And In Other Planes

Failed to mention this earlier, but the first Hofstadter book arrived. I Am A Strange Loop showed up Monday or Tuesday and I've read a few chapters thus far. Definitely liking it to this point, but I've got a bit more to read before I throw anything real down. For the time being though, here's a quote that put to words something that I've had on my mind for a bit. Straight out of Chapter 3:

"This idea - that the bottom level, though 100 percent responsible for what is happening, is nonetheless irrelevant to what happens - sounds almost paradoxical, and yet it is an everyday truism."

The Snow Falls Like A Static Fury

As the weather continues to make itself felt in the greater Seattle area, I'm finding plenty of time to let my mind (and internet searches) wander. So here's the starting point.

http://fora.tv/2008/12/12/MythBusters_Co-Host_Adam_Savage_on_Obsession

This was a great little clip that was referred to me by my friend Derek. Beyond the greatness that is Adam Savage, it got me to open up an extra tab and start a web search that I'm still pursuing. The impetus was a reference to people being either a Hammett or Chandler person. My search went in the direction of Hammett. It hadn't occurred to me before, but I thought I'd be interested in picking up some Hammett and giving that a go as some fun reading (and also, now, some Chandler to compare and determine if the statement regarding preference is in fact true).

As a quick aside, Hammett apparently wrote The Thin Man, which is one of my favorite old movies.

So my search started with the assumption that I'd hit eBay or Amazon and track down a used copy of something or other. But my first search hit a Wikipedia article. I've recently become a sucker for the quick biographies that Wikipedia provides. So there I started. And right off the bat I get a (slight) Hemingway connection. Both Hammett and Hemingway served in ambulance corps during World War I. Hammett however got sick and spent the war in Cushman Hospital in Tacoma, WA.

Which sent me on another tangent. I've never heard of Cushman Hospital, so I got another search going in that direction and found this. The article is only a stub, but the broad details are there. The Cushman Hospital was located on the Puyallup Indian reservation and was torn down around 2003 to make way for the casino. Apparently it was also a location of note in the American Indian rights movement. In 1976, the hospital was taken over by armed members of the Puyallup tribe.

It's strange some of the details that you miss while living in a place. I've been in Tacoma for nine years now (coming out from New Hampshire in the fall of '99) but never was aware of that particular change in the landscape. I wonder if I ever actually saw the hospital building.

Distraction Infraction!

The past week has been a whirlwind of inactivity. I've been making something of a break in terms of the serious reading, and turned towards some straight up fun reading, in the form of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, which I've read once before. The initial reading was shrouded in booze and sun (the first cruise in the Caribbean with my family coincided with my starting and finishing. If you haven't been on a cruise, my first experience led me to believe that only three activities occurred on these floating Disney Worlds: eating, drinking, and gambling. On a week long cruise, I spent quite a few nights staking out a solitary spot on the deck with a gin and tonic while reading). This time around, there's less booze. Also, less sun. And 100% more snow.

It's resinous stuff. And as I fade into the words, I definitely recall bits and pieces from the last read. The introduction says that you can pick up a Miller book, flip to any page and start reading passages at random and still get the experience. As I've tracked through linearly, I can see that being true. And in reading it, I think I need to get a bit more Miller for later. A trip to the Half-Price Bookstore is forthcoming.

I looked back at the dates, and it seems that Miller came to Paris just as Hemingway was headed back stateside. Two views of Paris. It seems so much dirtier with Miller. Both seem to love it though. Hemingway's just seems a bit more idealized. Hemingway was 8 years younger then Miller. He was there from the age of 21 through 28 (1921-1928). Miller was there from 36-48(1928-1940). I suddenly have an interest in knowing if they had any interactions (face to face or otherwise) .

I should be getting back into the swing of things this week. I want to knock out a few chapters in the Theories of Personality book I have. It'd also be nice to start on another Chomsky essay (linguistics). And I should be getting the Douglas Hofstadter books I ordered.

Linguistic Artifacts

This comes courtesy of conversation fragments from a Wednesday night sojourn up to Seattle. It originated in a heart felt disdain for grammar-policery (namely of the politically correct variety, but as I get back to it, I also have problems with straight up English style guide policery as well).

So to start, let's hit the English style guide bit. Steven Pinker had at least one chapter in The Language Instinct dedicated to exposing the fallacies of "grammatically correct" English composition. In many cases the rules and designations that inform us mentally of sentence construction have diverged from the strictures that the English grammar elite have set down for us. The problem here is that the Grammarati take as gospel the linguistic structures of the past with little appreciation for the organic, evolving nature of language. Language is a vector of information that constantly seeks to condense and simplify the essence of thought into a package that can be transmitted between individuals. If meaning is clear, then the technical aspects (as laid out in style guides, etc...) are unnecessary and in many situations contrary to current usage. Style and grammar have become something that is fixed - unquestioned. Some could make a point that its there to maintain the purity of the language. To insure a common ground to translate our thoughts. But we're still using some standards that have no relevance to the way that English is spoken today. Thought then goes through a game of telephone where our idea is pushed through a filter of rules that obscure meaning.

I've only recently cemented this notion in my head. To be honest, the bits and pieces of personality that surround the Grammarati always appealed to me. They were observant. They were meticulous. They were smart. You have to be to memorize and apply by rote the umpteen thousand rules. But the stand they take becomes less and less appealing to me. Perhaps the Internet ruined this. If you head over to any web site with user generated content (check out the rants and raves on Craigslist on any given day, for example), you can watch the arguments of individuals get lost as the vulture-like Grammarati swooping in to tear the linguistic aspects of a post apart without addressing the underlying ideas at all. Ideas become secondary to the rules for construction.

Language at its essence is a means of transferring information from individual to individual. It is by nature flexible, and is constantly adjusting to the ideas that it needs to embody. And in its spoken form we see this flux. But with written language, we have decided on standards of purity. Language is not pure though. It is hodge-podge. It is a simmering cauldron of alloy ready to be poured out into whatever shape is needed. Some of the strictures on written language are simply ornamentation. And in some cases, the addition of this ornamentation detracts from the functionality of the end product.

The second part of this post turns more towards PC language and the marginalization of language elements (which is actually a good thing). The conversation I had on Wednesday started with me expressing how much I hated the grammar police. What I actually meant at the time was how much I hated the language of political correctness. Words that are used all over the place that have adopted a meaning of their own, are stricken down in conversation as insensitive. One such offense I've been called on in this vein was in regards to the word "spastic". I used the word in a context that meant something along the lines of "uncontrolled awkward action". The immediate response from the PC police that was present was that the word spastic was hurtful and insensitive because there are people with actual spasticity issues. I shrugged it off, avoiding the word in future conversations with said person.

But why do we need to fixate so much on the potential meanings of a word vs. their actual/intended values. The context that a word occurs in does much to clarify the thought of the communicator. It seems like the people that subscribe to the idea of political correctness seek to pull words out of context and examine every meaning without regard for actual context.

To head back to some of the linguistics I've read, the human mind appears to work in parallel. When we converse or read, we don't parse serially. Each word is not processed from front to back, but as part of the cohesive whole of the sentence (again take a look at Pinker's The Language Instinct). It's this parallel processing that lets us do some pretty amazing mental gymnastics on awkwardly formatted sentences and words (as a few examples, 1) word order is less important then we think. Given a sentence where word order is garbled or backwards, we can quickly process the actual meaning. (*1) 2) The omission or disordering of letters in words. Dropping letters at the beginning or end of words, omitting vowels, backwards ordering - are all situations where we quickly process the whole from incomplete presentation. Some of these processes have an evident hierarchy. Consider the garbled sdrawkcab. The first thing that comes to mind for me is the word "drawbacks". If you look again, it also is the word backwards, backwards. So having a partial match to a word in the middle shapes our perception of the final product prior to hitting our internal rules for processing in reverse. 3) Filling pronouns. When we use he, she, it, they, etc... previous branches of the conversation are tracked and these place holder words are filled).

So all that said, the point is that we have a knack for context. It's part of our linguistic circuitry. Staking off certain words as off-limits because of a single-meaning (in some cases, an adopted usage - think of the words retarded or queer, where an existing word with an existing non-offensive meaning was conscripted into descriptive service to designate a group) is a self-imposed means of crippling our mental circuitry. Any arguments as to adopting this kind of handicap in order "to change the way we think, by changing the language we use" seems illogical to me. Don't we have to think about the word, and also explicitly assign it the negative connotation (and also destroy any semblance of an old benign meaning) if we're going to strike it from our usage? This seems more destructive then helpful. It enforces verbal stigma in its own way.

And on to the last part. The person I was talking to brought up the following example.

