If winning is not everything, why do they keep score?

FINALLY:  http://sandboxsports.net/drop-in-sessions/

I can't stress enough what an awful pain in the ass it was to google for pickup volleyball.  Normally, google is so efficient that I actually use it instead of documentation;  in fact I am occasionally so good the preview text in the search results tells me what to know.

This is not the case with volleyball.  If you google for volleyball in Seattle, you will get nothing but lame and outdated websites with bad information.  They appear to have been designed in the 90s, and are so old they actually post personal information of individual players and make the assumption that you are willing to use a telephone to inquire about matches.  One of the google search results was some kind of "capitol hill blog."  The posts were written as articles, but they were, in fact, the worst-written articles I've ever seen.  You know how a typical article often gives you a quick tag, and then more information, and then, sometimes even,  even more information, before going all the way back to the beginning?  The writer of the capitol hill blog doesn't do that.  He gives you a tag line that is almost unrelated to the article, and then he dives into some historical bromide you don't care about.

Anyway.  Before we continue please listen to this song--just middle-click the link without looking.

So yeah I put the volleyball link up there.  That's really all I needed this for.  That, and to say maybe after attending one pickup volleyball night, and going to Vancouver, I'm going to call this round of "meeting people" done.  I've been trying to get around to visiting Vancouver for about 3 years now, though, so don't be surprised if I continue talking about it and not doing it.

I read most of this fun statistics book called The Tipping Point.  I thought it was very interesting.  By the way, fun fact:  Forbes, the periodical that is heavily biased in favor of big business, once implied that it thought The Tipping Point was lame.

You and me babe ain't nothing but mammals, so lets do it like they...yeah ever since there was talk of me possibly karaoke-singing that song at the work party last Saturday, I've had it stuck in my head.  I never ended up singing it;  the drinks were expensive and I had noticed that one of my friends brought a female friend that I wanted to hook up with so I spent the end of the night stumbling around trying to find them.  Wow that sounds a lot different in writing.  I'm not like this in real life, honest.

Anyway.  So this book.  The Tipping Point.  Actually it might have been a completely different book with another name--Freakonomics?  Shit I don't remember which one, only that I never bothered to finish either of them.  Anyway.  So one of them talks about social interaction, and how, because of the size of our brains, human communities cannot grow past about 150 people without cliques and mini-communities forming.  It also mentioned the six degress to kevin bacon thing, and introduced these people it called "connectors."  A connector is like the opposite of me;  they love meeting people even if they are not girls, and they are extroverts and think about others a lot.  They play some role in society that the book droned on about.  What I was interested in was this anecdote about this one example of a "connector" dude who had an enormous list of people he had met and their birthdays, and he had some system of sending cards to people he barely knew and he was good at it.  That struck me as funny because I thought that was cheating;  I assumed all the extroverts would do this naturally, and only shy people and introverts use systems and have to write shit down.  I don't know.  What I do know, is that even if I am not an extravert, I think I may be able to fake it with technology.  We are still light years from me truly understanding that girls want me to voice call them instead of texting, but I can at least devise some system into fooling all of my acquaintances into believing that I am thinking of them.  Fuck, maybe I'll even start sending christmas cards.  I think christmas cards are lame (unless a girl sends one to me, and even then, don't bother sending one if you never plan to see me in real life) but maybe I could just send something witty?  Or even better, something offensive.  Lets put that aside for another time.

Faking it.  Oh I had two ideas.  What were they?  Um...ok one was this system where instead of making lists of things to do, I make lists of people to hang out with (or friends that I need to see periodically in order to maintain friendship--the inability of other people to assume that every relationship they have is frozen in time no matter how many years you've been apart is a real drag).  So like I'm writing down "LaserQuest / Go Karts" and under it some people from work.  Actually, I literally wrote "some people from work."  Don't really care who comes.  Hey shut up; I'm a work in progress.

That was supposed to be the second idea.  What was the first--oh yeah.  I could start a secret blog that only I can read, and write in it about the people I meet.  This should be more efficient than texting girls names + clues to myself as I meet them (oh "Andrea hot bar girl" where did you go?).

Yeah, uh...this is the best I've come up with.  Volleyball, and like, writing about people.  And making some lists.

Speaking of writing about people, roughly six months ago I wrote about the hot receptionist chick in my building, one that disappeared shortly?  I found out later that they all get shuffled around (and I have my suspicions that the hot ones somehow spend most of their rotations in the not the engineering buildings) and, months later, she's back.  Except now she's not so friendly anymore, and based on body language, I think she hates me.

I am still listening to The Bad Touch.  There is a google advertisement for "christian singles" on the page.  Seriously google, WTF?  I hate Microsoft too much to use bing.  Please stop sucking.

Alrighty then.  This was real productive.  And I didn't even write about the skiing!  Bleh.

...and then we'll do it doggy style so we can both watch "X-Files"

Na na na na na, Na na na na na

La la la la la



Telling myself that "meeting people" is my project is basically saying I'm not allowed to work on anything project at all.  Kind of weird.  Anyway, here is some brainstorming I did last night.  I think the best approach would be to discover some kind of awesome community that I can be a part of but which only requires a commitment of doing something like once a month.



Shit you do with friends that will sadly never result in meeting a girl
-going to the movies
-skiing
-starcraft
-programming startup



Shit you do at some guy's house
-poker night
-settlers
-fun movie night (no one wants to do this)
-wine and cheese



community angle:  Weekly repeating commitments
-salsa class
-beginner salsa class that you dont actually need
-yoga class
- class
-volleyball league
-indoor soccer league?
-crossfit gym (probably...no)
-climbing class
-book club...bleh (monthly though, so thats a plus)

community angle:  no weekly commitment
-climbing
-couch surving community...meh
-teaching (vulnerable to jailbait)
-hm....blues dancing?  They are really nerdy though
-are there like...clubs where authors hang out?  Or are we all supposed to be antisocial book nerds?


