It was a shanty on McMansion avenue, a reminder of the neighborhood's previous incarnation. Gentrification had revitalized the neighborhood, but it had driven Mr Kosten inward. He was usually seen wearing a flannel bathrobe and a grimace, and that was when he checked the mail, or straightened his 'BEWARE OF DOG" signs.
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear. Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination. They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision. The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle. Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten. Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself. And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.
Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom. He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence. Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother. Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate. Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks. He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner. As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit. She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled. Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones. In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.
And then Mr Kosten drove up. Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road. He exited the truck, and called to him. Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus. The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human. With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab. Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine. They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"
Showing posts with label present day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label present day. Show all posts
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
DAY 97: In the Blood
At a cellular level, he was a violent man. He was a tyro before his teeth finished coming in. By the time his whiskers started, his aggresive tendencies were well-documented, and prophetic. He celebrated his 30th birthday in state prison, awaiting to be removed from this earth as quickly as he removed three men from it. "No kids of my own, and I prevented three stupid ones from procreating - I'd call that God's work," he sneered at the minister that attempted to tend to his spiritual needs.
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name. He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly. (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table. He was allowed to finish.) His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were. Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance. It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.
His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region. The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance. Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate. Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions. By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.
His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch. He was directed to the old man's recovery room. The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.
insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"
DAY 96: A Meeting with Mark Zuckerberg
Tonio and Shan took turns stealth-punching each other in the shoulder. They found themselves in a Palo Alto suburb, ready for their 11 o'clock appointment with Mark Zuckerberg, ready to present their world-changing idea for his consideration. At least, they were sort of ready.
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
"I think I'm gonna puke, Tonio." Shan lurched over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe.
"Dude, what are you doing? Your sister set this up!"
"She's always telling me to put up or shut up. At first, I didn't believe her when she said she was his favorite barista."
"-and now you think she's lying?"
"No, I think she told him about us, so he could shut me down for good, and I can go back to med school like my mom wanted!"
"That's insane! Besides, that would be on both of us, and your sister loves me!"
"Yeah, she- huh?"
"We've been turned down by everybody," Tonio said, grabbing Shan's shoulder. "If we got one swing left, we gotta swing for the fences! Now, how do they look?"
Shan looked at Tonio's earlobes. His right ear had a 12-gauge piercing, a blinking red dot. His left lobe had a 2-inch piercing, glowing an unmistakable blue, almost touching the lapel of his suit jacket. "You look lopsided."
Tonio offered two thumbs up, and buzzed the gate.
After passing through security and his assistants, Zuckerberg met with them. The boys had been prepared for a business presentation that their host seemed unaware of. "My wife's hosting a party on the lawn. Can you guys help us move a couple couches to the backyard?"
They agreed, and found themselves relocating 17 couches from outside his house. "They're not all from the house," he said. "I'm actually renting most of them for the occasion, although we want to cut down on the grass stains, if possible. Her family's coming up, and we wanted to whip up something comfortable for the movie."
"Movie?" Tonio raised an eyebrow.
Zuckerberg pointed to the 14-foot screen mounted below the trees. "Yeah, we're going to watch out here. Dirty Dancing came out this weekend, or something - ask her." He pointed to Tonio's earlobes. "Don't those get hot?"
"No, sir!" Tonio went into salesman mode. "And the little red has over 200 gigs of music, ready to find with a voice command. The blue one holds almost a Tet!"
"Neat. Or you could make those bluetooth-ready."
Tonio reeled for a half-second. "This style's been popular so far- but I think they'd like your idea even more!"
Shan was hyperventilating under his corner of the couch. "Yeah, or phone calls, gps..."
"It's great," Tonio said, "to talk with somebody that sees the potential in them!"
Zuckerberg let out a laugh. "I can't put any money in this. We don't do hardware."
They set the couch in place. Zuckerberg led them to the next one, while out of view, Tonio let out a heavy sigh, then caught up with the others.
As they carried the last couch onto the lawn, Mrs Zuckerberg made her appearance. She was delighted with the furniture arrangement, and began placing reservation cards on the couches. As her husband introduced his help for the day, Mrs Zuckerberg complemented Tonio's ear decorations. "That's wild!"
"They're music players," he replied, and twisted off the red piercing so she could hear the music.
Her face lit up when she recognized the music. " 'Be My Baby!'"
"He said what movie you were watching tonight, so I've been listening to it since we started."
