mcgees.org

The wee hours, the hours after midnight but before the sunrise, are not kind to a crippled bipolar bachelor.

There is too much to think about.  Too much happening, too much not.  Too little comforting breathing beside you, that you have spent a decade learning to expect.

There is no motivation to read.  No desire to let television wash over me.  Just an urge to take a mallet to the mocking green LEDs of the clock-radio.

I am thinking of redoing my bedroom.  Vinyl floor with a fabric runner between a proper futon at one end of the room and the ensuite bathroom at the other.  Prolific shelving on two walls.  Hanging linen “dressers” for folded clothes, the rest of the clothes on hangers, in the recessed part of the third wall called, by the architect, the closet.  Maybe linen, again, to define its wall, currently demarcated by decrepit sliding-panel doors, their track long since damaged to the point where it is a battle of wits, will, and vertebrae to move them.  Serious blackout shades for the windows (pull-down shades sandwiching lead foil would just about fit the bill.)  The walls: satin black.  And all LEDs?  That is what duct tape is for.

Sleep, death, opiates.  They have the same draw, and they all have the same feel: velvet, and quiet, and soft, and undemanding.  Butcher’s “Perfect, endless darkness”.  And all with a riptide.

Maynard James Keenan named one album “Opiate”.  He named another “Undertow”.  I don’t think this is an accident.  They could be the same name.

When it’s two o’clock, three o’clock, and you’ve taken all the assistive chemicals you can safely consume, and you bob on the water — bounce, bounce, bounce — and wait for the riptide to catch you, wait to be pulled under, pulled in.  Wait to take a breathful of darkness.  And wait.

Consciousness?  Overrated.  Stimulants?  Keep them.  I don’t get the urge.  I just want to sleep, to die, to glide, to be free of the soundtrack and perseveration and scheming my mind — me, I guess — explores, constructs, deconstructs.  I come up with great ideas, yes.  I come up with ideas for companies, for novels, for throwaway lines of novels.  I come up with solutions to technical problems I didn’t even know I was working on.  I find optimizations and melodies and connections.  I find everything a hypomanic 148 I.Q. should.  But I don’t find sleep.

Someone once said that computer programmers “don’t like drugs that make them stupid.”  But that’s not quite right.  Not stupid.  Just still.  Or silent.  Or gone.

2:43.  2:43.  2:43.  2:44.

I once went to a nice restaurant by myself, before going to the theater by myself.  There was another lone diner, a man, sitting next to me.  The waiter approached him, and he held up the menu and asked if they had anything with potatoes.

Potatoes?  What?  I mean, as the main course?  Or, nothing else matters but the potatoes?

It was a nice restaurant, and the waiter kept his composure.  I’m sure he’s been asked stranger things before.  He points out the menu items that come, by default, with potatoes, but helpfully notes that potatoes can be added on the side of any item on the menu.

We’re both sitting alone.  I want to go sit across from him and ask him, “Why potatoes?”  He’s in a suit.  I’m in a suit.  I’m having lobster ravioli, and he’s jonesing for potatoes.

Potatoes.  Potatoes.  Why potatoes, of all things?  2:47.  2:47.  2:48.

Reread.  2:50.  Have to push “Publish” at some point.  My readers are patient, but reading the transcription of every minute on the clock for the next fortnight — the fortnight to come before I can sleep — is pushing it.

2:51.  How do you stop an out-of-control mind?  Where is the sandy incline for when your mental brakes fail?  Where’s the fucking button to turn this machine off?  148 kilos of pure suction.  We don’t want to be stupid.  Ha.  Why not?  Can’t stupid people sleep?

PIC line.  4mg Dilaudid.  Saline push.  Stat.  I said, STAT!  Shit.  No nurses.  No wife.  No son.  No Dilaudid.  Just me, and this award-winning, much-lauded freight train of a mind.  This problem-solving machine that can command six figures and ruin my life.

2:58.  Good night.