Completely Passive
-reading at coffee shop
-eating and reading at panera bread
-gym
-teaching (vulnerable to jailbait)



Active
-go to bars and hit on girls (I hate this)
-salsa dancing
-drop in volleyball night
-ski lift?


Desperate
-Craigslist
-free dating sites: okcupid, plentyoffish
-expensive dating sites: ??
-give in a finally read "the game" ?


Awesome shit you organize
-LAN parties in an alternate universe where hot girls play games
-...I forget
-lego events?
-4 AM motorcycle races
-Epic party scene (I wish)
-start a nearly all female metal band


Attracting people passively
-witty t-shirt (overdone, also too hispter.  also lame)
-funny costume (dont do tron, people think its nerdy)
- ??


Attracting people: shotgun method
-stunts:  operation cowabunga
-record music videos (Who is Watching riff, There Is by blink 182)
-personal website ?


Not sure how to categorize
-concerts
-open track days with the STI
-awesome private karaoke
-quit job and attend nursing school (kev offered to pay but I think he is lying)
-let holly and nicole sign me up for "the bachelor"


Vacation mindset:  Solo operations
-drive to vancouver for salsa
-ski in utah
-visit new orleans during mardis gras.  Fuck I really really really want to do that.  When is mardis gras?  Oh fuck catholics and their bullshit holiday schedules.  Holidays should be dates, not formulas.  I should make up some of that shit for my birthday...."oh yeah my birthday is typically the 3rd wednesday after the last full moon before the equinox, unless of course that would fall on a sunday, in which case..."

Vacation mindset:  group ops
-bachelor party  (fucking espensive)
-girls that live 3000 miles away

At Least I Never Slept with Lumbergh

My life continues.

Recently I made moves to switch teams at work.  I have a technical interview.  Started brushing up on "bits and bytes."*  Then I started looking at something else to prepare for the interview, and got distracted by an idea for an exponential, but still fun, 3-SAT solver, which I day-dreamed about all day, and went home and coded.

Since making moves to switch teams, I have discovered that my current manager, Boss1**, whom I don't get along with all that well, is getting promoted off somewhere to do some cool shit, and me, and my entire half of the team, is getting split off and sent back to my old boss, Boss2 that I really like.  Though I have learned a lot from Boss1, I am excited to work with Boss2 again because we get along so well and he is awesome.

So.....now I have a difficult decision within my company, all the while I am trying to tackle the bigger decision:  move to Philly.  Or Southern California.  Or London.

I finished the design for another mosaic.  I don't know if I wrote about it before...it is a picture of the Penny Arcade characters;  its yet another copyrighted image that I can't sell, but I couldn't help myself.  In the process I wrote a Lego mosaic editor program while listening to Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangster.  This program I wrote cut the design time from twenty hours down to one or two, prints out an exact shopping list of how many of each piece to buy and lets you optimize piece selection to reduce cost and tells you exactly how much it will cost before you even order anything.  Felt like a badass when I wrote it but I'm still waking up alone, so I guess its not the best thing ever.

Saturday, I slept in and did not go skiing.  Then, because of the enormous amount of money that I spent on Legos around christmas time, I had these...lets skip to the epiphany.  I was standing in the lego store, in the mall, wearing crappy shoes (girls care about shoes) because the laces of my nice fake cowboy boots broke and I don't know where to buy shoelaces, and I was staring at a wall of containers holding individual Lego bricks for sale, wondering how the Lego company could possibly let me fill up a small plastic container for only $15 because those containers hold hundreds of bricks, and each brick costs $.1 online...I can stuff way more than $15 worth of bricks into this thing.  And then my thoughts are interrupted by the realization that I am surrounded by oodles of small children whose parents are all explaining to them the basic concepts of how to pick out legos you want and put them in the little plastic box.  I glanced outside of the Lego store, in the mall where all the normal people were, and told myself that somewhere, somehow, my life has gone horribly wrong and I don't know how to fix it.  And all I could think about was how excited I was to get a good price on these Lego pieces that I could use in the mosaic.

Yesterday, in an effort to be friendly, I tried to rally some people at work to go see a movie.  No one wanted to go, and then someone reminded me that I had a conference call with India at 7:30pm.  So that's how my social life is going.


I have been trying to eat healthy, and to pack.  For this reason, hunger is a new and nearly constant companion.  I am like hungry all the time now.  Today I ran to Taco Del Mar between meetings and bought 4 tacos, which I ate too fast and regretted about an hour later.  Then I brainstormed ways to make "side income."

I came up with a few video game ripoffs, a How to Memorize the Guitar Fretboard book that I started and lost interest in, a book called How to Cook Cheap, Healthy Meals for Lazy People That Live Alone which you will shortly discover I am unqualified to write, some video game related things that would make no money whatsoever, some kind of program involving a cartoon robot that would teach people how to be programmers, a fantasy novel about wizards or maybe a guy with a talking cat,  some kind of fake vitamin product marketed towards software developers, a fictional novel like Mad Men but with programmers fixing robots like Dr House,  and then this video game that would be a cross between Lemmings and Tower Defense.  Those were my ideas for making money on my own.  And then I wondered if you could make a naughty version of that video game, and that is how I realized that brainstorming time was overrated and returned my attention to a CPU issue that keeps happening in Europe that I don't want to fix.  Raise your hand if you don't know what a fucking C2 Compiler Thread is.  Yeah, you with your hands raised.  I want to be you.


