Now
Things couldn't stay bad forever. Well, sometimes it can seem that way, but in this case, my week improved. By weeks' end, I was getting attaboys for delivering effective briefs on an extremely short timeframe that may go a long way toward resolving the crisis that began the week. (Sorry for being so oblique, but, one, it all involves somewhat arcane legal procedure, and two, I really can't talk about what is happening in detail for reasons of client confentialty and attorney work product protection.)
It is an interesting fact of human nature, or at least my particular nature, that a single "good job" can go far toward restoring my self-confidence, even after almost ten years in the profession. Do we all thirst for approval from others?
It is an interesting fact of human nature, or at least my particular nature, that a single "good job" can go far toward restoring my self-confidence, even after almost ten years in the profession. Do we all thirst for approval from others?
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Knock, Knock
For you dedicated few who stop by here every now and then, I'm sorry I haven't been more prolific with posts. There's a lot going on with us that would be fun to share. Unfortunately, I've been horrifically busy lately. Making matters worse, the huge project ended badly, at least for the short term.
I had expected to be really enjoying life again by today. I had a whole list of "you know you stayed too late at work" jokes ready to go. I'll get to them eventually. Right now, though, I feel like the Yankees did two nights ago, taking the long overnight flight back to New York after being eliminated from the playoffs. A flight that didn't leave the ground on time due to mechanical problems, and couldn't even make it across the country without stopping for a crew change. One of the players called it the "most miserable night ever." Yep, I hear ya.
I had expected to be really enjoying life again by today. I had a whole list of "you know you stayed too late at work" jokes ready to go. I'll get to them eventually. Right now, though, I feel like the Yankees did two nights ago, taking the long overnight flight back to New York after being eliminated from the playoffs. A flight that didn't leave the ground on time due to mechanical problems, and couldn't even make it across the country without stopping for a crew change. One of the players called it the "most miserable night ever." Yep, I hear ya.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Porsche Returns to Prototype Racing
At long last, and one race late, Porsche will finally get back in the game of fielding purpose-built race cars. In association with Penske Racing, which was a storied pairing long ago, DHL-sponsored Porsche RS Spyders will make their debut in the LMP2 class at the American Le Mans Series finale at Laguna Seca on October 15-16. The car was supposed to make its maiden appearance at last weekend's 10-hour Petit Le Mans at Road America, but Porsche decreed that the car had not yet demonstrated sufficient durability for the long race. Rather than risk the embarassment of mechanical breakdowns, the German manufacturer elected to postpone its first race until the season finale in Monterey.
While one might have expected the car to be entered in the higher LMP1 class, it is rumored that the LMP1 class will become the province of highly experimental cars such as diesels, which is of great interest to many of the European firms that are involved with the primary Le Mans series. Porsche, however, has expressed little interest in offbeat technologies, preferring instead to focus on components that could be used in their road cars. If other manufacturers shy away from LMP1 for similar reasons, the formerly irrelevant LMP2 class could become the most interesting of any field.
DHL recently announced its key sponsorship of the team. The cars will now be liveried in DHL's yellow and red:
I preferred the simplicity (and colors) of the factory look:
Either way, I'll be checking it out on October 16th, 10 am to 2 pm (PDT) on Speed.
While one might have expected the car to be entered in the higher LMP1 class, it is rumored that the LMP1 class will become the province of highly experimental cars such as diesels, which is of great interest to many of the European firms that are involved with the primary Le Mans series. Porsche, however, has expressed little interest in offbeat technologies, preferring instead to focus on components that could be used in their road cars. If other manufacturers shy away from LMP1 for similar reasons, the formerly irrelevant LMP2 class could become the most interesting of any field.
DHL recently announced its key sponsorship of the team. The cars will now be liveried in DHL's yellow and red:
I preferred the simplicity (and colors) of the factory look:
Either way, I'll be checking it out on October 16th, 10 am to 2 pm (PDT) on Speed.
Space Oddity, Citizen Tom
Did you know that there is currently a civilian in space? An American by the name of Greg Olsen arrived at the International Space Station via a Russian rocket earlier this week. The third "space tourist," Olsen will spend ten days in space, perform a few experiments for the European Space Agency, and otherwise enjoy weightlessness and the view. Not a bad gig for $20 million.