There’s an eBay lot that I really, really want.  The auction closes in less than one hour (4:40 a.m. PDT is probably some sensible time in Johannesburg, where the seller resides), and the bidding is at 14% of my high bid.  I would love to get this lot for 14% of my high bid.

I can’t sleep, as you can probably tell, so I’ve been fiddling (they call it a “one tweak loop” in computerese) with the sidebar.  Let me know what you think — if you can tell the difference.

Firefox did not complain about the word “computerese”.  Wow.

I think my next car is going to be a pickup truck.  They are just so bloody useful.

I really hate insomnia, but never more than when it promises to decrease the joy I can have with my son the next day.  Er, later this day.  In about two hours.

Short sleep last night, no nap, a couple glasses of wine — I thought I was sitting pretty for a long winter’s nap.  But I have barely blinked.

If anyone has been calling me, by the way, I can’t answer it.  My phone was lost, then disabled as a security precaution, a replacement was ordered, the passive voice was used, and then the missing phone was discovered — which now belongs to the insurance company.  I’m wondering exactly how many days I should wait before someone miraculously “returns my missing phone” to me, to send it to the insurance company, so I won’t look like a total wanker.

I’m not hurting too badly right now.  I can probably take some more ibuprofen for the mild discomfort.  But I really wish I could just lie down and become unconscious.  Restfully, REMmingly, unconscious.  I’m writing train-of-thought right now, and hoping it will tire me so that I can go and collapse into bed.  I’m not actually alert enough to do anything really thought-intensive, like code or write cogently, just alert enough to stay awake.

Thanks to everyone for your support of late.  It’s much needed, and much appreciated.  So much so, that you can consider this a personal letter to you.

I’ll even sign it,

- Joshua

Ooh, burn!  The Post Office claims overnight Express Mail service to “most areas”.  I could understand it not being available from small town to small town, but not between two major U.S. city ZIP Codes, 99775 and 96815!  They’re even both in the high 90,000s!  Sure, you can drop off your package at the origin until 7:00 p.m., but it won’t end up at the destination until 10:00 a.m., two whole days later!

Actually, that’s really frakking amazing, when you look it up.  Wow.

(What, the government-kinda?  Really, they can do that?  I’ll let you in on a little GAO secret: the USPS’s biggest contractor is FedEx.  No kidding.  FedEx planes fly Express Mail.)

(USPS Web Apps: Express Mail Commitments)

Ballpark.  Long-haul, UPS (ground transport, not delivery), cargo container, whatever.  Owned rigs, companies, whatever.  What kind of range are we talking about?  The range has gotta be huge, right?

Actual exchange from the last time I bought a suit (which will probably be the last for some time):

Salesman:  How much were you planning on spending today?
Joshua:  Oh, I don’t know, maybe $300?
Salesman:  (Rueful chuckle:) No.  But maybe $400.
Joshua:  OK.  I was thinking something with a European cut.
Salesman:  (Rueful chuckle:) No.  You’re not built for a European cut.  Here’s a nice suit for $400.
Joshua:  Um, I was hoping that would include a shirt and tie…
Salesman:  (Rueful chuckle:) No.  (etc.)

Kinda reminiscent of Dave Barry trying to make an offer on the real estate agent’s office, no?

At the end of the ass-rape, I thanked him.  Can you believe that?  Sick, sick!  Holding onto his picture, dressing up (in that suit!) every day…

Hello, where am I?  Sorry.

Has anyone else found his or herself in the position of needing a retail source for newspaper-grade paper, and realizing the cheapest way to obtain it is to subscribe to a newspaper?  A newspaper, the labor of love and the collected creativity and training of hundreds of people working under draconian deadlines, plus all the machinery to print, cut, fold, and deliver, not to mention the ink — and it’s still cheaper to buy than blank newspaper stock!

Advertising dollars are pretty damn amazing.

Newspaper stock is sold at art stores now, and is priced like a “boutique” item, not like the high-acid, low-contrast, large-fiber shite that it is.