"To throw like a girl"

She used the above as a language construction that enforces stereotypes. So the first wave of attack on this. The actual meaning. When someone says something like, "Billy throws like a girl", the actual meaning is something more like "Bill throws in an awkward, untrained manner." Or (this was the description that I used on Wednesday), "Billy throws as if, he as a right-handed person, were trying to throw with his left hand". I got mildly ribbed about how this second definition would be offensive to left-handed people, as it doesn't take their "plight" into consideration. But back to the point. I think in the case of this phrase, that we are dealing with an archaic construction. If translated literally it portrays a gender stereotype. But how many people still see this as a literal rather then figurative? I grew up with an enormous extended family and none of my female cousins "threw like a girl" (one of them actually played baseball instead of softball in high school. Hard to imagine any of the guys on her baseball team thinking that as a literalism this makes any sense). When I think about the phrase I can see where it can be construed as enforcing a stereotype, but I think that the context has changed. The literal understanding does not align with the understood meaning of the sentence. Some people may still have the attitude that:

For all X=girl, X throws like a girl,
There exists some Y=male, such that Y throws like a girl

But I think that the word girl in the construction comes to mean something less concrete. And I think this is something that applies to figures of speech in general. When we look at the expression "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth", we aren't typically talking about an actual horse. Horses don't have the sharp crackle of gender politics underneath it though. If a laboratory developed a breed of sentient talking horses who were given equal rights (all that language surrounding marriage would have to adjusted by the bible belt to further stake it out as a human institution, so as to prohibit horse couples from raising human babies, and such), the above phrase could find itself as a hot button issue about slavery. By acknowledging the political meaning above the intent of the speaker, we give greater credence to the politicized version (at the expense of the individual and the flexibility of the symbolic representation of language).

Figures of speech tend to last well past their expiration dates. As little nuggets of meaning, they will continue to be used until marginalized by either 1) the underlying idea losing relevance. 2) a more succinct means of saying the embedded idea comes into usage and becomes popularized. 3) Population extinction - if predominant usage is confined to a single population and that population dies out or branches off (thing language drift, tower of Babel style), then the artifact may be removed from the initial tongue by virtue of lack of propagation.

Did your family use the phrase "throw like a girl"? If not, then how did you hear it? Things of this nature are viral. They spread as long as their is a single vector of transmission. You might do everything in your power to insure that you never personally communicate this particular bit of language to any children you might have, but unless you isolate a child completely (which would be neglect and abuse of a horrific nature on your part), Mullet Steve down the street will, by proxy of little Mullet Billy, pass his language virus on.

Political correctness is just a distraction. Language springs into being to represent the realities around us. If we strike phrases or words from our dictionaries, others will spring up to replace them. The realm of political correctness results in soft indefinites. Our janitors become custodial engineers. Meaning becomes lost in the soft folds of a slow death - uttering ten syllables where one would do. And in the end, as the meaning of the unwieldy becomes the original, we have another word that has to be crossed off. We have to further ambiguate so that our minds can lose track of reality for a few more years without addressing the underlying conditions that created the need for that language in the first place. Language does not cause the structure of reality to change. We need to act against the institutions themselves, not the language of the institutions.


*1
A tangential question - are the portions of the brain that appear to be responsible for Dyslexia the same that are involved in the parallel processing? Or is the garbled interpretation of the visual language cues a pre- or post- processing deficiency. Pre- seems less likely if word order doesn't matter in the first place. It also would seem to indicate a level of processing and parsing prior to exiting visual vs. aural input centers. Which would indicate one of two things - 1) The input node (visual or aural) completely processes the information as it comes in, drawing on stored memory and creates the output conditions itself. This would also allude to additional units for other input vectors (taste/touch/smell). Would nature designate that X number of different structures can throw output conditions to the body's machinery without a gatekeeper? 2) The nodes parse incoming signals into a specific format and then feed the structured input into a processing unit which coordinates all input and generates output based on the combined input stimuli (this seems more likely to me). In any case, it provides an interesting example of where something in the brain appears to be broken and can give information about how structures interact. Something worth following up on at a later date.

Another Direction

I almost went back to edit the last post regarding a point that I later became less sure about. The pervasiveness of recursion was the point. All of the examples I could think of seemed to be based in biological sciences, so I was going to add that perhaps it was something basic to life, as opposed to the universe in general. But I've been continuing to fiddle around looking at recursion, which led me to Douglas Hofstadter (the connection having been a tongue in cheek definition of recursion, which I curiously followed to the unknown name).

Much like Chomsky, his bio reads like a buffet. He currently is a professor at the University of Indiana - Bloomington where he is a "'College of Arts and Sciences Professor' in both Cognitive Science and Computer Science, and also ... Adjunct Professor of History and Philosophy of Science, Philosophy, Comparative Literature, and Psychology". The point here, is his initial post-graduate work was in Physics. At the University of Oregon he wrote a paper predicting that "the allowed energy level values of an electron in a crystal lattice, as a function of a magnetic field applied to the lattice, formed a fractal set." Later experimentation confirmed the prediction, and the fractal set was named "Hofstadter's Butterfly" which was the first Fractal found in physics. Which provides at least one example from the non-organic.

And as a side effect of poking around at this, I just purchased three of Hofstadter's books:

Godel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid
Metamagical Themas: Questing For The Essence Of Mind And Pattern
I Am A Strange Loop

One Chomsky Essay/Lecture Down, Five To Go

Tonight I finally finished the first section of the first part of Chomsky's Rules and Representations. I've started and stopped it at various points over the past month, picking up and finishing other things along the way. While I could get into my general sense of wonder at the content (an introduction into the ideas behind general innate mental structures of language) or distaste for the vehicle (the language of pseudoscience/philosophy academia, in all it's convoluted, obfuscating glory), I think I'm more inclined at this point to jump into a train of thought that sprang up in the last few pages that sent me on a few tangents. So to get into, excerpt #1:

-"When we turn to the mind and its products, the situation is not qualitatively different from what we find in the case of the body. Here too we find structures of considerable intricacy, developing quite uniformly, far transcending the limited environmental factors that trigger and partially shape their growth. Language is a case in point, though not the only one. Think for example of the capacity to deal with the number system, common to humans apart from pathology and as far as we know unique to humans"

So the first bit. Chomsky seeks to make a case that we are not a completely blank slate. There are kernels of hard code that determine how particular portions of the mind essentially work. These kernels may need experience to fine tune and mold the developing structures into their final shape, but there exists some central bit that dictates what and how these mental capacities develop. The initial bit of this was interesting to me, but the number bit set the stage for the next bit that got my current tangent going:

-"The very essence of the number system is the concept of adding one, indefinitely. The concept of infinity is not just 'more' than seven, just as human language, with its discrete infinity of meaningful expressions, is not just 'more' than some finite system of symbols that can be laboriously imposed on other organisms (nor, by the same token, just 'less' than an essentially continuous system of communication, like the dance of bees). The capacity to deal with the number system or with abstract properties of space is surely unlearned in its essentials."

So from this I got two things stuck in my head. One, the number system as the concept of adding one indefinitely. Two, both the concept of quantifying (the number system) and abstract properties of space as innate mental structures (at least in terms of some basic structures that can become more complex). And one more excerpt, this time from Steven Pinker's The Language Instinct, which has a chapter called "How Language Works" that goes through some of Chomsky's technical work on language in a more approachable manner:

-"A grammar is an example of a 'discrete combinatorial system.' A finite number of discrete elements (in this case, words) are sampled, combined, and permuted to create larger structures (in this case, sentences) with properties that are quite distinct from those of their elements.
...
In a discrete combinatorial system like language, there can be an unlimited number of completely distinct combinations with an infinite range of properties."

The chapter goes onto explain some of the broader bits and pieces of Chomskian thinking on structures of language. At the core is the notion of recursion. Basically our lexicon of words fits into various structures (noun phrases, verb phrases) that can recursively nest creating an infinite number of possible output.

So to tie it back, I saw the bit on the number system as adding one indefinitely as an instance of recursion at work (I still haven't gotten around to reading Principia Mathematica, but I wonder if this is where Russell and Whitehead started). The idea of recursion was initially (or at least in terms of viewing it as a useful tool) introduced to me in computer science classes in college as a means of manipulating mathematical formulas such as Fibonacci numbers and such. But I've also seen it poke it's head in biology classes, and obviously more recently in Pinker's explanations of Chomskian theory on language structure. Which brings us to the questions that come to mind.

Is it possible that the structure surrounding "abstract properties of space" are also built on recursive definitions? And if so, would an underlying ability to handle recursive properties be a base mental structure in itself upon which other structures grow upon? Or would it be a property rather then a structure (which happens to be shared by at least two - if not three - innate structures)?

When we look at nature, math, language, etc... we find recursion (or means of representing things recursively). There is a pervasiveness here. Do we see it because our minds are designed in such a way that this relationship can easily be created (a pattern overlaid on chaos), or because this is an actual fundamental principle that explains the structure of the universe. If the former, then it stands to tell us something about how our minds actually work. I would assume, based on the popularity of LISP with AI researchers, that there is a nice body of research that would at least make a case for this. If the latter, then it's quite possible that you could make a case for looking for recursive relationships in any and every field of study, from hard science to social science (recursive relationships as underlying rules of sociological phenomena?).

I wouldn't be surprised if recursion as a core concept didn't have a great degree of viability. Recursion is an elegant way of building complexity and infinity out of a finite number of simple parts.

And a final link. I tend to overuse Wikipedia for such things, but it typically provides a good overview with citations, plus a few jumping off points. This is their topic on recursion:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Recursion

Sensation!

A random bit of jib-jabbery and general side tracking. The five senses seem to fall into two distinct categories. Those focused on interpreting biochemical stimuli (smell, taste) and those that interpret wave-based stimuli (sight, hearing). Touch on the other hand seems to be a somewhat different critter.