Friday, September 30, 2005
This Is Why American Kids Can't Compete
We aren't keeping up with the latest trends in digital quantity!
Don't let that innocent face fool you; it hides a ruthless competitor who can type 20% more letters that you!
Don't let that innocent face fool you; it hides a ruthless competitor who can type 20% more letters that you!
“Serenity” Preaches to the Converted
Joss Whedon’s new film, “Serenity,” must overcome unique challenges in spreading the word to the “Firefly” agnostic such as this reviewer. “Firefly” is accepted gospel to those who worshipped at its altar since that series briefly walked the TV landscape before it was unceremoniously dispatched. The nonbelieving “Serenity” viewer, on the other hand, must receive the message and all of its historical underpinnings within the brief span of the film. “Firefly” disciples may greet “Serenity” with great adulation as the return of their beloved world, reborn larger than life on the movie screen. To reach the unconverted, however, “Serenity” must withstand greater scrutiny of plot and, particularly, character. “Serenity” is no Billy Graham at bringing new believers into the fold. However, like the many effective evangelists, the movie is attractive, friendly, and leads the curious to consider examining those “Firefly” underpinnings.
Here is the tract you receive when you pass through the doors:
Here is what you get when you have taken your spot in the unfamiliar pew:
Joss Whedon populates his mongrelized science fiction-western world with a population carefully painted from the diversity palette. Mal (Nathan Fillion), the leader of the pack, wields a six-shooter laser gun slung from a hip holster, lacking only a woven poncho and tired gaucho hat to pass for a spaghetti western anti-hero. He is joined by Zoe (Gina Torres), the cannon-toting Cuban woman who is married to Wash (Alan Tudyk), the nutty, Mentos-white pilot; Kaylee (Jewel Staite), the lovelorn, daft but cute-when-she-wipes-off-the-grease chief mechanic; Jayne (Adam Baldwin), the oafish gunman with a heart of gold; and Inara (Morena Baccarin), the captain's sometime flame, imbued with the power to cause him to stammer and grovel like a hormonal 13 year old.
This tossed salad of “OC”-friendly archetypes is tasked with mercenary, future day Robin Hood raids on outposts of the all-powerful Alliance. Our happy band’s lives are complicated by the presence of square-jawed Simon (Sean Maher), the sensitive-man doctor, and his waifish sister River (Summer Glau), a tortured teen of indeterminate race who apparently holds a dangerous secret within her fevered head. The Operative (Chiwetel Ejiofor, who could be Wayne Brady’s long lost brother), the Inspector Javert to River’s Valjean, plays the villain with gusto, showing off a talent for the dramatic … pause … that is utterly Shatnerian, and yet not out of place in this mildly campy romp.
The opening sequence of the movie sets up the girl-in-danger, rebels-running-from-the-law trope well, with clever changes of scene and narrative paths that may not be what they seem. Our heroes then bounce around the universe running from The Operative and his minions, their lives and livelihoods threatened by the mere presence of River among them. Thanks in part to the deus ex machina powers of Mr. Universe (David Krumholtz), the Serenity crew slowly learns more about the torment afflicting River. They are motivated to do so by her stunning display of combat prowess, which reveals that she will take down anyone who might stand in her way of reaching … something. Instead of abandoning the crazy, weaponized girl and her mopey brother, the crew stay together to solve the mystery of River, bound by an amorphous sense of common cause against … something.
Motivation is the weakest element of the film. Other than a rushed expositional voiceover at the beginning of the film, the only contact the audience has with the Alliance is The Operative, who admits that he is only a mercenary acting on the Alliance’s behalf. Mal once fought on the side of the Alliance, but now operates in the shadows at its edges, stealing from it. The leaders of the Alliance are unseen and not heard, yet we know they send amoral soldiers of fortune to carry out their plans, schemes that we are simply left to assume are nefarious. The Alliance governs (rules?) the universe, yet they chase the rebels with warships that unaccountably belch out oil smoke like a poorly tuned 1967 Plymouth Fury. (The Alliance clearly views the Kyoto treaty with disdain.) Does the film pack an allegorical punch against current events? The viewer might be led there, but the Alliance is never developed enough as a character in the movie to support either that notion or the determination of the characters to carry out their respective missions.
