Category Archives: Nonsense

While “nonsense” is an uncommon synonym of “gimcrackery,” I use the two differently. “Nonsense” is restricted to my fantastical weirdness. “Gimcrackery,” more often, documents my (more or less truthful) struggle with the world.

I appreciate blunt friends

I have as of late been moaning and whining incessantly at 2 very blunt friends of mine. The moaning and whining arises from a personal crisis that requires honesty and pragmatism to quell (and possibly address). Some friends I confided in erred on the side of consideration and immediate kindness. I appreciate that – but the wounds within continue festering.

The bluntness is like a sudden splash of cold water, like the shock you get when you drop off the boat thinking that Hawaiian water is warm. In ordinary conversation, it might seem like “well, not really what I was looking for,” but it is a necessary thing that I ultimately look fondly back at.

Bruce rattled the fence as he clambered up. He lithely made his way down, turning right at the corner peach tree, continuing to the grimy bathroom window, and hanging a final left into the homeward stretch.

Bruce stopped. Home was supposed to be here, just off the fence. This was not home.

He paused. He turned in place (an impressive feat even with his feline grace) and retraced his steps – right, past a spotless bathroom window, and left at the apricot tree. Bruce’s nose perked up. He had passed here only moments before, but none of his scent lingered. It was as though he had never been here.

Unnerved, he turned again, one paw slipping audibly on the usually steady fence. Right at the lemon tree, past the blank wall, and left to the home fence. Nothing. A nondescript backyard, not very tidily swept – definitely not Bruce’s home.

Bruce did not turn around again. He continued down the fence. If he was lost, he could always find his way home from the neighborhood streets he knew best. He passed the four-way at the juncture of houses and continued on, eager to hop off the fence.

But the street was not ahead. He came instead to another four-way fence meet-up. Bruce turned left. He must have been accidentally running parallel to the street.

Five fence intersections later, Bruce was still lost and increasingly unsure why all the houses here formed a perfect grid with no egress to the street. Stranger still was the unnatural calm. There were far fewer crickets than August usually provided. Every single house was dark, even though it was scarcely an hour after sundown. Bruce hadn’t run into another living thing – not even a pesky dog to taunt.

Bruce bent and made to drop off the fence.

He froze immediately and couldn’t move. Waves of foreboding crashed over him. The yard, sparsely planted and somewhat unkempt, leered malevolently at him. Bruce knew that he absolutely could not stray from the safety of the fence.

Bruce slowly straightened up.

Meow. A plaintive and confused sound escaped him.

Meow. Bruce just wanted to get home.

Meow. Bruce was scared.

Meow. Bruce was lost.

Meow.

The unending grid of cold houses stretched unimaginably far in all directions.

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“How glad I am!”

Peter was excited to visit someplace new. He milled around more excitedly than usual, bumping up against all his classmates. Down the ramp he galloped, taking in all the fresh smells and sounds. The road to the unfamiliar building was narrow and fenced closely. Peter squinted and saw someone sitting in the grass beyond the path, outside the enclosed confines in which he was walking.

“Hello!” said Peter.

“Hello,” came the distant reply.

“My name is Peter,” said Peter, “who are you?”

“I am Paul.”

“Paul, what are you doing there? Why are you outside the boundaries that we trust and know to be safe?”

“Because it’s not my lot to be there, Peter.”

“What rubbish, Paul. It’s safe in here. You get fed, you won’t get sick, and you won’t be exposed to the elements. How glad I am not to be you, Paul!”

Paul made no reply, watching as Peter rambled his way into the building. Through a grimy window, he glimpsed the path transitioning into a conveyor, feeding an enormous machine.

“Paul, you will someday grow old, grow sick, or grow weak – and then you will die in any number of ways before your time! How glad I am not to be you, Paul!” Peter trotted to the end of the path and stopped walking as the conveyor took up his motion.

The machine belched black smoke out its top and gushed red waves out the bottom, moaning and groaning like a vengeful spirit. Peter did not notice his that his classmates were one by one entering the machine but not obviously emerging from it.

“Paul, life is good like this! How glad I am not to be you, Paul!” Shadow fell over Peter as he was swept whole into the machine.