All of the above senses, hit our nervous system through specialized organs. Light bounces off objects at specific wavelengths, and we differentiate between color and shading based on the rod and cone structures which jangle alarm bells along the nervous system. Hearing filters in the vibration of atoms at particular frequencies in through the ear canal, beating a mad rhythm on the ear drum, and eventually tip toeing up a nerve. Sight and smell work in concert and run on larger bits and pieces of the world. Receptors accept particular kinds of structures and the cells of the receptors fire information back. Touch seems to have elements of both. Our sense of temperature is a product of picking up the motion of particles. But as a semi-permeable surface, compounds can penetrate the skin triggering nerves to fire. The presence of water molecules allows us to differentiate between wet (humid) vs. dry (arid) conditions perhaps? And how about chemical reactions at the skin level. If heavily basic or acidic materials come into contact with the skin the reactions trigger the nerves, but how would such be classified? It seems like the nerves themselves are much closer to the action when it comes to the sense of touch.

Divergent views on Goddess Worship

A thought, as I read Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson (again).

There's a large chunk of information being thrown about in Snow Crash regarding goddess worship in regards to Asherah. Mostly in a negative light. Asherah worship as linked with the spread of viruses, of both the physical and meta- variety.

And as something that may not have occurred to me before (or maybe it did, but not having written it down, it escaped into the void), I've started thinking about how Snow Crash compares with Tom Robbins' Skinny Legs and All, which takes a decidedly different view on goddess worship and the religious conflict (with Judaism, with Christianity, etc...) that pops up around it. I'm interested in finding out if Asherah is mentioned specifically in Skinny Legs and All.

*After a bit of digging, it looks like the name Astarte shows up in Skinny Legs and All. While close in appearance with the Asherah in Snow Crash, it doesn't necessarily entail equality. A reference to each exists in Wikipedia, both filling the role of mother goddesses. The two articles conflict a bit in whether or not they are a single entity or two separate entities.

"The goddess, the Queen of heaven whose worship Jeremiah so vehemently opposed, may have been Asherah or possibly Astarte." (from the article on Asherah) would seemingly differentiate between the two. Whereas, "According to scholar Mark S. Smith, Astarte may be the Iron Age (after 1200 BC) incarnation of the Bronze Age (to 1200 BC) Asherah.[1]" would link the two as a single entity.

The Groo Speaks Softly

The power collapses around my head! This is the second time in the past month where I've discovered the limitations of power pumped into my subterranean lair. This time however, the culprit was the vacuum. In the midst of cleaning, as if to say, "No! Bachelor-like living must be upheld!", the vacuum died off into silence as the lights around me popped out. The lights out in the living room took umbrage with my power consumption as well and withdrew the gift of light that they so frequently indulge me in. The bathroom and kitchen retained the flicker of life though. And strangely enough, the high drain appliances in the kitchen stayed on, and my media center in the living room continued to pump out the sounds of Joanna Newsom.

I am tangled in webs of wires. Overlaid. Irrationally convoluted. Now I wait for my landlord to get back so that I can access the electrical box, and reset the circuits that screamed out and went silent. In the mean time, it appears that music will continue to be had. Music in the (semi-)dark.

A Slacker Once and Always

About a month ago, I was asked if I would like to write for an online community with roots in Tacoma (it was started by a few UPS grads). With a definite interest, I was quick to respond in the affirmative. And over the past month, I keep on pushing off that first article.

So, in an act of pure futility, I'm reminding myself, via blog, that I need to get on that shit. Shoo Josh. Stop writing in me. Get thee to a topic, and write.

I'm sure that once I get started on something it'll all come in a violent burst of colour and shape.

Hanford 2008 - Pt. 2 - Saturday Games, Quick Wrap-Up

We step out of the hotel into the Richland morning. Games start at 9:00am, and we're leaving to get there about 30 minutes before the first round. The morning air is chilly, but not nearly as cold as we'd expected. In previous years, the grass has crackled with frost as we stepped onto the field for our first game. This year, the frost has taken a hiatus, but Chris has donned massive winter gloves and a hat in anticipation.

The schedule for the day has us playing two games. Then a bye round. Followed by our final two games of the day. We're seeded number one in our pool (seeds, of course, mean nothing on day 1 of a recreational tournament), and will hold court on the same field all day.

Since the previous night, Maya, cheer master, and femme fatale of the Bond girl persuasion, has been talking about beating the first team that we play - Freezer Jam. Maya had been playing with Freezer Jam up until recently, and some good natured smack talk had been traded. Freezer Jam had come to the tournament as lawn gnomes. Pointy hats, vests, and cries of "Force Gnome" were the order of the weekend for them. My inner dork rejoiced, and I made one of the most bizarre comments that I was to make during the weekend. The comment was a general statement to the folks on their sideline, that was met with awkward silence. Probably due mostly to the strangeness of its content.

It went something like, "It's a common mis-gnome-er, that gnomes are defined by binary sexes. In fact, there are no less then 7 different genders. The pairings, as one can imagine, are quite convoluted."

Not an entirely original thought. I seem to remember non-binary gender assignments in something I read at some point (maybe The Great Glass Elevator by Roald Dahl?). Later in the game I refined my thinking on the statement by thinking of gender divisions in gnomes in terms of the color of the various pieces of clothing that they wore (all gnomes of course having beards, genders are not a matter of facial hair). Three different colors were represented in hats, vests, and shorts. Red, brown, and green. The number of genders of gnomes then, would become a product of combinatorics. By this logic, there would be 27 different gnome genders (3 cubed). In gnome-land procreation is managed by orgiastic flurry. Or is it individual couplings that result in the color coded progeny. A R-Br-R X G-Br-R would result in either a R-Br-R or a G-Br-R? Theoretical biology! Hurray!

We started out the game slowly, but it was clear that we had it well in hand. We finished the game 13-8 (the highest score against us all day). The game done, we made our initial attempts at our James Bond obstacle course. In each game we ended with a 007 Training School. One member of the opponent was picked and chose a member of our team to don a robe. Then a member from our team chose another individual from the opponents team to wear a robe. Then the games began. The two contestants started by spinning around five times (to simulate the disorientation of space - we were after all Moonrakers), they then ran 20 yards to the person that they had chosen and had to disrobe them (later this was modified, so that they had to disrobe them without using their hands). After this, they ran and leaped through a held hula hoop on their way to picking up a sticky dart gun which was used to shoot a target (Chris, in Jaws persona held a disc over his groin). They then ran to where I was and drank a martini (shaken, not stirred). The first to finish was the winner (although, to be fair, everyone that played was a winner).

In the first go around, some kinks popped up that needed to be worked out. The dollar store dart guns that were used jammed immediately, and the contestants fumbled with them for a bit before one of them decided to throw the gun at the disc (poor Chris!). We also started with a single martini, so the race essentially ended when someone grabbed it (rather then the speed drinking that came later).

The second team we played was a team dressed as athletes from different sports. There was a cricket player, black belt, rugby player, ... We started a bit stronger, and held the team to 6 points. At this point the hangovers from the previous night started to fade, and we began to click a bit more.

A trip over to watch the UPS folks followed (we had a bye in the middle of the day). We watched as they dismantled a team, and happy for their success proceeded to our next game. This time, we met on the field of battle with "The Bros" (a frat boy themed team out of WSU). Needless to say, there was much chest bumping and such. I even worked in a "Broseph". The early stages of this game were close. The WSU team has some fantastically athletic folks and they were able to have their throwers put the disc and have them come up with some amazing grabs downfield. The problem with this approach is that when things start going wrong with throws, you give the disc back a lot (albeit with worse field position then if you turned it over back at your own 15). Tighter marks and a little bit of straight up reigned in their long game and we started to pull away. Afterwards, they had a game to cheer us with. A wiffle ball bat with the end cut off was filled with beer. They picked a guy and girl from the team that had to drink from the bat until the ambrosia (read, crap beer) within was gone. While drinking, they counted the seconds that it took. After the liquid was gone, the bat needed to be set on the ground and you had to spin around with your head on the bat a number of times equivalent to the number of seconds that it took to finish the beer. After spinning, they through a wiffle ball in your direction and had to hit it. In both of their selections, they picked people that were not drinking. Purbaugh stepped up to the plate for both in the drinking department resulting in about 12 spins around the bat for the guy (Elliot) and girl (Stephanie). Elliot spun admirably and hit the ball on the first throw. Stephanie on the other hand spun like a drunken labrador, collapsing in the midst of her spins. This of course, without having had a drop to drink. Quite amusing really. She got up, finished her spinning, picked up the bat and.... SWING AND A HIT. First shot. Once again. This is a coordinated team folks. Super coordinated. Like kangaroos shadow boxing with giant anthropomorphic bananas. We treated the other team to our Secret Agent Training Camp game. Fun, once more, was had by all. No casualties to Chris's junk this time around (having learned the tricksome ways of the dart gun, teams were informed of how not to have them jam. No need for them to throw the gun when they can actually shoot).