Mrs Zuckerberg wiped off the piercing, and put it on. Excited, she danced over to her husband, humming the tune. He gamely swayed with her, tossing his phone to Shan. Understanding, Shan took a few pictures of the couple dancing. When the song was over, she pecked Zuckerberg on the cheek, and returned to the house to check on aperetifs.
Shan handed the phone over to Mr Zuckerberg; Tonio tilted his other ear slightly toward Mr Zuckerberg's sightline. But he looked at his phone, shaked their hands, and said, "I'm still not buying in. But somebody's going to. Keep swinging."
It was a big house. With no one to give directions, it took far too long for Tonio and Shan to find their way back to the front gate. Tonio was morose, shellshocked. Shan, pulling him along, drank the view in with every step, as if it was the last.
Shen took his phone off silent when they got to the gate; in the time it had taken them to leave the house, his sister had called six times, and left five text messages, each more urgent than the last "Don't sign anything yet! You're trending! I got Bose and a half dozen others that want to talk to you!"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Elon Musk's Hyperloop: A Pragmatic Vision of the Future"
Monday, April 7, 2014
DAY 94: An Awkward Itching Problem
Dr Maloney picked up the folder for room 413. As she began to peruse through the file of Ms Melanie Rufrode, nurse Cyrus took the folder out of her hand. "This one's waiting for Dr Herzog."
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Maloney took the folder back. "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers. "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours. I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word. "She's got allergies. Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that. Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent. After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.
The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile. "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered. "Aaa! Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight. But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching. "I don't have a problem with black people! I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks! I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek. He wanted to ask my permission to marry her. He was very nice. But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left! It didn't happen again until I made the trip here! I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho! We don't have any!" Melanie was rubbing her arms. "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"
From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart. "I believe you. Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on. It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person? I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode... do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so. He was real nice on the phone, and when we met. But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-" Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention. "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs. But he married me anyway, and let me keep them. And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together. And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded. Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.
The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!" Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug. "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying. "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"
Sunday, April 6, 2014
DAY 93: Early Afternoon in the Waiting Room of a Genetic Testing Lab
Michael John Boone and John Michael Cooper sat in the waiting room, passing the time. Boone was sending one more text message to his wife at home. He looked over at Cooper, reading a magazine that had his face on the back cover, endorsing a stylish sneaker brand. Cooper, realizing he'd been caught, mimicked his magazine face, eliciting a chuckle from Boone.
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
"Everything alright?" Cooper asked.
"Yeah," Boone replied. "Sheila said work called. They know I had a doctor's appointment, and they're already thinking the worst."
"You didn't tell them?"
"I don't know if there's anything to tell yet."
Cooper nodded. "My work's like that, too. Times ten."
Boone looked at the magazine, and then at his feet. "You ever wear those shoes?"
In response, Cooper lifted his feet, showing off a crisp white pair. "Got a closet of 'em. My contract says I gotta wear them in public until October, and they gotta look new. There are worse ways to make money... You ever consider it?" He mimed a baseball pitch.
"I played into high school, but I wanted a job more. First job I could get was changing oil at this garage; on the first day, I met the boss's daughter - Sheila. I flunked school and busted ass so he'd let me date her. Then that was good for a while, until some folks started grumbling. So I quit the job and kept the girl, started my own garage. Pissed off the old man, but she married me anyway. But you asked about ball. Nah, didn't cross my mind. Not with a girl like that." Boone pulled up a photo of Sheila back in the day, dressed for prom.
Cooper looked at the hand holding the phone, and then his own. "I knew a girl that looked like her .In college - she married an Army guy. I send them tickets once in a while, they're alright. Brunette, short, bright eyes, didn't let anybody tell her what to think or do... I was already on scholarship, so it was what it was. And then I got signed."
Boone saw the incoming text on his phone. "Sheila was wondering if we were doing anything after this."
"She got you on a short leash, man."
"Not too short. If we ain't going anywhere, you can join us for dinner."
"That's cool, if you got room. And if you don't want to stop anywhere."
"I got cold beers at home, too... but I think I might need to pick up something at work."
Cooper autographed his face on the back of the magazine. "I don't mind the detour. I always carry a Sharpie."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Higgs Boson Found... For Real!"
Saturday, April 5, 2014
DAY 91: The Heat is On
At halftime, Jay-Z sent one of his guys to trade seats with me. Actually, he wanted to keep me in the coach's line of sight. Everybody on the team was wearing fitbands, giving me heart rates and body temps. My role on the statistics team was graphing performance trends based on physical condition - identifying "hot streaks". After I delivered my second analysis to the coach, they had an 8-game win streak - all on the road. The team bought me flowers the day they came home, and courtside seats.