“How glad I am not to be you, Paul!” and Peter said no more.

Paul made no reply, bowing his head.

158

We the people jointly accept a death tax of 30.000 people per year on the road (NHTSA 2015). That means that by the time you tear your eyes away from the device reading this, someone will have died in a traffic accident somewhere in the US. We don’t have the means to fix this right now, so we live with it and don’t think about it.

What happens when we throw flying cars into the mix? The motions of driving are regulated by virtue of roads being essentially one-dimensional. If we give the controls to anyone who can wave a license at you, what then? If such a disturbing percentage of our population has trouble staying on a road, how can we expect them to safely operate something that can traverse (and fail) in all 3 dimensions? (Failure will mostly involve a downward trajectory. You do not come to a stop in the air like you stop on the road if your vehicle fails. You fall, and woe betide anything in the way of your landing.)

My worry is that we will shrug and accept it. Suppose just 20 people per year get guillotined, crushed, or crashed by flying car incidents. Do we shrug and consign the report to the bottom corner of the paper? Do we accept that death has just become that much more random?

Suppose some hotshot startup creates a true transporter (I.E. one that doesn’t have the swampman problem) and makes it viable for private use. Everyone can operate one from the comfort of their home. The catch is that seriously improper misoperation will lead to an explosion that can take out two city blocks (not unreasonable for a transporter, I think). You don’t want your gin-bottle neighbor to have something like that, do you?

No death is acceptable. If we believe that willfully opening up new avenues to unexpected termination is a substantially different evil from ignoring the deaths that currently plague us (and yes, we need to work on those too), then we should oppose the freeform development of flying cars until the state and federal governments can work together to strongly regulate this dangerous and negatively disruptive industry.

“Hi,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Pablo Hidalgo.”

I grinned. “And I’m John Williams.”

He didn’t react. He stared blankly at me, still vacantly pumping our hands up and down.

“No, really,” I said, “no joking, who are you?”

“Pablo” sighed and motioned for me to sit. I did, still studying the old man behind the desk. This wasn’t Pablo – a few short years ago, Pablo had been so alive, zipping around the Twitterverse in an unending quest to straighten the Star Wars canon. Here I beheld a tired, thinly stretched, and graying old man who could have passed for a Jedi in exile.

“Did you orchestrate this?” Would-be Pablo held up the printed cue faintly.

“Yes.” I was more confused than peeved. Scoring was hard work, and this was the first time I had been referred to the story department on matters of music. It shaped up like a pointless dent in my schedule for wholly unmusical reasons. “Is something the matter?”

“You indicate that this cue,” said Pablo weakly, “incorporates a men’s choir.”

“Yes.”

Pablo sighed. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’ll have to rethink this. If you’ve built anything in particular around the sound of a men’s choir, that’s also out.”

I wasn’t shocked, but my annoyance now overtook my confusion. “Just a minute, please. What about a men’s choir is so objectionable that the story group has to step in to interfere with the scoring process?”

Pablo didn’t answer. He lay his forearms on the table, wrapping both hands wearily around a bright green mug.

“I’d really like an answer, ‘Pablo,’ because that is a lot to ask.”

I suddenly noticed the veins in Pablo’s forearms. They stood out vividly as though they had been stenciled in with magic marker. He was straining – and he was gripping his fluorescent mug pretty hard.

“Is this about that silly Sno – ”

CRASH. I flinched. The mug had shattered from between Pablo’s hands. A gash in his palm pulsed heavily, and blood began to dribble out.

“You’re bleeding, my god, you’re bleeding. Are you okay? Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Stop.” Pablo hadn’t moved.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Just.” Pablo was still sitting ramrod-straight. “Just. Please.” He didn’t sound hurt, just wearier than ever. Maybe that was shock. “Please redo this cue.” He looked me in the eye. “And please don’t try using a men’s choir again.” The cut in his hand was slowly pooling blood among the ceramic shards of his former mug.

I bolted out the door. I had passed a first-aid kit next to the hand sanitizer on my way in.

154

MIT wants your input?