To be really green, I need a neighbor who will save me some of his used newspapers — one every couple of weeks would be enough.  I don’t care about the copy — I’m never going to actually read The Los Angeles Times — I just need the stock.  I’ll ask the guy across the street tomorrow.

Or maybe, now that I make so little, I could get Sunday’s copy alone delivered — the coupons might well pay for the subscription, and I’d be reusing all the paper.

OK, one more, and I’ll stop.  Probably.

I had an intensely terrible nightmare while napping today, one that we could call a WGA Strike Nightmare, a “Shades of Gray” Nightmare, or a Patchwork Nightmare: it contained fragments of pretty much every bad nightmare I’ve had in the last year, even ones I had consciously forgotten, woven together.

But it did have some relatively non-nightmarish weirdness in it.  Philatelic weirdness.  The ninth U.S. president was running around and was assassinated onscreen.  A bystander saw this happen and was able to identify the victim because he was on the nine-cent Prexy that he used on all his outgoing mail!  This bothered me for a couple of reasons in the dream: 9¢ was never the First-Class postage rate in the U.S., all the presidents on the Prexies were already dead when they were put on the stamps, and the Prexies were in use between 1938 and 1952, so the dream shouldn’t have been in color.  But I went with it.

I had to identify to the police who the ninth President was.  This is one of the lists I have memorized for no particular purpose.  So in my dream, I began enumerating them.  Literally, I counted from one to nine, out loud.  I felt foolish.  The next list I tried was books of the Christian Bible, which I also have memorized.  I counted and determined that the president was II Samuel (off by one, not bad while asleep), so I informed the officer that the President’s name was Sam, Jr.

You really didn’t care about any of that, did you?

Weird experience for a day off when my wife and son were at work and school, respectively: I hugged Niall as he left, went back to sleep, and then woke up again.  I could see the LED clock readout, slightly obscured by the casing.  I couldn’t tell if it said 7:54 or 1:54, and had absolutely no idea.  I am extremely happy it was 7:54 and that I have six “extra” hours to do stuff today.

(It’s wrapped around my body…)

No, seriously though, that’s not an option, is it?  ‘Cos you can’t buy string any more.

I’m going crazy.  It’s supposed to be there.  It’s part of our culture.  “Brown paper packages tied up with string.”  “Tie a string around your finger.”  Every single children’s craft book published before the 1970s.  But walk into a store today and ask them if they have string, and they look at you like you’re from Mars.  As far as I have been able to determine, the 99 Cent Only store, K-Mart, and Target are devoid of string.  Granted, I don’t even really know where to look.  I can buy sewing thread at Joanne’s.  I can buy hemp twine at Home Depot.  But what about simple string?  Does it even exist any longer?

In the late 1980s, I found a KayBee toy store that was having a clearance on summer and fall toys in winter.  I bought two or three reels of kite string, and they fulfilled my string needs for the next 15 years or so, until I lost it in a move.  I’m going crazy.  Somebody send me string!

Pain-induced insomnia and time warp.  I’ve been struggling to sleep, tossing and turning.  I looked at the clock: 1:47 a.m.  Tossed for a really long time.  Looked at the time again.  12:46 a.m.  So I’m guessing the first one was actually 11:47.  It’s now 1:44 (for real, this time) and I still cannot sleep.

I have a catch-all address for mcgees.org.  Everything not sent to a valid mcgees.org reader is forwarded to my GMail account.  It’s convenient: let’s say Pepsi asks for my email address.  Bingo: pepsi@mcgees.org.  If they get obnoxious, pepsi@mcgees.org gets redirected to /dev/null.

I don’t know who signed a website form as “chrishornton@mcgees.org”, but damn.  You have got to read the following response “he” got:

Thanks for submitting your comments about your child’s school. We appreciate your taking the time to provide your insights but we were unable to post the review because:

The review contains inflammatory remarks and/or hearsay.