Ashford saw me from the bench, and gave me the stinkeye. When Anthony went on the injured list, Ashford got the call-up from Erie. He wants to make the most of his moment out of the D-League, but he's been frustrated with some of the coach's calls. In my report, I calculated that Ashford had 90 seconds from peak heartrate before dropoff from fatigue. It appeared that Ashford found out. Coach Mike, however, was a believer; he had me on the tablet, flagging which players were ready or done. If someone was close, I'd text their jersey to his assistant, and he'd make the call.
Later, on a Miami time-out, Coach got the team around him - and Ashford's sub, Number 14, over his shoulder. I could see Ashford arguing for more time. Coach gave me the look: how many shots does he have? I glanced at my numbers, and flashed him two fingers. Coach nodded, and gave Ashford his two-shot warning.
30 seconds later, Ashford got his first shot. He tried his second from in the paint, but missed; Miami took the ball. Number 14 stood by the scorekeeper's table, waiting for the end of the play.
But Ashford was not going to wait. He managed a steal, and then the kind of cross-court shot usually reserved for beating the buzzer. He didn't even watch it go in; he was walking back to the bench.
He didn't approach me after the game, but he saw me. With his hand, he signaled, "You: two. Me: three."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Climate Change May Lead to More Wars"
Monday, March 31, 2014
DAY 89: Function = 0
"Anybody seen C0dy?"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle. "Oh, yeah- nope! Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night. I emailed him about the contact page. I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up. If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded. "I'll take care of it now. But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders. "He was still in bed when I got up. Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said. "He didn't show yesterday, either. They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!" Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial. "Terry, is C0dy logged in? He's AWOL..."
Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try. By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts. Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-
the code was gone. C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one: "function=0"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"
Orson peeked out from his cubicle. "Oh, yeah- nope! Still recovering from his drinking games with Redbone last night. I emailed him about the contact page. I also got my phone auto-dialing every 3 minutes; soon as he comes back from the dead, he oughta pick up. If he doesn't fix the page by lunch, can you take care of it?"
Elise nodded. "I'll take care of it now. But is he coming in today?"
Redbone shrugged his shoulders. "He was still in bed when I got up. Maybe he went to the lab, get some hours in with the English majors."
"No good, " Elise said. "He didn't show yesterday, either. They think he's on a campaign..."
"Not without me, he isn't!" Orson logged into his workstation as he made a call to a
guildmember on speed dial. "Terry, is C0dy logged in? He's AWOL..."
Elise sat down at C0dy's station, and got his password on the third try. By that point, Orson and Redbone had exhausted their search efforts. Elise brought up the source code for C0dy's pages-
the code was gone. C0dy had wiped out every line, except for one: "function=0"
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Activist's Tragic End: Remembering Aaron Swartz"
Sunday, March 30, 2014
DAY 86: Squeak
He came up to my counter with a smile and a flip phone from 4 years too late, asking if I could provide twelve more. I tried to upsell him on the new ones, but he wouldn't budge unless they could 'sing the same song'.
He earned the phone back in Uganda, from a volunteer doctor. In his village, he was one of the men who learned to maintain, repair, and protect the village generator. He also made sure the doctor's technical equipment would remain freshly charged - including her phone.
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
One night, she did not remember to take the phone home. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a strange noise; it disappeared before he could find it. An hour later, it happened again, and it was gone before he could find the noise - but he found the phone. An hour later, the phone chirped in his hand, and he knew he had found it.
The next morning, he returned the phone to the very grateful doctor, who explained that the noise was to keep crickets out of her room. There happened to be a cricket nearby as she was talking to him; she set the phone to 'chirp', and the cricket couldn't hop away fast enough! And that gave the young man an idea.
His mother's garden was suitably fortified from larger animals, but it didn't keep out the crickets. He bargained with the doctor, and she gave him the phone, teaching him how it worked. He made a scarecrow for his mother, with a place in the scarecrow's head to hold the phone. He set the phone to 'chirp' a few times each hour, throughout the night. A month later, his mother served their first dinner harvested from her garden.
That was two years ago. Last month, he had been given a plane ticket to the US, to talk to churches and look at colleges. But he dreamed of making a dozen more scarecrows, for the entire village - which
brought him to my store.