Our last game was against another Seattle team that we've beaten frequently (and convincingly). They conceded the fact that we would win the game up front and wanted to make the game into a bit of fun. We agreed to start the game with everyone with beer in hand, which could only be relinquished once finished. About half way through the game, we offered the team a deal. We were up 7-3 (or something on that order) and gave an option of ending the game with a score of double the current value. If they agreed, for the second half, we'd play a variation where every time a point is scored, your team loses a person. Teams start out at 7 vs. 7. When one team scores, it becomes 7 vs. 6. If the team that has 6 gets the D and scores again, it becomes 7 vs. 5. And so on. Having so many people uncovered, it eventually evens out (typically becoming 2 vs. 2 on the final point). The highlight of this for me was a point when we were playing 5 vs. 3 (our team had 3 on the field). Chris, me, and Stephanie (?) were pulling to the other team and were trying to figure out what we were going to set for D. We opted for a 3 layer defense. One person on the mark, one person covering cuts in the middle. And one person deep. I was going to be the deep. I pulled the disc, and Chris and Stephanie ran down to play defense. I moved about 15 yards down field and lay down on the grass, waiting for the other team to try and put one long. The other team got greedy and put something within 15 yards of where I was, and I sprang up and ran towards the disc. The disc got by me, but caromed off the receiver's hands, and we had an offensive opportunity going 5 on 3. Some conservative play with the disc resulted in a score. Huzzah! The other bit to this variation was that when a team was down to two folks, the two folks had to make out prior to playing the point. Sean and Sarah. Jerry and Jeni. Lora and the guy whose name I forget. All of the couples hammed it up on the line (I believe Jeni ravished the hell out of Jerry) and we won our last game of the day with the couples on the team getting it done.

We returned to the hotel triumphant. We had finished the day undefeated, and as a result would receive a bye in the first round of play on Sunday. We would have plenty of time to recover from any debauchery that the evening might bring. The early portion of the evening took place around the pool. I played my first game of Dibble (a floating piece of mulch is thrown into the pool. The person throwing it jumps in on top of it. When it resurfaces, it's a free-for-all to get ahold of the mulch. Once in hand, you shout, "Dibble" and become the thrower for the next round. This is a game of aquatic chaos. Chaos, of course, is very fun.). I was hesitant at first. It wasn't until four or five iterations in that I jumped in after the dibble chip for the first time. But once the fear of collision, etc... was assuaged, I went for anything that I could. Numbers grew. Starting with about 5 folks, we eventually ringed the end of the pool with about 20+. A few hours later, the game slowly lost steam. I showered and hung out with the team, eventually finding my way to the party (which was at the hotel bar). The WSU guys handed me a cup of beer, and I made my way around talking to folks I knew, getting generous donations of beer. The bracket was posted, and in a happy twist, we would play the winner of Olympia vs. UPS in our first game of the day (with our bye into quarters).

The night died slowly, and I found my way back to the room where I collapsed into fitful sleep. Strange places do not make for good sleeping, I tend to find, and I was up a few hours later at about 7am. I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the continental breakfast where I chatted with the UPS folks, and then proceeded to watch a Bond movie to get pumped up for the day.

Chris and I headed over to the fields quite a bit early in order to watch the Olympia/UPS game. In stark contrast to the previous day, the wind had picked up. Coming across the field at a forty-five degree angle, it was blowing at about 15-20mph. The game that we were witness to, was quite sloppy as a result. Unfortunately, UPS got down a few points early, and were unable to get them back in the difficult conditions. Olympia won by 2 or 3 (a single break in weather like that can be a killer). We warmed up. I worked as much as possible going upwind, trying to tune my throws. The game got under way, and for the first few points, we traded, each taking our downwind opportunity. We made them work hard for their downwind points, and usually were rewarded with a few attempts at going upwind. We didn't turn the disc as much going down wind, and they had fewer opportunities in that direction. Eventually the unequal number of upwind attempts started to pay off. We scored the first upwind point and immediately got the D and score on the downwind side. We started to pull away. The upwind offense started to gel, making smart and efficient decisions in the tricky wind. We cruised to the victory by a fair margin.

Next up, semifinals. This game was played against a team based out of Portland called "The Resurrection". I had talked to the captain the previous night at the party, and he had indicated that they were hoping for significant wind on Sunday. They were a slightly older team, and felt more confident in their throws then their legs. The game started off chippy. The other team made some ticky-tack calls and went up by a few early on. We made a few calls on them, and things started to level off (in terms of the number and quality of the calls). Once the game fell into place (in terms of what was being policed, and how stringently), things became a lot more enjoyable. The other team had gotten an upwind break early, and we played catch up throughout. We got the break back, then lost another, then got it back. The score was low, and remained close. Games were to 15, but we hit the soft cap without having had a half time (we would have received to start the second half. A brief rule interpretation thing occurred after the cap came on, that left a bad taste). The game gets tied at 7s, and we score upwind as the hard cap is blown. Chris was a monster on the upwind point, coming up with some clutch grabs, and sweet throws.

And on to finals! Another Oregon team! This time peppered with a bunch of Rhino, Schwa, and Whoreshack players (Rhino was at nationals last year, Schwa is always on the edge of going to nationals in a tough region, and Whoreshack was at nationals a couple years back). Another close game. To cut the story short, we lose this one. But it's contested the whole way. Again we give up an upwind score early. But when things get difficult, we find ways to come back. I have a few scores in this game, including a layout grab on the trailing edge of a disc, and a pull down catch on a disc that is thrown directly over my head (my hat, while keeping my hair out of my face, gives me a brimful of "where-the-hell-is-disc" on this one). The cap is blown again, we trade points going downwind. They have game point, with us down by one. We pull to them, get the D, and score going upwind. Last point of the tournament for both teams. We're pulling to them, going downwind. Sean calls the line in for defense. And the other team plays chilly offense up the field and gets a turnover free upwind score. They played the last point perfectly, and if there's a way to lose a game, that has to be it. Both teams giving it their all, the final point a result of excellent offense rather then miscues and errors on either team.

Hanford 2008 - Friday Night/Saturday Morning

So a bit of ultimate shop to set down, then perhaps some other bits and pieces.

This past weekend was the Hanford Howl, which has in recent years been the tournament I enjoy most in the ultimate season. On Friday, I called in sick to work and at about 11 rolled out of bed to start packing for the weekend. 11 was slightly later then I had planned, and I was immediately greeted by a chirping from my phone that indicated I had missed not one, but two calls - both from the great Sommarstrom. He was calling to get my address, as the plan was to carpool out to the Tri-Cities in his folks' Honda Pilot. Information was communicated and I immediately launched into a whirlwind of packing activity.

Cleats, food, clothes, and entertainment were all thrown in a pile by the door (with a bit of booze for good measure). I also got the hot tub set for stun (heat!) so that the Sunday return from physical exertion could be met with a solid dose of soaking. Chris showed up around noon, and we played a bit of Rockband 2 before heading out the door around 1:30ish (?). A quick stop was made on the way towards I-90 to drop Lance off at the kennel, and the journey eastward started. The roads were wide open with the early start, and we made good time.

The initial stages of the trip were spent examining the new car for the bits and pieces that would allow us to plug in Chris's iPod. This effort ended in failure and we moved on to playing with the satellite radio, which gave us plenty of options. We swung from Alternative hits (Soundgarden! Pearl Jam! Alice in Chains!) to Comedy (DL Hughley, George Carlin, Chris Rock) to Metal (Cattle Decapitation) to talk radio (Trucker Radio!, Air America). The little XM guide that came with the car was mostly accurate (it looked like a few stations had been added, some removed).

A stop was made along the way to stretch out our legs, toss a disc, and drink a beer. A strange occurrence. A trucker emerges from the bathroom at the rest stop while we sip our beers and toss the disc around obstacles. As he heads in our direction he turns towards us and asks if we want some corned beef hash. Chris replies in the negative. I myself have nothing against the CBH, but the manner of the proposition lends a certain hesitancy. I sip my beer in silence, and let Chris's answer stand for both of us. We continue to toss, and I watch the trucker open the back of his semi- and pull out 5 one-gallon cans of corned beef hash. He stacks them in a pyramid behind his truck, surveys his work, and then begins moving them into the cab of the truck. Whether the stacking display (he stood looking at the stack for a minute or two) was to tantalize us is a question that I will probably never know the answer to.

Refreshed, we get back on the road and finish off the trip. We roll into Richland about two and a half hours before anyone else from the team and grab dinner at the Atomic Ale House brewery. Food was eaten, beers were consumed, and a text was received from the wonderful Lora Flewelling. Our mission, if we chose to accept it, was to find a nearby liquor store and determine its hours of operation. I asked our server, and he pointed us in the general direction, and we proceeded. Once at the store, I got back in touch with Lora to find out where she was at, and whether she wanted us to pick up the martini making materials that were the reason for her inquiry.

The martinis of course were a prop (albeit a prop that would be consumed over and over throughout the weekend) that went along with our team costume theme. The Howl, in way of explanation, is a costume tournament. Each team picks a theme and runs with it. Over the course of the next couple of days, we'd get to see teams of Frat Boys (the Bros), Gnomes, Lifeguards, LARPers, ghosts, types of Whiskey (Crown Royal represented by a kingly figure, Wild Turkey by dude in a turkey suit, ...), and Saturday Night Live figures. We, in a play off our name Rainmakers, attended the tournament as Moonrakers. We were Bond. James Bond. And of course other elements of the Bond universe were present as well. Bond girls. Jaws (Chris wrapped his teeth in tinfoil early in the day on Saturday before switching to duct tape later), Moonrakers, and a large number of Bonds. We would be dressed to the nines, and require our martinis. Shaken. Not stirred. And to this effect, vodka and vermouth were purchased.