We believe the most valuable reviews to share with other parents are those that are concise, relevant to the quality of the whole school and specific.
Here are two samples of reviews we have posted:

“Both my children have gone to ANLC since they were 5 years old. ANLC is a school where the children come first. Each child is encouraged to do their personal best without being labeled as the smart or dumb kids. The teachers are highly skilled and work hard to bring out the best in each child.  The principal is kind and knows each child by name. She is a great example of a leader and I will miss seeing her everyday as my daughter graduates this year. Thank you ANLC for bringing out the best in my children and giving them the encouragement and confidence they need to go out into the world!”

“This school has been a big disappointment. It is probably fine for most kids, but our eighth grader needs accelerated learning opportunities which have not been available. Its outstanding music program dramatically deteriorated while my child was here, so that it is at best mediocre currently. The special advanced algebra class for 8th grade was cancelled just before he reached 8th grade, and the caliber of most of his English teachers has been shockingly poor. It has therefore given none of the advantages of a huge school, with all of the disadvantages. I can recommend it only in contrast to most of the other public schools in the district.”

To see our guidelines for posting reviews, click here:
http://www.greatschools.net/cgi-bin/static/guidelines.html/NY#guidelines

Your review:
The school is full of sexual predators, deranged students who think they are part of the Trench Coat Mafia, and teachers who really seem like they could care less about the students.
http://www.greatschools.net/modperl/parents/NY/XXXXX

We invite you to resubmit your review following our guidelines.

If you have a particular problem with your child’s teacher or principal, or if your child is experiencing difficulties at school, we urge you to bring the matter to the attention of your child’s teacher or principal.

GreatSchools.net Staff

Emphasis added.  But still…  A little crazy-bitter, are we?  I looked up the school he was describing, and it’s a high school outside Albany.  Redacted for the obvious reasons.

Don’t go to GreatSchools.net without a popup-blocker, btw.

Jenn was visiting family yesterday.  I always sleep a bit strangely in her absence.  A bit strangely.

Last night, I retired at midnight and set my alarm for 7 a.m.  Now, post-Chiari, I can actually sleep when I want!  This time, though, I awoke at 5.  I was naked, on top of all the sheets and blankets, perpendicular to the bed, with my legs hanging off one side.  I was having a bizarre dream that involved lying on something smooth, hard, cool, and undulating while drinking a one liter screwdriver made of Absolut® Vodka and Sunny Delight®.  It also involved a shovel or something.

This (the undulating screwdriver thing) is not something I would normally do, partially because I no longer drink alcohol, and partially because it’s just plain weird.  In any case, Jenn will be home tonight, and would severely punish any attempt to “go perpendicular on [the bed’s] ass”.  How welcome.

…at 59% of my current weight.

Either there is sky-splitting thunder and lightning in the next valley, or the Inland Empire is being bombed.  I suppose I’ll know tomorrow.  Or later today, that is.  I still can’t fucking sleep.

You can use my utility to generate a random English word.  You are welcome to call it from scripts.

I’ve upgraded my Random TinyURL script (it was giving a lot of “not found” errors, and I think I figured out why: “o” and “0″ are not present in any assigned TinyURLs).  Try it out, and please report the TinyURL of any TinyURL failures (not 404s).

Is there a date that you accidentally date intervals to, when you are determining how old something is, instead of using the current date?  For me, when I see something was produced in, say, 1976, I first think “That’s almost twenty years ago,” not “That was thirty years ago.”  Some part of my brain is still locked in the mid nineties.  Never to escape?

It’s difficult for me not to dress all in green every day.  Many mornings I pick out my clothes, lay them out, then realize every article I’ve selected is green.  Some days, like today, I give in to it: green Levis, green Polo sweatshirt, green hemp shoes.  My t-shirt’s black, but you can’t see it.  This has been going on for over a decade.  When it started I was in high school, and my mother would warn me that I end up looking military, like I was dressing all in camos.  These days I just make sure the shades are slightly different so that it doesn’t end up quite as imposing.

I’ve known several people who never dressed in anything but black, but green?  That’s weird.