The phone was retired - but the chirp wasn't. I helped him find the sound on some of our display phones, and sold him a dozen floor models for 20% retail. The kid knows how to bargain.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Low-Tech Solutions for High Stakes Problems"
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
DAY 83: Sunrise on Ivanpah
Morning in the desert is never as warm as one thinks. Ron shivered as he saw the first rays of light escape the horizon.
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant. Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage. Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out. Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away. But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead. If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it. The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers. But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results. Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal. But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned. But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project. Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department. Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip. But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight. Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket. It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows. But it was too common to do anyone any good. He let it loose, into the morning.
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"
Sunday, March 23, 2014
DAY 80: Number 175
I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure. I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland. Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen. I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time. I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens. Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid. Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai. Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port. With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.
I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough. Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them. Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching. I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down. I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could. Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit. It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade. For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done. She collapsed on top of the crate.
It was a lot quieter after that. I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage. I got it in the scalding pot. I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk. I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it. I'm just tired of it.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"
DAY 79: Woo Woo
As the first images came from the scanning electron microscope, Omar started laughing, loud enough to catch the lab's attention.
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
He was analyzing samples sent in from Arjun, a former colleague who had abandoned his masters program a semester early, to accept an engineering job. In press releases, he merited a benevolent mention, a testament to the kind of opportunities the Chemistry program could attract. In the hallways, it was seen as a mercenary decision: the college already possessed a significant percentage of the patents Arjun had acquired as a student, and were legally interested in whatever developments he would manage in the immediate months following his exit. In an attempt to throw shade upon Arjun's reputation, someone remarked that he 'wasn't interested in being a real scientist anymore, just being an engineer.' After that, in his absence, whenever his name was brought up in the lab, his former labmates would call out "Woo woo!", yanking an imaginary train whistle. The intention was entirely up to interpretation.
Arjun had been working on MOF's, molecule-size architectures that allowed crystalline analysis of things that don't usually have a crystal form (carbon dioxide, for example.) It was the work that got him the genius label; it was the research that got him the job. The lab had split the MOFs he left behind; half the team were finding new gases and compounds to use, and the other half were reverse-engineering the MOFs, to figure out how to make their own. Clandestinely, one of the guys had contacted Arjun, to reconnect and gain insight on his research. That was a month ago, and this package had been the response.
Eddie made it to Omar's station first, helping Omar off the floor. He saw the images, and let out "Woo Woo!" That brought the entire lab over, just as the printer let loose the last of the pictures.
To the naked eye, the frameworks are a fine powder, a disguise of their intricate construction. At the molecular level, MOFs are hollow blocks latticed together into intricate filters. For industrial purposes, it was sufficient to weave them into layers, stacked like a lasagna. For his colleagues' amusement, Arjun had managed a replica of the campus in crystalline form, with a railroad track along the perimeter. Spelled out below, the words read, "Woo woo..."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New X-Ray Vision for Chemists"
Saturday, March 22, 2014
DAY 78: The Waiting Room
Tyree was in the wrong wing of the hospital, I thought. I usually saw him on alternating Thursdays at the PT clinic, working on his walking. So I was surprised to find him flipping through TV channels in the waiting area outside the maternity ward. Not the flipping part; his family gave him a universal TV remote last christmas, and became fascinated with the "universal" part, figuring out how to take over whatever TV's in whatever clinic he's in.
"Tyree! What are you doing here? You got an appointment today?"
He turned to me, studying my face. "Hi, Carl. Got a baby coming." He returned to the TV.
An anxious man in his work clothes approached me. "Hey, are you a nurse here, or whatever? I need to check on how my girlfriend's doing."
"Well, I don't actually work at this wing, but I'll try to help. You want to see about getting you in?"
He shook his head. "No, that ain't happening. I just want to get an idea of what's going on."
"Okay. I know one of the girls here, I'll find out how far along she is-"
"-Look, be cool about it. I got a little heated earlier, trying to find out what's going on. I've calmed down now, but they're busy, they're not hearing me yet. They're worried about the baby, that's fine, that's their job, I'm sorry about getting in the way of that, I want them to know. Her mom's in there, she got problems with me, I don't want that in the way, but they're in the way, so I'm staying out, but I gotta know what's going on. You know Tyree's mom?"
"Not really; I haven't met her yet. Tyree usually comes by himself. I didn't even know he had a sister."
"Yeah, and it's not like there's a family resemblance, amiright?" He moved on. "Moms wouldn't want me here, if she could. But it's not for her to say She don't want me in that room, I'm fine with that, I can't do anything in there, I don't even know what she's doing in there. But I just need the car keys right now."
"The car-?"
