No Drought of Doubt

Since my earliest memories I have been a creator. I don't mean to imply by this that everything I've created was worth the effort I put into it, or in fact any effort at all, but create I did and continue to do. Over the years, by talking to others of like ilk and reading their comments, I've come to understand that almost all creators alternately admire and despise their creations. In my own case that extends beyond the creation to the creative urge itself. I wonder how much simpler a cast my life would have taken on if I could just have been content with coming home from work and flopping down in front of the television like the vast majority of other American males my age.

But no, I had to roll up my sleeves and hit the drafting table, wood shop, easel, cement mixer, yard, ham shack, typewriter, keyboard, modeling bench, or some other locus of dabbling and drilling until it was time for bed. It got to the point where I owned a television solely for the purpose of watching taped movies a few times a year. I haven't subscribed to any cable TV service now for over half a decade. You'd think that as a fantasy and science fiction author I'd be into watching television shows and movies of those genres, but I can seldom rationalize giving up enough time from writing to accomplish even this pleasant activity, though it might quite legitimately be thought of as 'research.' (Why 're-search?' Does that mean you didn't find it the first time?)

Returning to my thesis, if indeed there is one, this love/hate dichotomy with the products of one's own mental perspiration recurs as a philosophical topic for me periodically, most often when I am engaged in a certain unavoidable biological function that lends itself well to cogitation. Most of the things I create I regard, quite frankly, as crap, especially when I compare them with what others working in the same medium having produced. My admirers, if there are any left in the general population, feel otherwise and have told me so on occasion. There's no accounting for taste.

Writing, the creative activity in which I am now involved full-time, is something of an exception for me. Sure, I still churn out crap on a regular basis, but unlike many of my other creative pursuits if I designate a piece of writing as having little to no value I have the option of fixing it, at least so long as I catch wind of the excremental aspect before something unfortunate like publication happens to it. That's a luxury many other art forms cannot be said to enjoy.

Irony stalks into my life regularly and from various directions. One of her favorite paths is through my writing. I can spend months slaving over a hot keyboard to produce a novel, polished to what appears to me to be mirror-finish perfection, only to have it either ignored or outright rejected by publishers, agents, reviewers, and even the man who comes to change the bulb in the street light out front. By the same token, some shallow throwaway piece I wrote while waiting at the doctor's office ten years ago and hastily edited for submission ends up being a finalist in a prestigious literary competition. Does this illustrate an intrinsic fairness and force of justice pervading the universe? I hardly think so.

In fact, it almost seems the more work I put into things, the worse they stink. This blog entry, for example, took me well over an hour.

Yet Another Feeble Tolkien Ripoff

In the days of Astranärion, when green and lush still were the glades and cool copses of fair Navillona, before the first rumor of the evil that was to spread from this verdant land until it covered the Four Realms in a sodden, suffocating blanket of hate, a man walked alone. He was not outcast, nor suffered he from any ailment or gross disfigurement that might seemingly cause him to seek out a solitary existence. He moved along paths seldom tread for his own purposes, shunning contact for the distraction it offered, pulling him away from his thoughts. Ever he sought counsel within himself, heeding no voice of bird or beast, looking at times at the sky, yet in truth seeing it not.

For fully a fortnight wandered he in solitude along the high waypaths that rode the hillsides midway between the sea foam and the shoulders of the Mithinn; in all that time he spoke not, and nor did he eat or drink save sunlight and morning dew. At last came he to a splendid valley, surrounded on three sides by blue and gray peaks, graced by two swift-flowing streams and overlain by a thick carpet of grass most green. In the midst of the valley stood a singular column of granite, many ells high, left by some unguessed-at act of nature or wizardry of the Elder Peoples. At its base he built a small cairn of stones, and on this cairn he broke his long fast.

A city grew from this beginning, a city whose like had never before nor since been seen in the lands of mortal men. Many towered it was, with sharp pinnacles aspiring to the heavens at the four corners of a magnificent curtain wall, wrought by dwarven skill from stone quarried from deep within Darva Mithinnu, the mountain of thunder. At its center was the Tower of Lemiol, hewn from the very living rock of the granite column, for Lemiol it was who founded the city, and ever did that tower bear his name.

Far and wide about the tower were gardens and parks, margined by broad avenues of close-set cobbling, and along these broadways sprang up the dwellings of the people of Pendu Leimol. Lemiol was a chieftain of the Estracar and his people flocked to him when he summoned them from their havens across the wide, storm-ridden gulf. It was fated that all Estracar should make this journey and take up abode in mortal climes since the Folly of Indüriner, who in madness sat himself upon the High Seat of Estra, the One, the only place forbidden to the people of Estra in all of the Blessed Realm. At that moment the lands of the Estracar broke apart from the body of the Blessed Realm, and became islands, havens hidden from mortal mariners yet much lessened from their former splendor. And Estra pronounced upon them this doom: that they should seek out mortal shores and there abide amongst the strifes of men and the other peoples, until they were at last called back from exile after many long ages.

So set forth Lemiol from the quay at Astranärion, sailing alone in a ship of deep blue Bhidras wood, which could not founder or be driven from its course by any save Lemiol or The One. He was in appearance as a mortal man, with long, fine, brown hair, a sharp nose, and piercing gray eyes. A careful observer might note in him an almost undefinable aura of grace and a fluidity of motion that bespoke his magical nature.