When the secret of River is revealed, it sheds only dim light on the horrors presaged by the dark setup. The Alliance’s plan to solidify its hold on the universe seems oddly benign, particularly because the crime that is revealed appears to have been confined to one location and consigned to the dustbin of government projects that didn’t quite work as planned. River’s apparent psychic powers notwithstanding, the magnitude of the threat she represents to the Alliance is not made sufficiently clear to explain her treatment at the hands of the Alliance or the intensity of their attempt to recapture her. In the end, the movie’s attempt to make a statement about “truth” rings hollow in the absence of context; i.e., the “lie.”
Structurally, then, the movie is a tent with a broken center pole that causes the whole enterprise to collapse confusingly upon itself. That does not prevent much fun from happening under the big top in the meantime. The effects are imaginative, the sets (particularly the interior of the Serenity) are well-designed, the action is predicable but well-staged, and the actors are given fun, oddball dialog to chew on. With a strange mix of old West drawl and occasional Elizabethan formality, Whedon clearly enjoyed crafting the spoken words. Humor frequently leavens (or undercuts) the implied dread that attempts to set a serious tone. On the whole, the movie plays like the brightly-lit, snappy, ironic television show that spawned it. The token romantic moments are almost intentionally cloying (causing even the faithful Whedon disciple next to me at the screening to cringe in embarrassment), the characters are stock and unsubtle, and drama is indicated by volume of explosion and mode of music rather than created by the story, but “Serenity” is a fun time nonetheless.
“Serenity” may not be enough for the nonbeliever to see the light, but it is charismatic enough to lead the curious to come back for more.
Here is the tract you receive when you pass through the doors:
Joss Whedon, the Oscar® - and Emmy - nominated writer/director responsible for the worldwide television phenomena of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE, ANGEL and FIREFLY, now applies his trademark compassion and wit to a small band of galactic outcasts 500 years in the future in his feature film directorial debut, Serenity. The film centers around Captain Malcolm Reynolds, a hardened veteran (on the losing side) of a galactic civil war, who now ekes out a living pulling off small crimes and transport-for-hire aboard his ship, Serenity. He leads a small, eclectic crew who are the closest thing he has left to family –squabbling, insubordinate and undyingly loyal.
Here is what you get when you have taken your spot in the unfamiliar pew:
Joss Whedon populates his mongrelized science fiction-western world with a population carefully painted from the diversity palette. Mal (Nathan Fillion), the leader of the pack, wields a six-shooter laser gun slung from a hip holster, lacking only a woven poncho and tired gaucho hat to pass for a spaghetti western anti-hero. He is joined by Zoe (Gina Torres), the cannon-toting Cuban woman who is married to Wash (Alan Tudyk), the nutty, Mentos-white pilot; Kaylee (Jewel Staite), the lovelorn, daft but cute-when-she-wipes-off-the-grease chief mechanic; Jayne (Adam Baldwin), the oafish gunman with a heart of gold; and Inara (Morena Baccarin), the captain's sometime flame, imbued with the power to cause him to stammer and grovel like a hormonal 13 year old.
This tossed salad of “OC”-friendly archetypes is tasked with mercenary, future day Robin Hood raids on outposts of the all-powerful Alliance. Our happy band’s lives are complicated by the presence of square-jawed Simon (Sean Maher), the sensitive-man doctor, and his waifish sister River (Summer Glau), a tortured teen of indeterminate race who apparently holds a dangerous secret within her fevered head. The Operative (Chiwetel Ejiofor, who could be Wayne Brady’s long lost brother), the Inspector Javert to River’s Valjean, plays the villain with gusto, showing off a talent for the dramatic … pause … that is utterly Shatnerian, and yet not out of place in this mildly campy romp.
The opening sequence of the movie sets up the girl-in-danger, rebels-running-from-the-law trope well, with clever changes of scene and narrative paths that may not be what they seem. Our heroes then bounce around the universe running from The Operative and his minions, their lives and livelihoods threatened by the mere presence of River among them. Thanks in part to the deus ex machina powers of Mr. Universe (David Krumholtz), the Serenity crew slowly learns more about the torment afflicting River. They are motivated to do so by her stunning display of combat prowess, which reveals that she will take down anyone who might stand in her way of reaching … something. Instead of abandoning the crazy, weaponized girl and her mopey brother, the crew stay together to solve the mystery of River, bound by an amorphous sense of common cause against … something.