"I know. They got too many things going on, it's not important with everything they got going, but listen- There's stuff to take care, I gotta get back to the house. I should probably be bringing Cece's brothers and sisters up here, although this could take a while, right? I mean, they could've waited until I got done with work to take them in the car. Or, if it was such an emergency, take an ambulance! That's what they're for!"
The TV flipped to the middle of one of the local ads by the "Legal Eagles" (whose names escape me, at the moment.) When the computer-generated eagle let out a screech, Tyree stopped to let out a screech, just as loud.
Babydaddy snapped, "Cool it!" He changed his tune when he returned his attention to me. "Look, man, you can tell I don't belong here. I need to get out of here! Just ask them for the keys, and I'll be on my way."
"I believe you, sir. But I don't know if I can do what you're asking, because this isn't my ward, and your girl's family doesn't know me. But I know who might be able to. Why don't you ask Tyree to get the keys?"
Babydaddy looked at Tyree, looked at me, and sat the f down.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Shutting Off the Down Syndrome Chromosome"
Saturday, March 15, 2014
DAY 74: Fantasticium
Adam was flustered to be in the swarm of superheroes and zombies, waiting forever in line. By the time he reached Mr Blanco's table, Adam had to wipe the sweat off before he could accept a handshake.
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
Blanco picked up his sketchpad. "Well, Dr Adam Hartnett, hat would you like me to draw?"
"um, Mr. Fantastic, please."
The artist chuckled. "I haven't drawn him in a while."
"Well, I'm a chemistry professor. He's a big deal to me."
Blanco nodded, tapping at his notepad as he pondered his first line. Adam brought out his briefcase, and produced an issue of Tales to Astonish #105. On the cover, the Hulk growled skyward, as the rubbery arms of Reed Richards coiled around him in an atomic shape. Blanco tilted his head, studying Reed's face, and started to draw.
Adam flipped through the pages, until he found a panel featuring the very human Dr Bruce Banner consulting Dr Richards in front of a chalkboard, cluttered by calculations. Adam pointed to the chalkboard. "Where did this equation come from?"
Dr Blanco looked up from his drawing. "I don't quite remember. I had a sister-in-law who studied chemistry; whenever I needed reference materials, I'd borrow one of her textbooks and pick something that looked important and interesting."
"Really?"
"Pretty much. I might add a couple of letters and characters, to balance out the appearance of it, make it look like it was something. It just ended up on the page."
An abrupt laugh escaped Adam's mouth. It stopped Blanco's pencil, and alarmed his companion.
"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I mean no offense. This really did look like something to me. I studied chemistry in college, so I could figure out what this equation was."
"Oh! I'm sorry! I can't even bring myself to charge you for this drawing now. When did you find out it was all mish-mash?"
Adam spoke between guffaws. "Actually, it's not. It's a formula for stabilizing isotopes of certain higher atomic elements. Well, that's what it became. It's the reason I got tenure."
He pulled out a plain metal ring. "This metal just got added on the periodic table. Two years ago, you couldn't find enough of it on the planet Earth to make this ring. Now, I can give this to you as a gift - a thank you. Oh, and I will pay the $30 for the sketch."
"Thank you, Adam," Blanco said, tearing the picture from his sketchpad. "Did you want to get a picture?"
Adam kept his eyes on the ground as he left, while Blanco greeted his next fan. After he found a quiet piece of hallway, Adam looked at the drawing of Mr Fantastic stretching out from the page. Behind the superhero, Blanco had drawn a chalkboard that held the first half of the same formula out of Tales to Astonish; a comic-book version of Adam had been drawn with chalk in hand, starting the second. Underneath, Blanco had written above his signature: "...just ended up on the page."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Meet the New Element: Ununpentium"
DAY 73: The Poker Table
Harvey riffled the deck and looked around the table. "Okay, it looks like we're all here for tonight. Lose the chips and let's see what we're playing with."
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table. "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles. "We're not throwing in the pot yet. Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head. "I like the other stuff. This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me." Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt. "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards. Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose. "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda. You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."
The pot had grown. Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders. "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said. "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here. when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?" Timmy asked.
Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet. He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless. Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore. It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it. Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now. Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing. It made just as much sense.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"
Thursday, March 13, 2014
DAY 72: Arsenic and Old Rice
Jiro was trying to talk himself out of eating sushi. He had two phones and a tablet by his plate, to help him.. The tablet identified the components of his dinner - a list of ingredients in the Crunchy Rainbow roll, under sesame sauce and presented with a side of wasabi. In the phone to his immediate right, he searched for documentation of identified toxins with each ingredient. In the other phone, he calculated the estimated toxin levels he could expect to be exposed to, down to the piece.