Still having time to kill, Chris and I settled into the Honda Pilot to wait for Lora, who had booked the rooms that we would be staying in. The laptop was pulled out and we started watching License to Kill. While this may come off as heretical, I think that Timothy Dalton is one of my favorite Bonds. Over the weekend, I watched both License to Kill and The Living Daylights, and his interpretation of Bond seems to be in a similar vein to what Daniel Craig is doing with his stint. Bond is dangerous, impulsive, and darker in his hands. There's humor, but mostly of the gallows sort. I find myself thinking that I need to sit down and watch a selection of each of the actors' work to make a better assessment. I also think this is one of those cans of worms that I'd like to open with my dad. Possibly as divisive as politics, but less serious.

About an hour in, we're able to get into the hotel and I immediately find the looming prospect of intoxication. Gin and tonics, gimlets, and cheap beer come slowly at first and then quickly as it appears that all of the ultimate players in the hotel are converging around our hotel rooms (the hotel has an indoor pool, and we are poolside. The abundance of tables, central location, and the fact that we were there early makes it an ideal spot for the steady accretion that turns into a party).

Bed comes eventually, and I wake up periodically. Each time, I toss down water, to stave off the impending apocalypse of a hangover. Eventually breakfast rolls around. My stomach is unsettled but I grab a muffin or two and drink more water. My head doesn't protest too much and moving around is starting to get me going. I grab my stuff from the hotel room, and Chris and I head over to the fields.

Math and Granularity!

A bit that's been distracting me recently. About two weeks ago I finished reading the first book in Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle, Quicksilver, which provides a narrative that encompasses the dispute between Liebniz and Newton regarding who created Calculus first (well... there's a bit more then that, but it provides background for a number of different narratives).

After revisiting the wonderful world of Math through fiction, it finally became clear to me that Calculus is an extension of geometry. Which I blissfully disregarded through the 2 or 3 calc classes I took. Sometimes, the minor epiphanies that you experience from taking a step back and looking at the whole (as opposed to focusing on the abstraction in front of you - in this case, just numbers, symbols, and the operations that translated these from one state to another), allow you to better understand how the smaller details fit together.

A Tendency Towards Stasis

So this one is likely to fall into the realm of "Setting things down so that I can go back and reevaluate, tear down, and refine later".



The starting point of all this is going to be Conway's Game of Life, which I was initially introduced to in a computer science class at the University of Puget Sound. For an expansive bit about it, you can head here.



The general idea is that Conway's Game of Life simulates a 2-dimensional universe with a finite set of rules that dictate how the state of a two dimensional infinity x infinity universe progresses from one turn to the next. Each point (cell) in the universe has one of two states, alive or dead. The "player" sets the initial states of however many cells that they would like and hits a button to start the universe. The rules take over from there. No additional input from "player" is required.



Once things start, the following rules dictate what happens to each cell in the universe:




1 - Any live cell with fewer than two live neighbours dies, as if by loneliness.
2 - Any live cell with more than three live neighbours dies, as if by overcrowding.
3 - Any live cell with two or three live neighbours lives, unchanged, to the next generation.
4 - Any dead cell with exactly three live neighbours comes to life.



The rules are applied simultaneously to every cell in the universe, producing the next generation, which is used as the seed for the following generation (ad infinitum).



Many patterns simply die out by virtue of the above rules, but others maintain a static configuration (consider a 2x2 grid where all cells are live). Some fluctuate between a series of multiple states (consider a line of three consecutive live cells in a horizontal bar - one turn later, the bar has become vertical, then switches back to horizontal on the following turn). Others move through the universe. They move in a direction without end (as long as they're not acted on by an outside object.... which starts to resemble Newton's laws of motion... but what else would you expect from a math game). There are even configurations that create the above patterns at a fixed period (shooting off moving bits every couple turns, leaving behind static or repeating chunks as they themselves move forward through the grid).



There's a Java based applet that you can play around with here that should give you a feel for Conway's Game of Life.

(Delay in completion of post. Approximately 3 days. Also, I am now at least partially drunk. Hell. All drunk. I poorly made Gimlets, and about 1/3 of a bottle of gin is now gone. After watching my dog Lance for about 2 hours, and finishing reading the book Microserfs by Douglas Copeland. Which, in the last couple of chapters starts talking about things of this nature. Also, I am now at the Mandolin Cafe, drinking coffee, imagining that I will be drinking more in the near future. Such a life. Amusing. My liver protests, but I say, to hell with it. Life less then 100 years ago was a matter of death by TB, Typhoid, infection. 200-300 years ago, plague. And more virulent and painful manners of death beyond. We did not have a life expectancy of 70.1. )

So to step in after the fact. The idea that I'm grasping at here is the thought of stability and the plunge into stable forms of existence. Any number of starting patterns in the game of life end up in a null state immediately. There are an infinite number of single cell starting points that terminate one round in. There are an infinite number of 2 cell starting states that end in failure one round in. And so on and so on. On an infinite grid, there are an infinite number of starting positions of one cell that end immediately. There are an infinite number of two cell starts that end immediately. There are in actuality an infinite number of X cell starting positions (with cells non-neighboring) that fail immediately. Ditto for 2 consecutive cell positions. Failure is not a miracle, but a fact of the game that is true in an infinite number of cases. But, if you were to look at this by itself, you become inundated with the possibility of immediate failure. There are also an infinite number of positions that result in an infinite lifetime for that very same universe simulator. Take a single periodic figure or generating figure, and you have a start state that runs forever. The thought of multiplying infinity is ridiculous, but, for a grid that is infinity x infinity (ever-expanding, no upper bounds, no lower bounds), there are an infinite number of start states that run forever, and infinite number of start states that end immediately. This fails to mention states that do not end immediately, but fail after a particular number of generations.

Those states that end immediately (or in X number of iterations), are inconsequential in this particular theoretical investigation. This universe has not ended yet, and while we may be X number of iterations from this event, (the Big Contraction...), we are currently on the way out, with no anticipated return date. And beyond this, matter in proximity to other matter is not unaffected in general, but is subject to gravity, which in turn is a product of X number of non-discrete distance related measurements.... Physical reality is a bitch when sober, and when drunk becomes an incomprehensible mumble. The only thing that we can hold onto here is that we exist now. And have existed X iterations in the past. At worst, this universe is a starting state that does not stop immediately. It goes on, and on and on. It may end un-heroically at some point. But it has not done so yet.

And perhaps our universe is not governed by rules of the quantity of proximal nodes (0r maybe it is). But it seems apparent by the actuality of existence that there are definite rules. Look to Newton, and the idea and rules surrounding gravity pop into the equation. To phrase this in terms of a Conway universe, you might add a rule to the effect of :

-If X exists in position (a,b) and Y exists in position (c,d), then the positions of figures X and Y in the next generation are determined and affected by the positions of each other.

But this is not the be all and end all of rules of attraction and conjunction. Think about high school chemistry and the idea of Valens electrons jumps in. Elements bond due to the number of electrons in the "outer sell" of a unit of that element.

The fact of stable compounds is a matter of bits and pieces of reality falling into stable forms. The idea of entropy is an idea of the component pieces of the universe falling apart. But things don't fall apart after joining without external forces. Entropy takes on a separate life under this constraint. Entropy becomes bits of the universe falling apart before they can become joined. Or joined pieces drifting apart before forming superstructures. While any universe can start with an infinite number of stable forms of existence (perpetual in themselves or given to propagation), it can also be said that a universe can start with both non-perpetual forms as well as forms that are perpetual as well. After a given number of generations, the non-perpetual forms will die out while those that have a form that encourages persistence will continue.

Life and existence then becomes a matter of matter falling into the forms that are in fact stable. By definition, anything that fails to fall into one of these forms will die off in a finite number of generations.

(To be continued...)

You Can't Spell R-U-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N Without Rum.

Very little sleep last night, and I've got three potential culprits. There were the two Americanos I had about three hours before I headed to bed. There was also the three hour nap that punctuated my afternoon... And there was also a stream of thought winding through the entire thing. So. My three choices are Caffeine, Sleep, or Thought. I'm going to say the nap was the primary mover and shaker of my sleep troubles. The caffeine was just an innocent bystander, while the thought was the logical following of lying awake in a dark room for three hours. So today, I'll lay waste to any thoughts of napping when I get home in favor of a night of deep, sound sleep.

A Dischord of Symmetries

Things finally begin to settle in the new place. There's little necessary bits and pieces that are missing, but I'm at least starting to figure out what those little bits and pieces are. The largest piece to come together recently was the preparation of the hot tub for actual use.

For the past month, it's been a matter of getting everything unpacked, things organized, routines established, and preparation for Sectionals. On Sunday, after having returned from Burlington, I decided to spend some time getting acquainted with what needed to be done to get the hot tub operational (being sore, tired, and desirous of a soak in aforementioned hot tub was a great motivation for this). The first step, as I saw it, would be a matter of getting the hot tub clean. The owners of the house I'm living in had ignored the hot tub for a year, and this had allowed it to become a cold pool of floating odds and ends (an unlucky spider, long gone to Davy Jones locker, floated morosely along the bottom). I needed to drain the tub, scrub it, and refill it. Then the mystical process of treating it with whatever manner of chemicals such things need could begin.

My initial thought was that I was going to have to work with my land lord to start getting it siphoned, and then bail as much as was left with a bucket. Being home on a Sunday afternoon, with some time to kill, I thought I'd invest a little time with the bucket. Two bucket loads of water in, with no noticeable impact on the water level, I was discouraged. I needed some mechanical process to do the grunt work. I pulled up the benches in the sauna to start poking at the pump and the associated workings of the hot tub.