A British columnist is making fun of Americans for their obsession with competitive dog shows.  Something about residue on cooking vessels?

I startled myself by getting 7 out of 10 correct on The Guardian’s How much do you know about the Commonwealth? quiz, garnering a score of “impressive”.

If you’re thinking of being clever and adding a few drops of essential oil to ink to make scented ink, don’t.  It doesn’t work.  And if your next question is whether I ruined $13 worth of ink with this experiment, the answer is yes.

127 mph over the speed limit?  Who knew radar guns went up that high?

The PowellsBooks newsletter has a bizarre and addictive feature called, and I’m quoting this literally, “Fup. Store Cat.”  Yes, the periods included.  As far as I can gather, Fup is the name of their store cat; that’s a picture to the right.  “Fup. Store Cat.” is like a train wreck: you can’t quite pull your eyes away, even if you want to.  You see, every newsletter presents a new “chapter” (just a couple hundred words) about Fup’s adventures.  In each chapter Fup, joined by compatriots Bear, Zooey, and Wiggums, adventure their way through unwieldy prose:

Let’s follow a path in the sun,” Bear purrs.

“There are no paths in the sun,” Wiggums reminds him.  “You’re sitting in the last patch of sun we’re liable to find for three days.”

Up and up the fir trees go, so far beyond the leafy pockets nearer to the ground that there’s no telling where they stop. Their tops end somewhere in the sky, is about all you can safely say.

“We could climb until we’re above the tree line,” Fup suggests, “but that would be an odd thing to do, seeing as it’s trees we’re looking for.”

“Trees you’re looking for?” someone says.

Fup looks at Bear.  Then Fup and Bear both look at Wiggums.  An echo would be the most natural explanation, except that they hadn’t noticed an echo before.

Fup repeats herself, but a little louder this time: “Trees we’re looking for.”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

Down by the creek, Zooey begins to growl.

They search the woods around them, but it’s like trying to find fish in a deep lake, Fup realizes, staring into the tangle of leaves and branches.  She notices for the first time how loud the bird chatter has become — or had she not been listening before?  She can’t see a single bird for all the leaves and branches, but suddenly birds are all she can hear.

Each time the newsletter arrives, I’m presented with my WTF moment for the day.

If you are bored, you can make a model Starship Enterprise out of an old floppy disk.

It was 103°F (39°C) in West Hills when I left for work this morning.  This is quite interesting, as long as this temperature represents a normal variance and not the effect of global warming.  Perhaps more interesting is that half an hour away in Thousand Oaks the local temperature was only 88°F (30°C).

I went to Weather.com to check for averages and records for 29 May.  The average high is 83°F (28°C).  The record highs for 28 and 30 May are 104°F (40°C) and 106°F (41°C), respectively, putting 103°F in the region of the record highs for adjacent days.  But the record temperature for today, 29 May, is 113°F (45°C), set in 1984!  This temperature is also the record high for the entire month of May.

The Weather.com weather shows Thousand Oaks now at 96°F (35°C).  Its record high?  Also 113°F in 1984.  I am glad I was in Japan at that time.

I present a couple of cheesy mnemonics that for some reason jumped into my head from years ago.  Sailing vessels have two sets of running lights, colored differently on each side so that one can tell in which direction the vessel is sailing.  Many people have trouble remembering which side (port or starboard) matches with which color light (red or green.)  So: “Port wine is red.”  For some people this is not much assistance as they cannot remember which side is port and which is starboard.  So: “Port and Left each consist of four letters.”

You are now all set if you want to head off to sea.  But if you want to pack persimmons to take with you, you face another challenge.  In the stores one regularly finds two kinds of persimmons, Fuyu and Hachiya.  One is sweet and can be eaten out-of-hand, the other is highly astringent and is good for cooking.  So remember: Fuyu persimmons are shaped like tomatoes and are sweet like tomatoes, while Hachiya persimmons are shaped like acorns and are astringent like acorns.

If the reader knows all of this already, this probably counts as the most useless post ever to appear on mcgees.org.