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
He had been proud of his dietary lifestyle: not as doomed as the bacon cheeseburger worshippers, not as pretentious as the vega-ova-terrestrials... just chicken, fish, and the kind of stuff that gets a B-to-B-plus on the nutritional report card. But then the local news reported that a sister location of his favorite grocery store had recalled a week's worth of chicken breasts sales, after several families contracted a previously unidentified strain of avian flu. He started reading headlines about the risks in foods that he had trusted, to the point that he recognized he was becoming phobic about the act of eating. He compromised with his fears, and began his dietary audit.
Jiro had been eating sushi since he was 13 years old. Now, he sat in front of his favorite order, trying to figure out how many more pieces he could eat in his life. He attempted to ascertain the levels of mercury in the fish, arsenic in the rice, lead in the seaweed... He looked up from his mathwork, and eyed the colorful plate. By his own determination, this plate of sushi would be his third-to-last ever, to be safe.
He was studying his food so intently, he did not see the waitress refresh his drink. He shifted his gaze to the glass of tap water... and he froze.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Arsenic-Tainted Rice is Harmful to Humans"
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
DAY 70: Dream #46
Wendy was surprised to see Poppin standing there. "You're still dead, aren't you?"
"Yes. And I'm here to help you accept it."
Wendy froze in her tracks. She was as the park pavillion again, waiting for the rain to stop. She was wearing the pink rainboots she outgrew, and the heather-green coat. She even had the barrettes in her hair that she wore that day, the ones she put in the coffin with Poppin. "But I'm sitting right here, yes."
"So I'm dreaming again?"
"Yes. The same dream. It's time to change it, isn't it?"
"I- I don't know how."
Poppin offered one of her transcendant smiles, wide as the horizon. "I know, dear. It's not easy."
"Everybody says I should."
"Certainly. You're so afraid of so many things. Loneliness and guilt, and traffic and crowds, and cars and rain. It's always going to rain again, you know... eventually. Have I made you afraid?"
"No... Hey, why are you talking to me?"
"Because no one else knows what happened. Do they?"
"No."
"But they ask."
"...yes."
"And you don't tell them?"
"No. I'm crazy enough already."
"Only because you're not talking, dear. Fear feeds on silence, like oxygen for fire."
"But if I talk-"
Poppin leaned in, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Wendy opened her mouth-
The rain had stopped. The park was smothered in that post-rain quiet.
"Go on, Wendy... If you talk..."
Wendy got up. "And now it's time."
Poppin stood with her. "It doesn't have to be."
"But this is how it happened."
They walked, assuming the posture of happier conversations. But Poppin continued. "Do you ever remember what we were talking about?"
Wendy spun, holding her hands out for any remaining drops of rain. "No! I don't remember the last things you said. I'm forgetting! I'm sorry!"
Poppin walked onto the road with more difficulty. "Don't be sorry. I still love you all. And I love you."
The cadillac fell out of the sky, onto Poppin's spot. Wendy screamed, and ran to her, trying to glimpse her under the wreck. From out of the shadow, Poppin's voice emerged. "Next time, dear. Next time..."
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Erasing Fears with Sleep"
DAY 69: Interfacing
Marlon adjusted his glasses and turned to his wife. "How do I look?"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
"Like a supervillain?" Peggy replied.
The jokes were not going to stop with her. But that was the price he would have to pay to wear the glasses to the reunion. His cover was that he had to keep them on for work. But the truth was, they were his crutch; if they worked correctly, he would know any family member's name before they got the last syllable of 'hello' out of their mouths. It had taken all week to convince his wife; saying that her family members all looked alike had not helped matters. But she relented, on the condition that his subterfuge would remain undetected.
Their timing was perfect: the first of the grilled masterpieces were being served. Peggy's mother, Lorraine, 58, greeted them by herself. "You made it! And Marlon's trying to look like he's money!"
"If you knew how much I paid for these, you'd know I was, Lorraine..." He leaned in to get his cheeks kissed. "Your daughter'll make me a cabana boy any day now. If not, you need one?"
Lorraine giggled. "The boys are over by the grill and the beer, of course." She shooed him away, taking her daughter with her.
The grill was unmanned when he walked up to it. His glasses were already sizing up the nutritional values and remaining cooking time for all the meat selections, when a large hand gripped his shoulder.