Motivation is the weakest element of the film. Other than a rushed expositional voiceover at the beginning of the film, the only contact the audience has with the Alliance is The Operative, who admits that he is only a mercenary acting on the Alliance’s behalf. Mal once fought on the side of the Alliance, but now operates in the shadows at its edges, stealing from it. The leaders of the Alliance are unseen and not heard, yet we know they send amoral soldiers of fortune to carry out their plans, schemes that we are simply left to assume are nefarious. The Alliance governs (rules?) the universe, yet they chase the rebels with warships that unaccountably belch out oil smoke like a poorly tuned 1967 Plymouth Fury. (The Alliance clearly views the Kyoto treaty with disdain.) Does the film pack an allegorical punch against current events? The viewer might be led there, but the Alliance is never developed enough as a character in the movie to support either that notion or the determination of the characters to carry out their respective missions.
When the secret of River is revealed, it sheds only dim light on the horrors presaged by the dark setup. The Alliance’s plan to solidify its hold on the universe seems oddly benign, particularly because the crime that is revealed appears to have been confined to one location and consigned to the dustbin of government projects that didn’t quite work as planned. River’s apparent psychic powers notwithstanding, the magnitude of the threat she represents to the Alliance is not made sufficiently clear to explain her treatment at the hands of the Alliance or the intensity of their attempt to recapture her. In the end, the movie’s attempt to make a statement about “truth” rings hollow in the absence of context; i.e., the “lie.”
Structurally, then, the movie is a tent with a broken center pole that causes the whole enterprise to collapse confusingly upon itself. That does not prevent much fun from happening under the big top in the meantime. The effects are imaginative, the sets (particularly the interior of the Serenity) are well-designed, the action is predicable but well-staged, and the actors are given fun, oddball dialog to chew on. With a strange mix of old West drawl and occasional Elizabethan formality, Whedon clearly enjoyed crafting the spoken words. Humor frequently leavens (or undercuts) the implied dread that attempts to set a serious tone. On the whole, the movie plays like the brightly-lit, snappy, ironic television show that spawned it. The token romantic moments are almost intentionally cloying (causing even the faithful Whedon disciple next to me at the screening to cringe in embarrassment), the characters are stock and unsubtle, and drama is indicated by volume of explosion and mode of music rather than created by the story, but “Serenity” is a fun time nonetheless.
“Serenity” may not be enough for the nonbeliever to see the light, but it is charismatic enough to lead the curious to come back for more.
The Coolest Aviation Website Yet
I've linked to all sorts of aviation sites in the past, showing airport information, flight status and other nuggets that appeal to airplane nuts like me. I've now found the best one of them all. It tracks airplanes in real time in the vicinity of the Burbank airport. If you want to frighten yourself, back the magnification out so that you see the whole LA area. Is that enough airborne activity for ya?
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Fire Central
In addition to the large and mostly uncontrolled Topanga Fire, it appears that a new fire has started above Burbank. It is a crystal clear day in our end of the Valley, and we could see from our office windows a fire beginning within the past hour in the hills near The Castaway restaurant. The fire began about 400 yards to the east of the building, and appeared to be at the edge of the DeBell Golf Course, perhaps right at the entrace to the Wildwood Canyon park. The fire stayed in one place for a while, but it has now started its inexorable march up the steep mountain ridge and canyons. This kind of fire broke out in 2002 and spread to the hills above our house. The terrain is very steep (see the link to Wildwood Canyon for great pictures of the area) and fires are difficult to manage. If the winds come up this evening again, it's going to be a long night.
UPDATE, 5:45 pm: The Burbank fire has not spread dramatically yet, but it is still going. Flames are visible from across the Valley. Also, an onshore flow has been developing over the past couple of hours, which has pushed the smoke from the Topanga fire back into the Valley; it has spread across the top of the Valley to just north of Burbank. That onshore flow reverses the direction of the strong Santa Anas. This is a good development for temperature, humidity and control of the fire, as it should push the flames back against areas that have already been consumed. Unfortuately, the northerly flow will push the Burbank fire right up the hill.