I came home and tried out a pork chops recipe that I got from Dan.  It involved using enough brown sugar to give every child in Africa a cavity.  I checked on the pork chops while they were baking.  The switch for the oven light radiated heat, reminding me that I have a very old oven.


Have you ever seen the special effects in an old B movie?  Like maybe the poop monster from that movie Dogma,  or maybe the gelatinous villain of the movie The Blob?   Or maybe Gremlins?  That is what I saw when I turned the oven light on.  It was clear to me that something was going wrong so I immediately turned the oven light off and went back to playing video games.  Then the buzzer sounded and I took the pork chops out of the oven.  That set off the fire alarm, so I put the pork chops back in the oven and held a towel over the fire alarm speaker until it switched back off.  Then I ate the two giant pork chops by myself and without anything else to eat while watching three episodes of 30 Rock, and then I felt sick.

It is gym night, so I am now sitting at my computer and writing in my blog, trying to figure out if enough time has passed to assume that my digestive tract has forgiven me and will let me go to the gym.  Not like it matters much.  Four days ago I did less than 30 bicep curls with some 25 pound weights.  My biceps are still sore.  I'd like to go running though.  I like running, even though there are mirrors everywhere and it is really awkward to look anywhere but the ceiling the whole time.

Since the Lego mosaic, which according to my personal schedule I wasn't supposed to be working on anyway, is finished design-wise and the first batch of Lego bricks have been ordered, and since I have, I feel, mostly accomplished incorporating "going to the gym" into my lifestyle, it is on to my next project.

...And I think we are going to interrupt the regular project backlog and insert a new, surprise project:  meeting new people.

 Somehow.



*Saw a page on the internal wiki at work preaching the word that those awful people who think bits and bytes don't matter that much are the kind of people that don't remember a lot about bits and bytes, as if this is some kind of clever revelation.  Oh really?  Well the kind of people who think the average chemical composition of name-brand tampons also happen to be the kind of people who don't know what tampons are made out of.  Look how clever I am!


As evidenced by my attractive personal assistant email, I am the kind of guy who likes to find the line, and then cross it.  I am also the kind of person who likes candor.  Direct, aggressive, eviscerating candor.  However I am also trying to grow up, so I resisted the urge to add something colorful and sarcastic to the wiki page.  For the record, though, I think that guy is a jackass.  I don't want to mention his name, because I don't want to be found by a google search, but here's a hint:  it rhymes with Yeven Steggar.  Jackass.


Anyway, in an effort to prepare myself, I looked up two algorithms for counting bits.  One is a three line for loop that right shifts every bit and increments something, which I am pretty sure even a first year programmer could come up with.  Another, is also a three line piece of code, but it is very clever:  you subtract by one and then AND the result with what you have--it knocks out the least significant bit.  Really clever.

**in programming, making up names for things is called "Assignment."  I'm not even kidding; this is what we do.

[Poetry] My Favorite Place to Program

Where is my favorite place to program?  Why, my dear, have you not heard of Coder's Island?

It is a private, 32 acre island in the middle of the bay.  You haven't heard of this?  You haven't seen the lighthouse?  Well I travel to the island on my motorcycle on a long stone causeway* that is too narrow for cars.  The causeway has an authentic gothic feel that leads you to believe you are on your way to Dracula's castle.  Every few feet there are large cauldrons burning something that smells like vanilla.  At the end are two stone gargoyles, except the stone is steel and they are robots programmed to detect mopeds and bat them off of the causeway and into the water.

I enter a brilliant but dark (in an edgy way) landscape of green grass and ferns and Awesome Trees.  Nestled among the Awesome Trees is Whiteboard City, but we won't go there.

The road winds up a steep hill until I reach the pinnacle, where stands the large cathedral with a lighthouse on top.  You haven't heard of this?  Really?  Maybe you haven't been to the bay in a while.  Yes, there is a bay here, just like bay in Bucktown but larger.  Yeah, its just south of the all-female Women's College of Software Engineering**.

The RFID chip in my motorcycle--actually its not an RFID but a complex challenge-response system designed by Chevelle but we'll get to her in a second--activates the large oak doors which have been augmented with titanium.  I direct my motorcycle inside.  I am riding a motorcycle through a church, with either sunlight or moonlight streaming in through bullet proof stained glass windows.  This is a normal part of my routine.

I nod to Chevelle and Rose on the balcony.  They are the guardians of the Citadel, as I call this place.  Chevelle is a southern belle with a delicious accent, and Rose is a salsa goddess who dresses and acts exactly like the hot gyspy girl in the Sherlock Holmes sequal with Robert Downy Jr.    Both girls are armed with katana blades.  It is their charge to attack and violently kill any executive or lawyer affiliated with the MPAA, RIAA, BSA, or TSA.

There are 16 residents of the Citadel, not counting Chevelle and Rose, who are only web developers***.  I have the penthouse suite for my programming. When I reach the main dais I like to park my motorcycle next to the altar (I call this area the parking altar--a lego mosaic of Donald Knuth hangs on the back wall) and take the service elevator up to the lighthouse level.