"Marlon! You made it!" Marlon turned to face... who was this? "Peggy wouldn't let you talk your way out of it, huh?"
The glasses started to work as soon as they detected his voice. In the right-hand corner, Marlon saw
Ed Solowitz, 48, Lubbock, Texas
"Ed!" Marlon shook his hand, as he rapidly watched his glass. "Geez, Ed, how long you been here?"
Current Wife: Emma, 26 ; Dogs:2 - Rusty, Lady Marmalade
"First thing! Emma wanted to help Mom out-
First wife: Doreen, 45 ; children: Mark, 17 ; Ellen, 15; Neil, 8
"-as in I get to make all the trips to the grocery store. You lucked out!"
Traffic citations: 1998, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006, 2009
"Yeah, thanks for taking that bullet, Ed. How are you and Emma doing?"
Emma Solowitz, 23, dance instructor, Lubbock, Texas ; owner, Stripocize Fitness, Inc.
"We're doing great!-"
Employed: Southland Resources, VP Finance, Dallas Division, 2008-present
"We had a good quarter-
HEADLINE: Southland Resources VP harrassment suit dismissed
"-might get a vacation redo sooner than I thought."
HEADLINE: Norovirus strikes again in Corpus Christi cruise ship
"Well, you deserve it, Ed."
Ed raised his beer can. "Don't I know it!" In the corner of Marlon's eye, a pair of luscious lips blew him a kiss.
Coors Lite: Tap the Rockies
Marlon looked at the beer can in his hand, then back at Ed; he was wearing a virtual handlebar mustache.
OLD MILWAUKEE: The Beer that Made Milwaukee Famous!
"Hey, Marlon - why's your eye twitching?" Marlon blinked hard and focused his gaze on Ed's square face.
ALOPECIA: male pattern baldness, afflicts up to...
"I got a thing."
"Is that why you're wearing the glasses?"
Marlon tried to focus his eye square at Ed's head. "Yeah, it's supposed to help."
ROGAINE: Use it or Lose it!
Marlon took the glasses. "...but I think I need a break."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Google Glass: A Futuristic Fantasy that Already Feels Retro"
Sunday, March 9, 2014
DAY 67: The River of Dust
Paris walked the riverbed, waiting for the wind to return. He had lost the camp two days ago, coming down from his psychotropic adventure, and the remains of the river was the first change in the environment that had registered with him. There was no water to point downstream, but he had run into a breeze that felt directed, so he walked in that direction. The air was slight - non-existent, in some stretches- but he walked on.
He reached the center column that protruded from the riverbed. The shade was welcome, so he stood beneath and collected himself. He was so thirsty. He curled up as much of himself into the shadow and waited for anything. Doubt caught up with him: was he any closer to being found? To finding civilization? He needed a better vantage point.
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out. Any color had been lost to the elements. But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious. He pulled himself up to investigate.
It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk. He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud. As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged. The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him. He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way. "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...
He awoke underneath the boat. The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin. Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it. But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward. So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
DAY 64: The Patsy
They call it one of the great unsolved mysteries of Detroit; Stefano wanted an answer by his birthday. He recruited me, Rico, Rocco, Shiny Pete and Grace to do something about it. "These guys will make it happen if you point them in the right direction, Gene."
"What direction is that?"
"That's your job, Gene."
Plenty of cops, reporters, and talk radio callers have tried to find Hoffa over the years, but they had tried without our advantages: our bonafides, and our knowledge of the particpants involved. Police had known about Eddie Berganza, had locked him up for life, had dug up all his favorite hiding places. Nothing was found, however, for a reason.
Shiny Pete found Berlinghetti's place; he'd been senile for years. Pete drove him around for a day and a half, but ended up digging up some other schnook. Rocco got in touch with some other accountants; they figured when Berlinghetti took care of Jimmy, he got creative about it. Grace had a chat with Louis Hoffa, a second cousin and conspiracy author living in Miami; even he was stumped. Two days to go, and we had nothing. So I went with plan B: a patsy.
Rico and Pete got one of those old schnooks out of the ground; Rocco made sure it was somebody the same size and age, the same wear and tear (not so hard; they had a busy year. ) Grace, meanwhile, had a second lunch with Louis; she came back with a couple of Louis' teeth. We replanted the schnook with the dental work in one of Berlinghetti's old hiding places, and took the geezer out for one more drive.