Why the hell would they care about your input? Where is your input when alcohol mixed with driving kills a person in the United States every 53 minutes? Where is your input when you calculate the CDC-given figure and realize this amounts to 10,000 deaths per year? We are paying a human tax of 10,000 people per year because drunk drivers do not want and do not accept your input on “who ought to die.”

Are you, oh prideful sack of flesh, taught properly in your high school driver’s ed class on “who ought to die?” Have you ever thought about that? Has it ever come into play in a real-life situation, where the driver behind the wheel had the power to decide who lived and who died? And who was ever faulted for the decision in a true Kobayashi Maru?

This is beyond asinine. There is no issue. Simply have the autonomous car give its best effort. After all, since when have humans done any better?

The prince surely dies

A.S.E. left the ending ambiguous; the disappearing body of the prince suggests that some magic beyond adult understanding was at work, and that the little prince made it home safe and sound to his rose. I have seen discussion that “since the rest of the book was a fantastical fable, why should this bit be taken literally?”

  1. Did his flock of interplanetary migratory birds suddenly decide to not pick him up? In the first place, how the heck did he hitchhike off of them? Why would snakebite be any faster than candlelight? I think the implication is that he was marooned in the desert with nowhere to go – such is the case with the narrator, too, who does not end up in the desert by choice, and only escapes out of some lucky turn (we know that he almost dies of thirst before finding the well a week into the story). The prince was invulnerable to thirst, but he was wholly unable to transit independently between planets. Faced with the prospect of living forever removed from his beloved home, he chooses death.
  2. Why was the prince scared? Surely zipping home via snakebite is a lot less risky than flying through the hazards of outer space borne by a flock of birds. If the snakebite would just send him home, why was there any risk to the narrator? At worst he finds himself on the prince’s planet, and would have to find his way to earth as the prince did initially. No, the worst case is not a sudden comical detour to the prince’s home; the fear is that the worst case is death by a treacherous snake.

I would explain away the missing body as the narrator becoming disoriented or an overnight sandstorm obscuring the view.

The belief that he is actually home safe and sound is merely a nicety – a pretense used in a vain attempt to curtail the narrator’s sorrow at his passing, not so unlike the lie we repeat to ourselves that the deceased are “in a better place.”

J39M

149: And in the newest trashy crossover…

After sis called me about moving (I think around 9 AM) I was pretty groggy and unable to leave bed. I fell into a shallow sleep.

I was the silly secret sidekick of Andrew Scott, who now found himself under arrest. To the policemen who had cuffed him, I was some nosy passerby in a hoodie with a penchant for mouthing off to the authorities. I waved a few grapes at them and ate with great gusto. Delicious, sweet vitamin C. I juggled some and kept talking pretty quickly, waffling over their limp attempts to shoo me away. I spritzed everyone liberally with grape juice just by squeezing a single grape – and it kept dispensing juice, over and over and over. It never seemed to deflate.

An unnamed officer finally lost his temper and made to confiscate this dangerous weapon. I feigned handing it over when my fingers “slipped” – the grape snapped improbably up my sleeve and rolled into my jacket pocket; the gawking officers were too busy being misdirected by my now-empty left hand to notice my waiting right hand receiving the grape. Andrew rolled his eyes in that languid, evil-genius way that he had cultivated for Sherlock.

I “conjured” the grape into my right hand and gave everyone one last liberal spritz. The fuming officers were on the verge of arresting me when Andrew stood straight. “Right,” he said, “I’m out.” The courtesy handkerchief slipped off his wrists to reveal that they were no longer cuffed.

Foxtrot foxtrot sierra

There was talk for a while, but that went away quickly when everyone saw how compatible those two were. Their sickeningly sugary chemistry sank into the collective consciousness of Satoru’s circle (Airi’s gossiped a while longer) and no more was said about the age difference.

Their marriage was a stable and happy one. Airi wanted very much to take the Fujinuma name, while Satoru pushed back with how prettily “Katagiri” rolled off the tongue. He attracted some knowing looks from his assistants the next day, wearing a stiff collared shirt that did not fully obscure a red crescent on his neck. Airi took the Fujinuma name and that was the end of it.