UPDATE, Sept. 30, 8:30 am: I guess I was right:
UPDATE, Sept. 30, 3:20 pm: The Burbank fire is still going, with sufficient vigor to require the use of two Canadian firefighting airplanes. I last saw those same airplanes a couple of years ago during the horrendous fires that hit the San Bernardino mountains (as well as the San Diego area). They would fly by the building on the way to the ocean to fill up with water, they fly past the building again to dump their payloads. All day long.
UPDATE, 5:45 pm: The Burbank fire has not spread dramatically yet, but it is still going. Flames are visible from across the Valley. Also, an onshore flow has been developing over the past couple of hours, which has pushed the smoke from the Topanga fire back into the Valley; it has spread across the top of the Valley to just north of Burbank. That onshore flow reverses the direction of the strong Santa Anas. This is a good development for temperature, humidity and control of the fire, as it should push the flames back against areas that have already been consumed. Unfortuately, the northerly flow will push the Burbank fire right up the hill.
UPDATE, Sept. 30, 8:30 am: I guess I was right:
A fire in the Wildwood Canyon wilderness area of Burbank was considered nearly contained early Thursday after burning about 10 acres, a Burbank Police Department sergeant said.
No structures were threatened and there were no injuries, authorities said.
The fire broke out at 4:25 p.m., and two hours into the firefighting effort, the blaze was burning in a 5-mile-wide area of canyons a couple of miles east of Burbank Airport between Wildwood and Stough canyons, said Capt. Ron Bell of the Burbank Fire Department.
UPDATE, Sept. 30, 3:20 pm: The Burbank fire is still going, with sufficient vigor to require the use of two Canadian firefighting airplanes. I last saw those same airplanes a couple of years ago during the horrendous fires that hit the San Bernardino mountains (as well as the San Diego area). They would fly by the building on the way to the ocean to fill up with water, they fly past the building again to dump their payloads. All day long.
Summer Couldn't Leave Quietly
As is typical for September, it is preposterously hot here in SoCal. 90 degress at 11:30 pm kind of hot. Even in the peak of summer it is rare to maintain heat into the night because of the influence of the nearby ocean. Santa Ana conditions, however, change the game. The temperature records from yesterday show that when the winds picked up between 4:53 and 5:53 pm, the temperature increased sharply from 91 to 95, after temperatures had begun to decline for the day.
If you haven't had the pleasure, you really must experience the Santa Ana winds once in your life. Sudden, unseasonable heat, negligible humidity, stirred-up dust, and ashes from the inevitable fires all provide a delightful scouring for your eyes and throat. It's your early autumn exfoliation and tanning solution, right on time.
If you haven't had the pleasure, you really must experience the Santa Ana winds once in your life. Sudden, unseasonable heat, negligible humidity, stirred-up dust, and ashes from the inevitable fires all provide a delightful scouring for your eyes and throat. It's your early autumn exfoliation and tanning solution, right on time.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Stupid Media Tricks
“News,” at it is currently conveyed in this media-saturated, ratings-driven culture, apparently is no longer composed of who, what, where, when and why. Along the way, television added another component: drama. “If it bleeds, it leads,” is not a pithy joke, it is a mission statement.
Last night’s unscheduled landing of a JetBlue airliner with malfunctioning front gear provided an opportunity for talking heads and their associates to do their worst. The local television and radio stations interrupted regular programming (no great loss there) for hours as the stricken Airbus circled off the Los Angeles coastline. The dull visuals allowed uninformed anchorpeople too much time to shoot their mouths off. The lust for a spectacular crash was palpable. One local radio host’s insistence on a tragic outcome was utterly revolting. Her voice took on a hard edge as she questioned a pilot, express surprise to the point of outrage that the airplane would not become a Flaming Cartwheel O’ Death. The pilot explained that the worst that would happen is that the nose gear, stuck ninety degrees to the longitudinal axis of the aircraft, would first burn through the tires (“that is the black, rubber part”), and that the wheels (“that’s the metal part” – the pilot clearly understood what he was dealing with) would simply drag down the runway, and that it was highly unlikely that the strut would collapse. Sceptical, and expressing the thought that she needed to explore a “worst case scenario,” she asked about the chances that the wheel might snap off, the nose strut would catch on the runway …
[…in my car, I’m pleading with her not to go there. Please, please don’t say this …]
… and the plane would FLIP OVER?