The lighthouse level is divided into three concentric circles.  The outer circle has a beautiful 360 degree view of the cityscape across the bay.  It is here that I pace or jog in order to think, or to clear my head when switching to a different area of a problem.  Inside this circle is a circle of whiteboards, where I work out my designs and think critically.  The inner circle, also known as the glo, is where I do my coding.  Large widescreen monitors line the walls from floor to ceiling and I have a chair with a keyboard and mouse attached and the chair circles around the floor in a way similar to those ladders that circle a library.  The monitors go to many computers and are all controlled by just that one keyboard and mouse.  This is possible because of a program I wrote that is exactly like the popular program Synergy but without all of the bugs.


In the very center of the room are the elevator, a bed, a weight bench, a kitchenette and toilet but in its own little room thing so its not awkward when I have guests, marble statues of Wolverine, Jason Bourne and Dr. House, and also a small minifridge stocked with aderall, coccaine, a viscious amount of mountain dew, and, in case I get inspiration to work on 3-sat, a single shot of pure adrenaline.  Oh and there is an R2D2 robot that looks like it serves drinks but actually doesn't--thats just to fuck with people because the drink-server R2D2 is so overdone these days.  Imbibing alcohol while I am coding would probably induce cardiac arrest anyway.  The lighthouse does have lights;  they are up top in the loft.  Also up there are the enormous speakers that play techno, rock, trance, hip hop, and classical scores that help me focus.  Nothing like a little "Turn Me On" or "Rage of the Champtions" or "Lose Yourself" to get me amped to write turing-complete poetry.  I like to hear the words

My body needs a hero
Come and save me
Something tells me you know how to save me
I've been feeling real low
Oh, I need you to come and rescue me

while I am writing code to save the Internet, or as those of us in the Citadel call it, Internet 1.  Yeah, you didn't know where was more than one internet.  That one I'm not surprised about.

The elevator is wide enough to accomodate my motorcycle, because after a few incidents we all agreed it is not polite to have motorcycle sex in the parking altar.


From time to time my girlfriend, Tanyajessilauravendawn, who was born in Ambiguous Eastern European Country but hails from Bucktown, Pennsylvania,visits me on the roof of the lighthouse on her personal rocket pack.  Sometimes we have sex in front of the lighthouse lamps and the shadows cast by our copulation are splayed onto the skyscrapers like the lewd ghosts of giants that once coded before us.  Sometimes we pair program.  Naked.

When I reach the end of a sprint or a particular task, or I go seventy two hours without eating or sleeping and am about to die from multiple causes, I ride the elevator down to the basement where an attractive lady nurse with a british accent named Moneypenny helps me detox from the narcotics and caffeine and adrenaline in my system.  Detoxing looks alot like that blue thing that Luke Skywalker floated inside of in The Empire Strikes Back.

Sometimes I tour the rest of the place, maybe say high to the girls, maybe tell them my latest 3-sat theory and watch them roll their eyes.  Yes that is right: all of the other residents are girls.  I am one of the rare males talented enough to be invited to join them.  After an arduous training period in the Tao of the Turing I finally surpassed my master (mistress?) and became a True programmer, like those cliche movies where some white dude is invited to join a ninja clan.

Then its off into the sunset with me.  I ride down to the causeway.  One of the robot gargoyles gives me a fistpound as I roll by.  Above on the hill, Chevelle and Rose, the sirens of the Citadel, keep watch.






Inspired by http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_POEIhEXRI&feature=related which isn't actually a poem, even.  (Note:  Taylor Mali is on deck for being one of my new role models, as is Captain Picard).


*wikipedia is down (fuck SOPA!) so this, like many others, may be the wrong word.  Oh wait!  Google define: for the win!

**I have a theory that women might make better software developers, and its not impossible for men to make better programmers!


***someone please remind me if I am friends with any web developers;  if so I will stop making fun of them.  This is part of my new thing where I am nice to people.

Why don't more people like this guy?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9TplOWgQZI

How to Avoid Friends and be Influenced by People

Went on an out-of-town skiing strip recently.  The point of the trip was a complete failure but I did do a lot of skiing.

I am sick.

Dan gave me an allegedly awesome recipe for pork chops.  Turns out I don't own  13x9 glass pan.  Aaaaannd I just ordered one.  Fuck I love Amazon.

Might switch teams at work.  If I do, I will get to play with one awesome concept that I'm sort of addicted to, and another awesome thing that I haven't bothered with much.

Changing my lifestyle in order to make the gym a part of it and start weightlifting has proven more difficult than expected.  I hate looking like gumby, but I also hate sacrificing my time, even though I waste far, far too much of it on video games.

Possible whistler trip next year.  I and my core group of friends back home are currently trying to agree on a simple file-sharing solution that won't cost much time or money.  Gonna see how that pans out before I try something difficult like convincing people to spend a lot of time and money flying across the country to go skiing in Canada.

I have come to the realization that not only do I need to stop being an asshole to everyone, but that I need to be more friendly.  Way more friendly.  This girl that I was talking to at a party too much because I didn't feel like talking to the other girl there (because she is like the fucking queen of mixed signals) was giving me some lecture on something about having a conversation with my dental hygienist.  I normally am unable to talk to people while they are poking my teeth with tiny little knives, but I gave it a try and asked my hygienist how her Christmas and New Years vacations when she wasn't making my underbrushed gums bleed.


A girl on PlentyOfFish indicated that she was interested in meeting me, but her profile has a nasty thing about hating people who own "rice burners."  Bitch.

I'm going to start brushing more.

Seriously though, I have to become a friendly person.  It is my understanding that this will require me to stop completely ignoring other men.  You, dear reader, probably haven't noticed because we are already friends, but if I didn't know you, I probably wouldn't even be aware of your existence, even if some part of my consciousness could sense that you were trying to make eye contact on the fucking elevator.  I filter all males out because I have more guy friends than anyone, anywhere, will ever need.  But lets pretend thats not true.  Yay!  More friends!