The discovery was credited to some 'urban archaeologists' who were checking out the neighborhood for 'historical significance.' The remains were handed over to genetic researchers who tested the most intact piece of the body they could find - a tooth. Comparing the DNA with two known blood relatives, they saw enough to call it Hoffa DNA. Berlinghetti even ranted about dumping the body on the evening news, which was enough to close the case.
I brought a birthday card to stefano's party; we all signed it. He said he was impressed; "We cremated him! Where'd you get a body?" And so, I told him how we did it, with the senile Berlinghetti and the Hoffa kook. He thought it was hilarious. He asked, "How did you get him to shut up about it?"
"We made a trade."
I presume, at that point, Louis was making his way through the kitchen entrance, and up the stairs to have words with Stefano. As I said , that's what I presume. I didn't stick around.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Skeleton of King Richard III Found in England"
"What direction is that?"
"That's your job, Gene."
Plenty of cops, reporters, and talk radio callers have tried to find Hoffa over the years, but they had tried without our advantages: our bonafides, and our knowledge of the particpants involved. Police had known about Eddie Berganza, had locked him up for life, had dug up all his favorite hiding places. Nothing was found, however, for a reason.
Shiny Pete found Berlinghetti's place; he'd been senile for years. Pete drove him around for a day and a half, but ended up digging up some other schnook. Rocco got in touch with some other accountants; they figured when Berlinghetti took care of Jimmy, he got creative about it. Grace had a chat with Louis Hoffa, a second cousin and conspiracy author living in Miami; even he was stumped. Two days to go, and we had nothing. So I went with plan B: a patsy.
Rico and Pete got one of those old schnooks out of the ground; Rocco made sure it was somebody the same size and age, the same wear and tear (not so hard; they had a busy year. ) Grace, meanwhile, had a second lunch with Louis; she came back with a couple of Louis' teeth. We replanted the schnook with the dental work in one of Berlinghetti's old hiding places, and took the geezer out for one more drive.
The discovery was credited to some 'urban archaeologists' who were checking out the neighborhood for 'historical significance.' The remains were handed over to genetic researchers who tested the most intact piece of the body they could find - a tooth. Comparing the DNA with two known blood relatives, they saw enough to call it Hoffa DNA. Berlinghetti even ranted about dumping the body on the evening news, which was enough to close the case.
I brought a birthday card to stefano's party; we all signed it. He said he was impressed; "We cremated him! Where'd you get a body?" And so, I told him how we did it, with the senile Berlinghetti and the Hoffa kook. He thought it was hilarious. He asked, "How did you get him to shut up about it?"
"We made a trade."
I presume, at that point, Louis was making his way through the kitchen entrance, and up the stairs to have words with Stefano. As I said , that's what I presume. I didn't stick around.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Skeleton of King Richard III Found in England"
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
DAY 63: Once Around the Block
His teeth disappeared first; only three. It was inevitable, they understood. But it was so unexpected and random (only three?) that they were merely amused.
"You look tough. Nobody's gonna steal your wallet, looking like that." Leroy said.
Edmund beamed, like a brand-new Jack-o-lantern, and put on his hat. It was time for a walk.
"Not too cold for a walk, is it?" Leroy asked.
"I've been in colder." Edmund adjusted his hat. "Where I lived, the snow would pile until it crushed our houses. And we would have to build igloos atop the wreckage, and live in those for the winter, else squatters would claim the place. And as soon as it thawed, we'd have to build our houses all over again."
"You did that every winter?"
"No!" Edmund adjusted his hat. "That only happened twice growing up."
They passed a dog. "That looks a lot like my dog growing up!"
"I thought yours was bigger," Leroy said.
"I thought so, too. But that was the one! You can ask my sister. Have you met her?"
Leroy nodded, and adjusted Edmund's hat.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Upside to Amyloids"
"You look tough. Nobody's gonna steal your wallet, looking like that." Leroy said.
Edmund beamed, like a brand-new Jack-o-lantern, and put on his hat. It was time for a walk.
"Not too cold for a walk, is it?" Leroy asked.
"I've been in colder." Edmund adjusted his hat. "Where I lived, the snow would pile until it crushed our houses. And we would have to build igloos atop the wreckage, and live in those for the winter, else squatters would claim the place. And as soon as it thawed, we'd have to build our houses all over again."
"You did that every winter?"
"No!" Edmund adjusted his hat. "That only happened twice growing up."
They passed a dog. "That looks a lot like my dog growing up!"
"I thought yours was bigger," Leroy said.
"I thought so, too. But that was the one! You can ask my sister. Have you met her?"
Leroy nodded, and adjusted Edmund's hat.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "An Upside to Amyloids"
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