[Gah! She said it! I actually laughed out loud in my car.]
The pilot did not allow the reverberations of her triumphant, “gotcha” tone fade away before responding, “Zero. Absolutely zero chance.”
That would have been bad enough, but the anchor then challenged the pilot, countering with a curt, petulant “why not?” The pilot patiently explained the physics of the event – all of the energy is horizontal, not vertical, etc. I imagine he was also either stifling laughter or rolling his eyes to the ceiling, or both.
There was misinformation and rampant speculation all over the airwaves and internet in the hour leading up to the landing. CNN’s story said that the Airbus was circling off the California coast to dump fuel, when in fact the airplane did not have that capability. The pilot had to fly for three hours to burn off the fuel; if it could have dumped fuel, it would have landed hours before. I heard second hand that a national anchor stated that the airplane was heading back to Burbank for an emergency landing. I’ve written about SoCal airfields before. There is absolutely no possibility that an airliner would attempt an emergency landing at an airfield whose main runway is among the shortest anywhere in the area, and half the length of the runway eventually used for the landing.
The aviation experts, on the other hand, were uniformly excellent. Characteristic of pilots, they expressed calm and useful information. One grumpy old man pilot gruffly set one set of anchors straight in detail about how straightforward and non-dangerous the landing would be. The anchors thanked him and wished that his words could be conveyed to the passengers. (Little did we know that the passengers could hear some of the commentary.) Another pilot explained how the tires and wheels would scrape away, and that hydraulic fluid would probably catch fire, but that it would not be a major concern. All of the experts stated that the pilot would have been trained for this sort of thing. As it turns out, they were exactly right, and the pilot did a masterful job of bringing the airplane down softly, holding the nose aloft as long as possible, and brought that baby down right on the center line. He also did not order an emergency evacuation, which, as several of the experts pointed out before the landing, would be the likely, and probably only, cause of injury.
What the networks received was a well-packaged, well-timed, flaming-but-safe drama in the air, lovingly lit by the late afternoon Los Angeles sun. They made the most of it.
Don Henley’s scathing critique of the media (Los Angeles news in particular), 25 years old by now, has never stopped being true:
Last night’s unscheduled landing of a JetBlue airliner with malfunctioning front gear provided an opportunity for talking heads and their associates to do their worst. The local television and radio stations interrupted regular programming (no great loss there) for hours as the stricken Airbus circled off the Los Angeles coastline. The dull visuals allowed uninformed anchorpeople too much time to shoot their mouths off. The lust for a spectacular crash was palpable. One local radio host’s insistence on a tragic outcome was utterly revolting. Her voice took on a hard edge as she questioned a pilot, express surprise to the point of outrage that the airplane would not become a Flaming Cartwheel O’ Death. The pilot explained that the worst that would happen is that the nose gear, stuck ninety degrees to the longitudinal axis of the aircraft, would first burn through the tires (“that is the black, rubber part”), and that the wheels (“that’s the metal part” – the pilot clearly understood what he was dealing with) would simply drag down the runway, and that it was highly unlikely that the strut would collapse. Sceptical, and expressing the thought that she needed to explore a “worst case scenario,” she asked about the chances that the wheel might snap off, the nose strut would catch on the runway …
[…in my car, I’m pleading with her not to go there. Please, please don’t say this …]
… and the plane would FLIP OVER?
[Gah! She said it! I actually laughed out loud in my car.]
The pilot did not allow the reverberations of her triumphant, “gotcha” tone fade away before responding, “Zero. Absolutely zero chance.”
That would have been bad enough, but the anchor then challenged the pilot, countering with a curt, petulant “why not?” The pilot patiently explained the physics of the event – all of the energy is horizontal, not vertical, etc. I imagine he was also either stifling laughter or rolling his eyes to the ceiling, or both.