I am still going to stare at the fucking TSA assholes.  By the way, the security theatre at terminal D of the philadelphia airport has no rape scanners (or didn't the last time I was there).

The PlentyOfFish girl who hates Japanese people responded to my email.  Apparently she prefers guys who have lifted fucking tires on their dumbass country trucks.  I am making a note here to constantly say nasty things about that demographic.

I have no idea how to be nice to people.  My entire life I have tried to emulate James Bond, Jason Bourne, Wolverine, and Dr. Gregory House.  Like, for real, those are my actual role models.  I try to be like them in everything I do.  So that probably explains a lot, I know.

I just...modified...my PlentyOfFish profile.  The new version reads a bit too passive aggressively but it is too awesome to remove.  Damn that was passive aggressive...in order to be not passive aggressive I should have told her to die in a fire.

I could start pretending I'm interested in how my coworker's weekends went.

My attempt to lash out at this bitch on PlentyOfFish and make her feel guilty and stupid and in violation of political correctness has failed.  Accusing her of being a bigot that hates all Japanese people did not work, and now she said something about me being sensitive.  Shit, people.  Shit.  That is the complete opposite of the effect I wanted.  I was hoping she would cry herself to sleep and then buy a Subaru.

I am not great at digitally sparing with people in real time--can't use my voice inflection to convey sarcasm.  I got a buddy that hangs out on 4chan.  I think I will ask him for advice on how to talk to people politely.

I'll just have to somehow make it through this dry spell and somehow force myself to be nice and make new friends.  What did I say?  Something about asking about my coworker's weekends...awww I don't feel like doing that.

Fuck You Blizzard

I logged into Starcraft after months of inactivity because I wanted to take it easy today and just play a quick game or two.  I was shocked to see my real, actual, legal name, and the real, actual legal names of my friends in the game.

Keep in mind, I didn't even tell Blizzard my real name.  When I went through the forced registration that I put up with just to play a video game, I gave them a single letter of the alphabet for my last name.  Random assholes on the internet* can see my full last name, however.  So...they must have grabbed my name off my credit card.  And then opted me in to this real id shit without my knowledge?  I don't remember much, but I DO remember not seeing my friend's real names all over the place.  How come the only other people who are about this are privacy freaks?  I'm not a privacy freak.  I just don't feel like having to manage personal information while I'm trying to play some video game.  And manage it you must--apparently there is already an unfixed vulnerability where people can steal your name.  So thats great.

Fortunately, two can play this game.  I happen to have a credit card in the name of Jason Bourne.  You too can do this--the credit card companies don't care.  All you have to do is ask for a second card for an authorized user.  I will probably do this if I end up playing starcraft a lot more.  Now that I think of it, perhaps I should start using a that card again.  It seemed unecessary when I started buying almost everything from Amazon (FYI: it is my own personal opinion that Amazon would never dream of violating their customers privacy like this).  For now, I'm just going to disable RealID.

If we were previously starcraft buddies, you'll have to add me again.

How to Disable RealID

1) According to google the BattleNet site is battle.net...I used to know that.

2) account

3) settings

4) communication preferences




*Blizzard calls them "friends of friends"

Still want to get into teaching

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xuFnP5N2uA&feature=related

[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 6

Act VI:  Epil's Log

Jason and a couple of the others who where more than willing to help out when Biff needed a favour were all gathered in a house, sharing a drink and nursing their wounds.

"Fuck, man."

"I know, right?"



"Can they really just roadblock that shit whenver they want to?"

"I think we did a good job of fucking that up."

"Sure, but still."

"Yeah."

"Yeah I know."

"And I hear the TSA is checking people out on highways now."

"What?  They don't have enough people to grope in the airports?"

"That's why I fucking driving everywhere."

"Word."

"Dude it's only gonna get worse.  There's a bill in congress that says even if you're a U.S. citizen the military can lock you up indefnitely if you have more than 7 days of food."

"Shit!" said Jason.  He stood up and opened the cupboard.  "I have way more than 7 days of food.  Look at all these beans."

"Dude its not p--"

"Why do you have all those beans?"

"Damn Jason you're never riding in my car again."

"This explains a lot."

Jason started piling the beans on the counter.  Some of them hit the floor.  He wasn't exactly sober.  "We got to cook all these now."

"I think you're overreacting."

"No," said Jason.  "I just had a guy beat the shit out of me and then force me to dig what I thought was my own grave.  Being held forever by the U.S. military would be like 10 times worse."

"Just move to Canada."

"Canada is not a real place."

They were all laughing, but one by one grew silent.  No one wanted to bring up the elephant in the room, but it was unavoidable.



"So...Eric is dead."

"Sucks balls."

" 'The Charlie's Angels' Last Stand' "

"I hear he killed the dragon."

"It takes one to kill one."

"Yeah seriously. Eric was kind of scary.  He was a monster.  I wouldn't want him like, over for dinner or anything."

"But he was our monster.  When the Charlie's Angels were on your side...yeah the police came around a lot but you still had it made, right?  No one fucked with you," said Jason.  "Now, what?  Who's going to keep the heat off our backs now?"

"I will."  Biff Becker walked into the room. There was a man behind him.  "Boys, I want you to meet Lawrence."


"Hi," said Lawrence.

"Jason," said Jason.  They shook hands.

"Lawrence.  Lawrence Lee."  Lawrence shook everyone's hand.  "Just bought that old tire garage on the hill.  Any time you feel like it, drop on by."