About a week before I had found that the water level could be raised by virtue of a pipe with a valve that was apparently tied into the house's inbound supply of water from the city. I traced the pipe into the pump and noticed what appeared to be a gate of some sort along the way with three settings. One went back towards the inbound pipe (this was where the switch was currently set). Another went directly into the pump. The third I traced further along to a set of pipes reminiscent of the U-bend in drains under sinks. This is where I decide to pursue a course of action that could either end up a) breaking the pump b) flooding my apartment c) do nothing or d) greatly speed the process of emptying the tub. I flipped the switch around to third position and watched. Simply setting the switch was not lowering the water. I found the switch for the pump and turned it on. Eureka! Suction! The hot tub's filter started sucking greedily at the water. In less then five minutes, the water was down past the filter, and continued to drain. Obviously one of the plastic bits down towards the bottom also acted in that capacity. In practically no time, the tub was empty.

Also, green. Evidently the year had not been kind to it. I grabbed some old towels to sop up the remaining water at the bottom. I stepped into the tub and slipped a bit on the film that seemed to cover everything. After sopping, I decide that I need to take a break from the chore.

I approach it again the next day (Monday). On my way home from work, I stop at a store that specializes in spas and wood stoves and speak with one of the folks there about the process of cleaning and balancing. Evidently, I just need to make a solution of water and whatever the tub is shocked clean with and scrub away. He also gives me a container to get a water sample to bring in, so they can help me figure out what chemicals I might be missing to get the hot tub going.

Once home, I slog back into battle with things foul, with the aid of a bucket and an over sized sponge. I scrub surfaces! I lustily throw about liquid death (for algae and what not), and don't stop til the surfaces of the hot tub are blue once more. My hands reek of chlorine, but another step in this cycle is done. I suck up any liquid that ends up in the bottom of the tub with a shop vac that I borrowed from a friend, and once everything is pristine, I flip the switch back into it's original position, turn the faucet on, and start filling the tub. It fills quickly with the cold water that's inbound. I grab a water sample and set it aside to bring to the store the next day (Tuesday).

Day 3 in my battle against the powers of filth and cold water is much simpler. I stop by the store and after about 20 minutes am sent on my way with 3 bottles of spa chemicals, and a list of instructions. I pour the specified amounts in, and leave the pump on for the first time. This should bring up the temperature, and bring the hot tub within the proper ranges of pH, alkalinity, etc... Now all that's left is to grab another water sample the next day, bring it by to figure out if any additional chemical tinkering is necessary and then tinker.

Today is the fourth day. I worked from home and at lunch headed over to the spa store with a water sample (which is now at a toasty 105 degrees, huzzah!). The guy at the store pulls out his various reagents and starts testing. 6 tests later, the water in the tub is said to be perfect (no more tinkering!) and I'm sent on my way with some maintenance instructions.

Once home, I head over into the hot tub/spa room, move the chemicals to a safe place (a closet that Lance won't get into. You know how young dogs are when bored and alone... They'll sniff, chew, or lick anything) and sink into the water for the first time. All the work from the past couple of days evaporates in a haze of heat, bubbles, and steam.

Fickle, Fickle, Fickle!

So, I'm quickly finding that I need to change pace a little bit. As I started trying to dig into Emerson, I find myself losing traction. I need to throw a science/math/fiction curveball in to re-focus. So a trip to the Half-Price book store is upcoming. I've been meaning to read Neal Stephenson's The Baroque Cycle, so that may be up next.

But on to the meat. Quotes. After finishing Thoreau, I had two index cards, covered front and back with references to bits and pieces that I found quotable. And rather then retain a pair of index cards in perpetuity, digitization to commence. So on with that:

"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes."

"To be devoured by the monsters that swarm all around him, while contemplating the monsters in a drop of vinegar."

"Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious things."

"This spending of the best part of one's life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it."

"The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off."

"Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour."

"Solitude is not measured by the miles f space that intervene between a man and his fellows."

"Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations."

"Why should not a poet's cat be winged as well as his horse?"

"A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love."

"Why is it that a bucket of water soon becomes putrid, but frozen remains sweet forever? It is commonly said that this is the difference between the affections and the intellect."

"We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us ... and did not spend time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty."

"In a pleasant spring morning all men's sins are forgiven. Such a day is a truce to vice."

"The universe is wider then our views of it."

"Some can be patriotic who have no self-respect, and sacrifice the greater to the less."

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

"It requires more than a day's devotion to know and to possess the wealth of a day."

"What is it to be born free and not to live free? What is the value of any political freedom, but as a means to moral freedom? Is it a freedom to be slaves, or a freedom to be free, of which we boast?"

Spewing Quotes Like A Severed Artery

Finished Walden a little bit back, and I'll have some of those quotes to add when I get my bits of paper squared away, but in the mean time I've grabbed a few from Ralph Waldo Emerson as I start to read a book of his Essential Writings.



"All the world is taken in through the eyes, to reach the soul, where it becomes more, representative of a realm deeper than appearances: a realm ideal and sublime, the deep stillness that is..."



"The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon."



and one that I don't necessarily agree with:



"There is no object so foul that intense light will not make beautiful."



I'm not too far into Emerson yet, but am enjoying it thus far.

Bumbershoot. Day 3.

16 Bands. 2 t-shirts. 1 semi-riot. 1 Guitar Hero hat.



Bands Seen:
Head Like A Kite
Paramore
Monotonix
The Physics
The Offspring
Langhorne Slim & The War Eagles
Bedouin Soundclash
Two Gallants
J-Boogie's Dubtronic Science
Feral Children
Old 97s
Del The Funk Homo Sapien
Battles
Mike Doughty
Death Cab For Cutie
Minus The Bear


The mother lode of days. My friend Derek, who's been up in town for the Penny Arcade Expo, got a ticket for today, and has made it quite clear that he wants to hear at least 8 bands. I assure him, that such a task will be far easier then he imagines. The day starts a bit late. He set his alarm for 10pm (rather then am), and after getting back home the night before at about 2:30am, I hit the snooze button 15 or 16 times on my own alarm. We head out the door for Seattle about 11:00 and get parked and in the gate at about 12:10ish. I've been looking over the schedule and thought a good place to start would be the School of Rock: Northwest All-Stars. Apparently about half the folks in Seattle Center thought similarly and as we get to the EMP Sky Church, we're confronted by a line and a closed door. The house opened an hour ago, and the band is on, so this means that the venue's at capacity. With the line that's sitting there, we won't be getting into this one. So, we immediately turn around and head over to the Rock Star stage (with a quick stop at the booth to get tickets to the Main Stage in the evening - we hit the booth at a time that there wasn't a line, which was a first for me this weekend) to check out Chester French.

Somewhere along the way however, it appears that Chester French dropped from the lineup. As we're standing in the crowd waiting for them to come on the emcee comes up and introduces a band from San Francisco called Head Like A Kite. Apparently they got called some time the day before and drove through the night to come play at Bumbershoot. For a last minute acquisition, I was mighty impressed. The band was comprised of two guys: one sitting at a drum kit, and one moving from guitar to synth, to some other random bits and pieces. The music had a happy dance-fest vibe to it, that was much appreciated by the crowd. I enjoyed the hell out of it and we stuck around through the entire set.

Then we made our way towards the main stage to see Paramore (with a quick stop at the Guitar Hero: World Tour booth to get our RAWK on). Paramore was... angsty. Teen girl angsty. Looking down at the crowd, I was baffled at the presence of several mosh pits. Moshing? To this? About 3 or 4 songs in (all sounding quite similar) we decided to head off to grab some food and check out another act. I grabbed some African fare from the Horn of Africa booth (tasty!) and we headed over to the Fisher Green stage and caught a little bit of The Physics (NW hip hop) as we ate. Food consumed, an executive decision was made to head over to the Exhibition Hall to check out Monotonix, which was billed as an Israeli band that put on an amazing live show. On the way in, I ran into Dustin, a guy that's been coming out to Tacoma pickup this past summer/winter. He's a writer for a blog called The Consequence of Sound I found out, so he's got press credentials to wander about with.

To say that Monotonix puts on a "great live show" is somewhat of an understatement. A more accurate representation would be to say that they put on a great riot set to some killer music. Whereas every other band was setup on stage, Monotonix eschewed this formula and set themselves up on the floor of the exhibition hall. And not front in center, but right square in the middle. The crowd pressed in tight around them, radiating outwards. Near the center, you could see a handful of folks with their cameras in the air, aimed down at the action, recording video and snapping photos furiously. I could hear drums, but couldn't see the drummer. I was made aware of the singer as he prompted the crowd to lift him and sang as he crowd surfed. Then he gestured for a trash barrel, hopped inside and had the crowd surf him around in that for a bit (it fell, he hopped out, and kept going full steam). Then, guitarist was lifted atop the crowd, ripping through a solo while aloft. About three or four songs into the set (10-15 minutes), an event official hopped up on stage and cut the set short, and indicated that the crowd needed to disburse. A wave of one finger salutes were thrown up and things got a bit cagey until the singer hopped up on stage and in broken English apologized for the short set and let the crowd know that they were fantastic. The rambling, broken speech that the singer got into lasted about as long as the set did. We got herded towards the exit, and I promptly bought a Monotonix shirt. I need to see this band in a venue that is a little bit more .... open minded...?