There was misinformation and rampant speculation all over the airwaves and internet in the hour leading up to the landing. CNN’s story said that the Airbus was circling off the California coast to dump fuel, when in fact the airplane did not have that capability. The pilot had to fly for three hours to burn off the fuel; if it could have dumped fuel, it would have landed hours before. I heard second hand that a national anchor stated that the airplane was heading back to Burbank for an emergency landing. I’ve written about SoCal airfields before. There is absolutely no possibility that an airliner would attempt an emergency landing at an airfield whose main runway is among the shortest anywhere in the area, and half the length of the runway eventually used for the landing.
The aviation experts, on the other hand, were uniformly excellent. Characteristic of pilots, they expressed calm and useful information. One grumpy old man pilot gruffly set one set of anchors straight in detail about how straightforward and non-dangerous the landing would be. The anchors thanked him and wished that his words could be conveyed to the passengers. (Little did we know that the passengers could hear some of the commentary.) Another pilot explained how the tires and wheels would scrape away, and that hydraulic fluid would probably catch fire, but that it would not be a major concern. All of the experts stated that the pilot would have been trained for this sort of thing. As it turns out, they were exactly right, and the pilot did a masterful job of bringing the airplane down softly, holding the nose aloft as long as possible, and brought that baby down right on the center line. He also did not order an emergency evacuation, which, as several of the experts pointed out before the landing, would be the likely, and probably only, cause of injury.
What the networks received was a well-packaged, well-timed, flaming-but-safe drama in the air, lovingly lit by the late afternoon Los Angeles sun. They made the most of it.
Don Henley’s scathing critique of the media (Los Angeles news in particular), 25 years old by now, has never stopped being true:
"The bubbleheaded bleach blonde
Comes on at five.
She’ll tell you ‘bout the plane crash
With a gleam in her eye.
It’s interesting when people die.
Give us dirty laundy.”
The Haves and the Have Nots
It's official: Nokia has sold its one billionth cell phone. Perhaps emblematic of the "global village" the world is purported to be, the phone was sold in Nigeria.
In other seemingly unrelated news, nearly 160,000 people have died of AIDS so far this year in Nigeria.
In other seemingly unrelated news, nearly 160,000 people have died of AIDS so far this year in Nigeria.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Happy Birthday, Michael!
He's four years old today, and relentlessly enthusiastic about life. He's a charmer; he could sell sand to a bedouin. For now, though, he's content to do puzzles on the floor and whack things (including, but not limited to, his sister) with his light saber.
Joy personified!
Joy personified!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille
Google has unveiled a new search engine aimed exclusively at blogs. Now, finally, the world will have the swift, efficient access to thousands of bloggers' self-obsessed navel-gazing for which it has clamored for so long.
What, you didn't hear the clamor? I assure you, there has been clamoring.
Isn't it odd that when you say a word over and over, it begins to sound wrong? Like just now, when I used "clamor" in three different ways, it started to morph into a non-word jumble of letters and sounds...
That, folks, is classic, bloggerific navel-gazing. You're welcome.
Follow up: On a semi-serious note, I'm pleased to see that I dominate the first page of search results for "epilepsy surgery screening." For the purpose of facilitating an exchange of information and opinion among us mere diarists, Google's blog search may indeed prove to be very useful. Even if you're searching for "McDLT and Taco Bell." Go ahead. Try it.
What, you didn't hear the clamor? I assure you, there has been clamoring.
Isn't it odd that when you say a word over and over, it begins to sound wrong? Like just now, when I used "clamor" in three different ways, it started to morph into a non-word jumble of letters and sounds...
That, folks, is classic, bloggerific navel-gazing. You're welcome.
Follow up: On a semi-serious note, I'm pleased to see that I dominate the first page of search results for "epilepsy surgery screening." For the purpose of facilitating an exchange of information and opinion among us mere diarists, Google's blog search may indeed prove to be very useful. Even if you're searching for "McDLT and Taco Bell." Go ahead. Try it.
Back to the Moon
A plan has been unveiled to return astronauts to the Moon by 2018. Interestingly, the proposal calls for the launch vehicles to consist of Shuttle engines and rockets. Whew! Without the sharp pencil types scrimping and saving like that, NASA might not have been able to hold the budget to $100 billion.
Charts and pretty pictures can be seen here.
Charts and pretty pictures can be seen here.
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