"I could use a good mechanic," said someone.

"Hey, you know Ed's old car had this thing in the glove box.  If you connected these two wires it would spew out a shit ton of smoke all over the road," said Jason.

Biff looked at Lawrence.  "Think you could rig up something like that?"

Lawrence shrugged.  "Lets try it."

[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 5

Act V:  And the Light is Nearly Gone

Eric scrambled for the nearest tree.  There was another shot.  He felt the shockwave brush past his leg.  He cowered between the roots as best he could.  Another shot--this one hitting the bark.

Eric had no gun.  The shooter--the dragon--could just stand up, waltz around with his gun and pop him off.  The guy was probably doing that now.

Running was the only option.  Where?  There was the road.  His bike.  There was a crevasse into a cave.  A tiny gully way south.  The road--too far, and his bike--no protection.  The crevasse--a trap.  The gully--useless.  Wait.  The mirror tree.  He knew exactly where that was.  Adrenaline was surging through his veins.  The sound of his heart pounding was louder than the gunshots.

Eric's higher functioning brain had not worked out all the details.  All he knew was that he had to get to the mirror tree.  He looked and found it.  It was a bit shorter, and fatter, and sort of squirmier than the others.

Eric jumped up and ran for it.  As he did so he caught a glimpse of the dragon, who was indeed on his feet.  Less accuracy than lying down still.  Eric's feet pumped and left little energy for breathing.

The next shot missed.  The one after that hit his leg.  He fell and scrambled to the tree.  The mirror tree was mostly dead, with a large hollow in the center.  It had previously been called the hollow tree, before Saudade, as a little girl, saw a movie where a dead person talked to a live one through a mirror.  She stole a hand mirror from her mothers bedroom and met Eric at the hollow tree, where they tried to use the mirror to contact her late father.  The hand mirror failed to bring back her father.  Sauda blamed the mirror, and returned the next day with another one.  Then another.  And another.  Then a mirror from the school bathroom, and then a full length mirror.  The mirrors, being stolen, had to be left in the tree.  After that, the proper name was obvious.

Eric took one of the hand mirrors and used it to peer around the tree.  He got a damn good look at the dragon, who was approaching at a walk.  He stopped immediately and fired at the mirror.  It shattered into a hundred pieces.  Eric grabbed another hand mirror and looked.  The dragon was standing still.  He shot that mirror too.  Eric pulled out the mirror from the bathroom.  It showed the dragon behind a tree.

Eric watched the dragon take aim and shoot the corner off.  It was a strange sort of intimacy between too men trying to kill each other.  And it was fairly clear that the one holding the rifle was confused and scared.  Eric pressed the mirror game, sliding the mirror out just a little each time, letting the dragon dismantle it one chunk at a time.  Could it really be this easy?

/* note: rifle is AR-15 w/ 30 round mag */

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Biff, and a girl, were waiting next to a large rental truck when Dave arrived in his F150.

"What's this about?" asked Dave.

"Dave, meet Daisy.  Daisy is Candy's sister."

"Oh...." said Dave.

Daisy gave him a half-smile.

"What do you need?" asked Dave.

"You're gonna ride with Daisy and make a furniture delivery.  Also I need your truck."

"What?  Whose furnit--wait what do you mean my truck?  Its my truck."

"I need to haul something."

"Get another rental truck."

"I need to haul something...quickly.  And away from the eyes of law enforcement and various thug assholes that call themselves a family."

"Oh no.  Oh no hell no.  Fuck no.  You're not going fuck up my truck.  Get your own fucking truck.  I take the whole night off to help you out.  You're not gonna-"

"Dave, please," said Daisy.

Dave jerked his thumb as his vehicle.  "These things don't grow on trees.  I had to save up three years for that."

"Damnit Dave," said Biff, "people are dying.  Her sister is dead-"

"And I'm sorry for that," said Dave.

"-and there is another woman who will most certainly be murdered if we don't make these two deliveries as soon as fucking possible.  We shouldn't be involved but we are.  And I can't ...I can't just sit out and let this shit go down bro.  I can't.  And if you want to be my friend after tomorrow you can't either."

Dave glared at Biff.  "Fuck!"

"Good man."  Biff held out his hands for the keys.

"If you don't bring that back to me, you're buying me a Trans Am," said Dave.

"Fine."  Biff took the keys and started walked to the pickup.

"A blue one.  With a t-top."

"Whatever!"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Back in the white forest Eric had done his best to manage his leg but he knew it was getting worse, and the adrenaline had worn off.  Now all he had was anger, and thousands of glass shards circling his body.  He drew it out as long as he could, trying to sort of maximize the number of shots he could goad out of his enemy.  The dragon appeared to have no shortage of bullets, and no interest in changing the status quo.  He clearly believed, still, that those mirrors were a threat, even though he had seen no gun.  He used up another mirror and reached into the tree for another one, only to discover that there was one left.  It was a hand mirror.  Old, heavy, likely metal.  The rim was white with purple flowers sculpted onto it.  He felt his heart sink.  This was good for one shot.  Maybe two, max.

Then the thing happened that Eric had been waiting for.  A click.  It sounded like nothing compared to all of the gunshots but it was clear and unmistakable.  He watched his enemy look down as his rifle in surprise.  It was a quick glance but to Eric it happened in slow motion.  Then Eric screamed.

He was out of adrenaline.  His leg was shot and bleeding out, and he didn't have any useful narcotics on his person.  It was just him and his iron will.  So he screamed a blood-curdling battle cry and ran for his enemy.  The dragon was close;  it turned out he wasn't that great of a shot and didn't even have a scope on his rifle.  In fact, depending on how you looked at it, the dragon was just one tree over from Eric.