We headed back to catch a little bit more of The Physics, and around 3:10pm, headed towards the main stage to see The Offspring. I've seen The Offspring before, and they put on a great show on both occasions. The crowd were packed in tight up near the barrier as they walked on to the stage. As they launched into their first song, the crowd erupted into a writhing mass. Circle pits spontaneously forming, nebulizing off into other areas. Hoses were pulled out a couple songs in and the crowd was sprayed down. At one point, a kid in a wheel chair got crowd surfed (in his wheel chair!). After that song was done, the band indicated that that was the most awesome crowd surfer they had ever seen. I would have to agree on that one. Their set was a solid mix of old songs (Bad Habit, Gotta Get Away, Self Esteem) and some of the new stuff (You're Gonna Go Far, Kid). We left towards the middle/end of the set to catch a little bit of Langhorne Slim and the War Eagles at the Starbucks stage.

We arrived for the last three songs of the Langhorne Slim set, and the little that I heard was good. He had a great rapport with the audience, and had some free form conversations during portions of the songs. After his set finished, we headed over to the Fisher Green stage to check out the Bedouin Soundclash, who apparently had gotten a Juno in 2006 for best new band of the year. The lawn area was full, so we pulled out our IDs and headed into the beer garden area, and spluttered through an awful tasting $7 beer (a bit skunky, and a small portion. Everything could possibly hope for when paying out the ass for a beer). The band was not good. Not particularly original and pretty blah stage performance. This called for an immediate chug and hasty exit.

We headed over to the Rockstar Stage once more to see Two Gallants (from the Bumbershoot web site write up - "combine American folk, country, and blues with an undeniably punk rock energy"). Not impressed by this one. I had high hopes based on the description, but didn't find them to live up to the whole "punk rock energy" thing. Also, I think one of their songs was essentially about being a big douche bag (although the whiny, slur made it a bit hard to tell).

We leave to head over to J-Boogie's Dubtronic Science, who put on a nice show. We sit down and take the opportunity to recuperate after the first half of the day. At this point, it's about 6pm, and we've exceeded Derek's goal of 8 bands. And we still have half a day to go.

Next up on the agenda is Feral Children in the EMP Sky Church. Thwarted at our earlier attempt to get in, we show up about 10 minutes early and find the venue to already be near capacity. We grab a spot near the back edge and slowly work our way in closer to the stage. The band comes on and the drums are front and center. Two sets in fact. The singer stands at one set, and the drummer at the other. They launch into their set and remind me a lot of early Modest Mouse. Another high point in the weekend, an we stick through almost the entire set. One of the best bands I've seen this weekend. As we leave, I buy another T-shirt.

The Old 97s! One of the bands that I've wanted to catch live for awhile! We get to the stage a bit late (their set overlaps with Feral Children) and find some real estate to occupy. The show is solid, and I hear a bunch of songs that I like, but after the energy of the previous show, it's a bit anticlimactic. Food is eaten, and another trip made to the Fisher Green Stage.

This time, Del The Funky Homo Sapien. I swear he makes a reference to "rhyming like a nocerous". Is Flight of the Conchords so pervasive? Or is Del independently getting there? This one is a quick stop for us. We head back towards the Rockstar Stage after a couple songs to here Battles.

Battles is math-rock. Or so says the information guide. If so, then I need to check out more math rock. They were fantastic. And definitely helped by the group of generous folks next to us who had sneaked in a bottle of whiskey. A few swigs later, and I'm feeling a nice warmth spreading through my chest while listening to some great music. We stick through the rest of the set (I had planned on checking out Sondre Lerche, but that stage was distant and the music here was good), and then head over to the Starbucks Stage for Mike Doughty.

Mike Doughty was just taking the stage as we arrived. He launched into his first song, and I knew immediately that we would be heading to another stage shortly. This felt a little bit too much like a low rent Dave Matthews. I'm not an immense fan of Dave, and Mike just wasn't doing it for me either. We gave him the benefit of the doubt and stuck through about 3 songs, but it didn't get much better. We moved on. To the main stage.

Death Cab for Cutie were next on our list. We hit the stadium and grabbed a seat. The stands were packed and we ended up pretty high up off to the left of the stage. They were solid, although much like STP I felt that the stage show was a bit off kilter from what they were playing. The band was jumping and moving like they were playing some intensely fast thrashcore. Which was not the case. And Ben Gibbard had this odd retreat and attack thing going on with the microphone. He'd throw some words into the microphone, then take 3 quick steps back with his head down as he played guitar, and then slide back up to microphone like a snake attacking a mouse. This was repeated over and over again through all of the songs we were there for.

We left after about 25-30 minutes to go see the last band of the day/Bumbershoot, Minus the Bear. When I was initially checking the line up for Bumbershoot, this was the show on Monday that I most anticipated. And I can happily say that I wasn't disappointed in the least. The set was satisfyingly long and the venue wasn't overly packed (back at the Rockstar Stage). This was the perfect way to end the festival.

It was close to an exit, so after it was over, we headed out without a whole lot of foot traffic obstructing us (Death Cab was on the other side of Seattle Center). We walked the 7 or 8 blocks to the car, hopped in, and started the drive back to Tacoma. We got home around 12. I had to get up for work the next day at 4:30am. Fuck it. A beer was needed to wind down on a hell of a weekend.

Bumbershoot. Day 2.

11 Bands. 1 Comedy show.

Bands Seen:
The Lonely H
Sage
Matt Jorgensen +451
The Blakes
The Tripwires
Howlin Rain
These Arms Are Snakes
Speaker Speaker
The Black Keys
Stone Temple Pilots
Tapes 'n Tapes

Comedy Show:
Michele Buteau
Janeane Garofalo

A different mode of transportation! As I had a friend crashing at my place, and he happened to borrow a car from his grandparents, and also was headed to Seattle (for Penny Arcade Expo in his case), I decided to do the noble thing and let him drive (for the sake of the planet and all that...). The Penny Arcade Expo was at the Convention Center in the middle of downtown Seattle, so I was still a short hop away from my destination. I walked down to third avenue and hopped a bus down to the Seattle Center. Time of Arrival: around 10:30am. Which meant I had a half hour to kill. I set myself in line (which already had stretched halfway down the block on near the Pacific Science Center, and pulled out Cryptonomicon, the book I had brought in anticipation of this excess bit of time available.

For those unfamiliar, Cryptonomicon is a rangy book that spans three narratives concerning 1) a World War 2 cryptanalyst, 2) a marine in a detachment that is created to protect the secret that particular enemy codes have been broken, and 3) a 20th Century tech start up involving the grandson of #1. Part war story, part primer on information theory, part treasure hunting adventure. And all of it's wrapped together that makes a math nerd squeal in delight. Unfortunately all this bound amazingness comes in an 1100 page package that would weigh down my pocket all day. Despite it's size, I'd highly recommend it though. Maybe not as festival going fare, but Neal Stephenson tells a mean story (see Snow Crash...).

The gates open, and the line gets moving. I'm swept inside with about an hour and a half to kill before the first band goes on. Luckily, I have two tasks to initially keep me occupied.

The first, is to get a ticket to one of the comedy shows. In particular, I had seen that Zach Galifinakis had pulled out, and I thought I had seen a reference to David Cross replacing him on Saturday. These tickets are handed out at a booth in the middle of the festival grounds, and I hurried in that direction, to be confronted with another impressive demonstration of queueing power. No reading here however, as the line moves efficiently forward. A mark of a sharpie on my ticket, and I'm guaranteed a spot in a show featuring Michelle Buteau and Janeane Garofalo (either David Cross only did the one day, or I misread).

Number two on my list is to get a main stage pass for the evening. Day two boasts both The Black Keys and Stone Temple Pilots on the main stage for Sunday night. Again, a brief walk, followed by an efficient line. I am spat out of the entire preparation process with my main stage pass and comedy show ticket in tow over by the EMP Sky Church venue (which is where the first band I'll be seeing is getting set up). The time is now 11:30. One hour til showtime. I grab a slab of concrete, pull out my book, and pray that the 30% chance of showers that I had seen in the forecast doesn't construct itself into reality.

The sky maintained its composure (although a few drops leaped to their dooms, they thankfully proved to be exceptions). About five minutes before the show, I headed into the venue and caught some rail space for The Lonely H. The entire band looked to be in high school (or just barely out of), but were decked out in full 70s rock star regalia. As they took the stage and launched into their first song, all I could think was that the 70s had thrown up on stage, and it was a good thing. Lots of energy from these guys. Everything that I like about classic hard rock wrapped into a shiny new veneer. I headed out about a forty-five minutes into their set to get over to the Rock Star Stage to check out a band called Sage.

Sage, per the event description, was a band reminiscent of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I didn't entirely see the similarity, but they were a solid act. This was the band that I had thought I was going to start my day with, but their set was offset from that of The Lonely H by fifteen minutes giving me an opportunity to see both. And to their detriment, The Lonely H put on a hell of a show, which made the low key nature of their set seem a bit less impressive then it likely was.

Next up were comedians! In a theatre! I crossed the Seattle Center grounds to see a massive line in front of the theatre. Assuming default sheep demeanor, I hopped in and proceeded to stand. I got in the line 15 minutes before the show (which was supposed to start seating a half hour before the show) and proceeded to stand in one spot for the next 10 minutes. Something did not seem right...