Eric crossed the distance, screaming to keep the pain at bay, and descended upon his victim.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

There was an enormous line of cars waiting to go through the roadblock on Kemp road.  It stood to reason that similar blocks existed on the other roads.  Three police cruisers and as many men were comparing the occupants of every car with the printouts of Sauda's face they had in their hands.  Trunks were getting opened.  No space was left unturned.  The police even made Dave and Daisy open up the trunk, and the got in and fished around.

"I need you to pull some of this furniture out so we can look in the back," said one of the cops.

"I ain't pulling this fucking shit out for you," said Dave.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm fucking not.  I don't know the all the laws about probable cause, but I'd be happy to let this truck sit here for twelve hours while I call my uncle who is a lawyer and ask him about it.  He's currently in china.  Might take a while to reach him though; he's a heavy sleeper."

"Sir hand me your keys," said another cop.

"Can't.  My lady friend here," Dave gestured at Daisy, "stuck the truck key up her asshole.  You're gonna have to get a female cop down here to work her over."

Daisy gave them the finger.

This time the cops didn't say anything.  They looked about ready to tackle and arrest him, which would seriously and harmfully compound their furniture mission.  Behind them, cars started laying in on their horns.  One of the cops, Craig Capulet, looked behind him.  The line was at least...four times as long as it was just ten minutes ago, and they were all impatient.  There were a lot of sports cars in the line.  Mustangs, Corvettes, Cameroes, oh and a red Miata that Craig was certain had come through the checkpoint three times already.

"Got any friends in the TSA?" asked Dave.

"You can pull over there and wait for your lawyer," said the cop.

Inside the truck, Daisy slapped him.  Hard.  Then she threw the keys at him.

Outside one of the cops screamed "move already!"

Another cop moved onto the next car.  It was a purple road runner, and he was certain that he'd seen it before.  Twice.  "What are you doing back here?"

"Got lost."

"Get out of here."  The cop motioned violently.  The Road Runner moved forward an inch.  The driver motioned at the moving truck ahead of him and shrugged.

An hour later the line stretched out of sight, the cops were rushing to check three cars at a time, the moving truck was still on the side of the road, and a black Boss 429 pulled up to the front, followed by a pickup with a coffin in the bed.

A cop approached the pickup truck.  "Sir I need you to pull over."

"Name's Jason," said the driver.  "Jason Web."  He spoke with deliberate slowness.  "Whats all this about?"

Ahead of them, Craig Capulete approached the 429 and recognized Biff immediately.  He pulled his weapon.  "Show me your hands!"

Biff raised his hands slowly.  It was tough to see;  the spotlight of one of the cop cars was pointed in his general direction, but he knew who he was talking to.  Craig order him out of the car, or whatever.  Biff slowly closed the fingers in his left hand, except for the middle one. Then he floored it.

That got their attention fast.  As soon as Jason's officer was distracted, he followed.  The cops were running back to their cars but were significanly delayed by a purple road runner that pulled in front of them and seemed to have a lot of trouble getting out of the way again.

Biff and Jason had a decent head start but it wasn't great and an F150 is no match for vehicles designed for pursuit.  Biff called Jason on his cell phone.

"I'm a little busy!" said Jason.

"Keep going," said Biff.  "I'm gonna to try something.  Whatever you do, just keep going."  The call ended.  Jason watched Biff's black muscle car swerve into the oncoming lane and brake hard, ducking behind him.  Then Biff pulled a 180 at 50 miles per hour on a curvy back road, and started driving backwards, flicking his high beams on  to blind the cops.  The entire chase sort of slowed down at that point, but it was far from over.  The cops were probably on the radio by then, giving all of their friends the boys position and heading.  It was only a matter of time before the got cut off.

Then they reached the river.

Biff's first idea for this part was a large ramp.  He even showed Jason the ramp.  Jason stared at Biff, silently, for at least five straight minutes until Biff got the idea and stopped talking about the fucking ramp.  Plan B was the trick gate.  Jason went through first.  Biff--facing forward again--followed, driving his car into a large trash can.  The trash can launched into the air and bounced once on the roof.  Behind them the gate slammed shut.  One of the cop cars attempted to ram it.  The gate did move about 5 feet, but by the end of those five feet the car was stopped and the airbags were deployed.  The others skidded to a stop behind it.

 ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Arthur Capulet looked, and dressed, like a cowboy.  All the guy really needed was a ten gallon hat and some spurs.  And he had the best white whiskers.  He was enjoying a quick nightcap in the living room when there was a loud knock on the door.  The room was large and airy.  It smelled of whisky, cigar smoke, and old money.  The knocking happened again.  It was loud, like pounding.  Arthur put his cigarette down and looked towards the door.  The pounding came again, louder, harder, and longer.  It sounded like it was going to rattle the door clear off its hinges.

The chair creaked as Arthur sat up.  He traded a drink for his sidearm on the way to the door.  When he opened it, a pickup truck squealed out of his driveway.  In front of him, in front of his door, was a casket.  Arthur clenched his teeth and bent down to open it.  Candy wasn't exactly an innocent girl, but she had never wronged the capulets.  Arthur got a good look at her face, and then reentered his house.  He picked up a phone.  It was an old phone; the kind where dialing a number involved turning a plastic circle to the irst digit and waiting for it to turn back before giving it the next digit.  Arthur took his time with this.

John answered immediately.  "Hi, Dad."

"I would like you to explain why the corpse of a young woman was just dropped off on my doorstep."