The general mechanic for the comedy shows is apparently such. They distribute a finite number of tickets from the Comedy Pass booth every morning. These tickets fill up some percentage of the seats. In addition, a Standby line is formed at the entrance to the venue. Anybody can stand in the Standby line and gets the opportunity to fill one of the remaining seats. Once the seats are filled they tell the rest of the line to go to hell and all is dandy in the world of the comedy stage. Now when I arrived at the front of the theater, a sign was displayed near the venue saying that the entrance was in such a direction (which the line was originating from) and the exit was in another direction. After 10 minutes, I became suspicious. I hopped out of line (even if it was the ticket holder line, I was guaranteed a spot by the shiny piece of paper in my pocket) and headed towards the entrance along the side of the line to talk to one of the Bumbershoot staff folks.

As it turns out, a second line did exist for people with tickets, but this line had disappeared inside far earlier then I had arrived. The Standby line had thickened into a mass that obscured where this line had been. The staff folks walked me through the line of Standby people into the cool interior of the theatre. Having dodged that bullet, I made my way to a seat, and prepared for the show. The emcee came on, joked for about 10 minutes (introducing the phrase, "I was so excited, I Bumbershit my pants...") and introduced the first comedienne. Michele Buteau was from New York and her act had a primarily sexual bent. Amusing and also charming. Then it's time for Janeane. She comes on and starts immediately with politics. She is a seething ball of anti-conservative rage and most of her act is political satire laced with diatribes. In the middle of her act, a group of four or five folks stand up and leave saying loudly that they came "for comedy, not for politics". Did they not know who they were getting in to see? Janeane was on Air America! She's in the Satiristas show (at Bumbershoot), which is entirely political humor. She is the female liberal foil to whatever white male conservative dares to grace the airwaves. And on top of all this, we're in the middle of an election year! To assume that she's going to make nice about politics is possibly the least informed thought that you could have. And living in Western Washington, you have to expect a lot of yes-men for this type of thing (there was a lot whistling, clapping, and loud displays of agreement as she went through her bit. This was not a particularly conservative audience)

The walk out shakes her a bit. She falls back to some other topics, trying to get her feet under her. Babies (and her non-desire for them). Marriage (and her non-desire to be engaged in such). Then family. And this leads her back. Her dad is apparently conservative, so arguments come up, and she's right back into the flow of political satire. She does go off the crazy conspiracy end for a bit ("every cell phone, even if it's turned off allows the government to track your usage of certain words..."). As a whole I enjoy it thoroughly (although, as usual find that all political discourse comes down to a stark us vs. them breakdown, that's more invective then truthful representation).

Comedy show done, I head over to the Wells Fargo for some Northwest Jazz. The hectic artist to artist jumping portion of my day is about to begin. Matt Jorgensen +451 is a good band to ramp up for this. It eases me back into the music side of things and gives me a chance to grab some food sit down and masticate like a champ (jazz is approved by 5 out of 6 professional masticators for post-comedy mastications).

Then, a quick trip into the Exhibition Hall to see The Blakes. The Blakes were a solid entertaining group. Not quite on par with the high points on my weekend thus far (Beck, Throw Me The Statue, PWRFL Power), but definitely avoiding the basement. Now a jaunt over to the Sky Church again for The Tripwires, a band that is supposed to be "Beatles-esque". I don't get any of this vibe from them, and leave after two or three songs. I got more of a "bastard love child of the Cherry Popping Daddies and Sum 41" kind of thing out of it.

In any case, this sits lowest in my evaluation of the day until I arrive over at the Rockstar Stage to hear Howlin' Rain. And to borrow a phrase from earlier, it's like the 70s threw up on stage. This time though, it's not in a good way. I get the feeling that this group of guys has actually been playing together since the late 60s/early 70s. And where they didn't get huge initially (because they had X number of immensely talented psychedelia/funk/arena rock bands at the time), through a sheer battle of attrition, they have gotten to the point where the world demands Y number of psychedelia/funk/arena rock bands and they happen to be #Y on the list. I sit around for a bit (as there is a distinct lack of other things to check out in the next half hour) and get some more reading done.

As 5:00 pm rolls around I get up and head back towards the Exhibition Hall to see These Arms Are Snakes. I enter to see the singer shirtless, with the microphone wrapped around his neck, leaping around as if possessed. Hardcore. Indeed. This is the first show of the weekend where I see the band (actually just the singer) get down on the floor and interact with the crowd. He climbs the little barricade and hops out into the crowd for a bit of crowd surfing. The sound is schizophrenic. And I dig. 45 minutes of crazy later and I'm back outside with a half hour to kill before Speaker Speaker comes on at the Sky Church. I snack on free samples and then find a bargain in terms of food. A plate of basmati rice with Alo Chole (potatoes and garbanzo beans) from a booth serving up Indian food. With the addition of a Mango Lemonade, I'm ready to roll.

The information guide for the festival indicates that Speaker Speaker is a brand of pop-punk that is sonically close kin with Ted Leo (one of my favorite artists). Now this sets an expectation. And the expectation is the baseline for comparison. And this becomes a hurdle in the way of my enjoyment. The band plays well. They're definitely into their set and having a good time up on stage. I'm on the rail on the side of the stage that they come up from, and I hear the pre-show banter with some of the crowd they know. Talking about the show they had a week ago where 8 people were there (they had fun though!). MarioKart (I'm gonna bring those sparks!). But they aren't Ted Leo. More along the lines of The Ataris. And my dilemma here is that I've come in expecting Ted Leo, and gotten The Ataris instead. This is a bait and switch that leaves me a bit dissatisfied. I'm starting to think at this point that the informative little summaries of the bands are less then helpful for me. This realization comes a bit late though. I know the next three bands, and have known them for a significant portion of time prior to Bumbershoot.

Next in my schedule is Jakob Dylan, formerly of The Wallflowers. I get to the stage, look at the packed, shoulder to shoulder crowd, and decide immediately that I'd rather find some prime real estate for The Black Keys and Stone Temple Pilots then stick around. And given my anticipated proximity to the stage, I'm going to try and get out of the Stone Temple Pilots set early in order to catch a few songs by Final Fantasy and Tapes 'n Tapes.

More reading commences as I wait the half hour for The Black Keys to come on. The Black Keys are spectacular. There's only two of them, so they don't physically fill the space they've been given (the Main Stage is large), but their sound is huge and crunchy. The set goes by quickly. I'm in disbelief that an hour could pass that fast. T-minus thirty minutes until Stone Temple Pilots come on. The book comes out, and I read by cell phone light in the quickly fading half-light.

9:15 comes around. The filler song playing through the house system ends. There's a few second pause and the crowd noise swells in anticipation. Then, another song comes over the house system. The crowd subsides back to it's default dull roar. The song ends and goes quiet. 6 seconds. 7 seconds. This has got to be it! The crowd lets the decibel level climb again. And then another song from the house system. The false starts keep happening for about a half hour. The Stone Temple Pilots were supposed to be on at 9:15 and it's 9:20. 9:25. 9:30. 9:35. Around me the crowd thinks that it's got to be something with Scott Weiland. He's drunk. Throw some water on his ass and get him out here. No, he's back on heroin. He OD'd. A tour bus rolls in around 9:35ish. 10 minutes later STP takes the stage.

The music rocks. It rattles, jumps, and hisses. Lounge Fly, Creep, Vaseline, ...! I'm solidly gripped by it all (Purple was the first or second CD that I ever owned). One bit of eh? here. As the music is sonically pummeling the front rows of the audience, he sings and moves around. But it's almost like he's in the middle of an interpretive dance. He's moving at a different speed and level of intensity then everything around him.

I pop out of the set after 8 or 9 songs and head over towards the Wells Fargo stage to see if Final Fantasy is still on. He is not. I head in the opposite direction to catch the tail end of the Tapes 'n Tapes set. Happily I'm there for about 3 songs before their set ends. A good stage presence and some great songs leave me with some warm fuzzies at the end of day 2.

My friend is still up in Seattle, so I give him a call and meet him at a 7-11 near the Seattle Center. It's 11pm. Tomorrow's a holiday, and he's got a pair of friends in the car from Victoria. We head to Dick's to put a food cap on the evening. One Dick's Deluxe, fries, and milk shake later and all of a sudden the night needs some drinks. We drive around downtown Seattle looking for some parking. We abortively attempt to park in a garage and leave when we find out that they close in five minutes. Time is starting to dwindle til last call hours. We head back to the hotel that the Canadians are staying at. Parking here is on site, so we get inside the parking garage and start spiraling up looking for a spot. We head past reserved spaces aplenty. Then the handicap spaces pop up.

"Wait," I say, "This is your grandparents car." I look up in the visor, and sure enough, a handicap permit is present. Time saved (albeit through nefarious handicap space stealing ways), we touch down in the hotel bar. The waiter comes by to tell us that it's last call. Shit! The table orders before me. A beer each for the Canadians. A beer for my friend. I, being a forward thinker, order a beer AND a gin and tonic. The Canadians immediately change their drink order. My friend Derek retains his one beer as he'll be driving back. In a land that's about to stop serving alcohol, you've got to make the most of the time that you've got. We talk for a bit and then part ways. Time for sleep.