"That son-of-a-bitch.  My ex-wife-"

"This is not your ex-wife.  I want an explanation for this and I want it now.  In person."

"Dad I kind of have my hands full..." John started talking a lot.  It gave Arthur a headache to listen to that many words through a tiny piece of plastic in his hands.

"John.  John.  Jonathan!  Come here.  At once.  I expect to see you in twenty minutes."  Arthur hung up.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Dave and Daisy had little trouble quitting the town once the cops were distracted.  They arrived at the lake with the furniture on time, but there was no house and no one to meet them there.  They waited.


"Something is wrong," said Dave.  "Wasn't Biff supposed to meet us here?"


"He'll be here.  He's never let anyone down before,"  said Daisy.


"There's a first time for everything."


"Don't say that."  Daisy looked cross.


"He had three cops following him.  Biff is good but he's not that good.  What if he's in a lockup now?  What do we do them?"

"The question you should be asking," said Dasy as she slid towards Dave on the bench seat, "is what are we going to do to pass the time?"

"Yeah I guess I should have brought a book or something..."

Daisy put her hand on his leg.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

"I love it when a plan comes together."  That is the line Biff was rehearsing on his way to the lake.  He just couldn't quite get the intonation right.  Not enough tv as a young child; that was the problem.  It was coming together though.  And they were almost out of the woods.  Then he received a phone call.

"Eric," said Biff.

"Hey little buddy.  Heyyyy.  The dragon got the drop on me.  I got him, but...he got me too.  I don't think I can make it to my final battle with John."

"No!"  Biff pulled a very loud u-turn in the middle of a busy road and punched the gas.

"I'm bleeding out here Biff.  Just listen.  I need you to do something for me."

"NO!"

"Biff."

"No!  You can't!  You're the only one left."

Eric mumbled something, but that was it.  The call didn't end but there was no sound coming from the other line.  Biff called Eric's name a few times and then just concentrated on getting to the white forest.

When he arrived he found Eric leaning against his bike.  There was blood everywhere.  Eric didn't respond.  Eric didn't have a pulse.  Erics eyes were closed.  Biff sat down next to him and lit a cigarette.  He was supposed to have arrived just in time to hear some final words and watch him that close his eyes, right?  He missed his cue.  Biff looked at the white forest, at the dead or dying trees, trying to imagine what Eric would have said.

Eric's dead body was clutching a piece of paper.  It was a sealed envelop addressed to Sauda.  Biff opened it.

"Oh Eric," Biff shook his head, "Oh...oh Eric...so gay."  Biff lit the letter on fire and made sure it burned entirely.  He took the mirror.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Jason and his new friend with the purple road runner, were lounging in the Cathedral when the thugs found them.  The Cathedral would have indeed made a sweet "hideout" ...all except for the hiding part.  In fact, it was quite conspicuous.  The thugs were previously unmentioned Capulets.  They set fire to the Cathedral and beat on Jason and his friend until they told them where Sudade was hiding--Eric had drugged her and hitten her in a coffin for safekeeping.  The Capulets didn't believe them until they saw the freshly disturbed earth at Candy's gravesite.

The Capulets  started digging.  As they dug the twilight faded to darnkess.  One of the Capulets fell in the hole.  Jason stood over with with a shovel, wondering whether he had it in him to attack the man.  He wasn't sure.

Then one of the Capulets got a phone call.  The conversation was short and involved a lot of "yes sir."  Then the Capulets left.  All of them.

"I don't think there's a coffin down here," said Jason's new friend.  "I think we are past 6 feet."

"Oh yeah, there's no one here.  Frankly, I'm disappointed.  I bet we could have gone another 5 feet before those numbskulls realized they'd been fooled."

"So...where is this 'Sauda' chick then?"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Biff arrived at the lake just in time to watch a small dresser fly out of the back of a moving truck and burst into shrapnel on impact.  I mean Dave really launched the thing.  Daisy was in the truck too.  They were amassing a pile of now-broken furniture behind the truck.  Dave also appeared to be in an exceptionally jovial mood.

"No no no," Dave was saying, "don't throw that one, I like that.  I could use a coffee table.  Biff!"

"How you doin?" said Biff.

"We're almost to the back," said Daisy.

"Well lets haul ass than.  She's been back there long enough," said Biff.

With Biff's help they cleared the rest of the furniture until they reached the coffin.

"What is that?" asked Dave.

"Help me move it out of the truck.  Cafeful now."

As soon as they started moving it there was a furious banging and a woman's voice screaming "LET ME OUT" over and over again.

Dave's face turned snow white and he stumbled back.  Daisy caught him in time to keep him from falling out.  Daisy and Biff burst out laughing.

The coffin was opened on the soft ground next to the lake.  Sauda popped out, angry as a hellcat.  Piles of books and tasty cakes and unused glowsticks fell off of her.  "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Biff shrugged.  "Eric said he saw this in a play once."

"Shakespeare..." said Sauda.

"Yeah I don't know who that is," said Biff.  "Dave, Daisy, meet Soda.  Soda, meet-"

"Its Saudade you dumb fuck.  Where is Eric?  I'm going to kill that little cunt.  I really am. I'm going to fucking kill him.  Where is he?" asked Sauda.

"Eric didn't make it," said Biff.  Sauda, Dave and Daisy all looked at him in shock.  Biff held out the mirror.

Sauda appeared to recognize it immediately.  She stood up, teetering a bit, and took the mirror.  Tears ran down her cheeks.

Somewhere over the water the sun ducked behind the tree line, leaving only the twilight.