The Estracar were magical beings, born to magic and trained in its use from an early age. They never revealed their true nature to mortals, becoming known rather as sorcerors or mages or wizards or thaumaturges, or by a host of other labels that fell far short of reality. The sendra, the innermost caste of mages, knew them as carres inorpeth, the chosen ones, who were fittingly thought to be born to magic. Certainly the offspring of Estracar and mortals made exceptional mages, and they seemed to take to the rigid discipline of the thaumos, the spell-casting magic, far more quickly than did normal students.

While the Estracar were immortal, those who chose to dwell too long in any one place began, as a result of the distance between themselves and the Blessed Lands from which their power emanated, to fade, until they were almost transparent, possessing only a wispy gray outline that could easily be overlooked by any but the practiced. These poor souls were often called ghosts or spirits by the unenlightened, and feared greatly by the common people. As a result they wandered in solitary exile, far from inhabited places, for Estracar were acutely tuned to the joys and fears of mortal men and suffered greatly when confronted by intense fear or anger.

I can’t keep this up.

This Explains So Much

The author at work. Inspiring, isn't it?

Alienware Atrocity

I don't customarily use blogs to rant about defective products or unscrupulous manufacturers, but I'm going to make an exception here because the "correct" route has gotten me nothing but frustrated.

In February of 2008 my loving wife bought me an Alienware Area 51 M9750 laptop for Valentine's day, to help me make productive use of the down time during a four week training TDY. The total cost for this extravagant (and amazingly considerate) show of affection was $2,864.23--which was a lot of moolah for a frigging laptop in 2008 (still is, for that matter).

Immediately the laptop had an issue, in that despite being supposedly state-of-the-art for gaming wouldn't run most of the games I put on it, no matter if they were recent or older. It came with Vista; I figured that was the problem and loaded XP SP2. Same issues, precisely. Odd. After a few days it began to reboot spontaneously, which it still does. As a result of this quirk (probably a motherboard issue), I can't really use it for anything.

In August of 2008, I finally had enough and contacted Alienware customer "support." After several days of exchanging emails in which they apologized but refused to do anything about it, my final response from them was "You are a valued customer and we apologize for the inconvenience caused." That's it. Not even a "Here's a Return Authorization number; send it back and we'll come up with a way to claim it was your fault." So, I just wrote it off as an expensive mistake and carried on with my life.

When Dell took over Alienware, I was hopeful that customer service might now consist of something less Douglas Adamsesque than simply, "we apologize for the inconvenience." I gave them a few months to get Alienware fully integrated into the company and then tried again.

The chief problem with Dell Customer Service is that it resembles an IQ test: there are a lot of questions and puzzles to solve and then...nothing happens. At least with an IQ test you get a score at the end. They insist on you having a bunch of numbers you won't have if you bought your Alienware machine prior to the merger; if you try an alternate route as a result you get exactly nowhere, or at least Igot exactly nowhere. Needless to say, I will never buy another Alienware anything, and strongly discourage any of my readers from making the grave mistake of falling for their probably largely self-generated reputation, as well. I even went so far as to praise Alienware Area 51's in my first novel. The next time they appear in one of my novels it won't be in a positive light, I promise you.

So, in summary, my wife paid $2,864.23 to buy me a rubberized paperweight, for which the scoundrels who sold it to her "apologize for the inconvenience caused" but nothing more.

Oh, but it does have a cool alien face on the lid.

Goblinopolis: You Know You Crave It

And here is where you can satisfy that gnawing craving: Paperback or Kindle. Share and enjoy!

Lululemon Athletica CEO Application

I'm not at all a fan of the traditional job application process: it's stuffy, boring, bureaucratic, and honestly doesn't generate the information HR actually needs in order to make a credible decision about whether or not to forward your application to the hiring official.

This job announcement is probably in the top five I've encountered in my 35 years in the professional job market, so I decided to apply. Since, as I said, I'm not into the traditional route, I'll apply via my blog. If they're really interested in hiring someone with these qualities, they will search the Web and find my application. If they don't find that a viable application route, I probably wouldn't do well as their CEO, anyway. If you put someone who constantly thinks way outside the box in a box, he can no longer think at all because his thinking is now separated from his brain and has no way to get expressed. I'm not the type to sit there and make stuff up all day, like most executives. I actually enjoy thinking, even at work. But I can't do it very well in a box. Not that I've ever actually been asked to work in a box. I wonder if I could think outside the box in an actual box? I think we're skating off into Irrelevancia, my adopted homeland. Since you're all undocumented aliens, we'll have to stay on this side of the border for now.

Claimer (I dislike disclaimers: they're so negative and everything): The text in bold print below is copyright (c) 2013 by Lululemon Athletica--at least I presume so. What I claim here (since this is a claimer) is that I didn't write it.

CEO

lululemon athletica

Founded in 1998 in beautiful Vancouver, BC lululemon athletica creates components for people to live long, healthy and fun lives.

That covers a broad range of products. You must have an enormous production facility. Unless you mean "a few relatively small and easy to store" components. As a lifelong humorist I have a great deal of experience in your field. I'm not sure reading my humor will actually allow you to live longer, but at least it will seem that way. Laughter is the best medicine, so I've got "healthy" covered. If humor isn't fun, I don't know what is. And I do (know what is).

description

You report to no one, you are the CEO (duh). You are passionate about doing chief executive officer type stuff like making decisions, having a vision and being the head boss person.

To be brutally honest, I don't report to anyone even when I have an office job. I just send off random emails I copy from sites that pertain to our line of business and the boss never knows the difference. In fact, she thinks I'm innovative and well-informed. I would say I'm passionate about making decisions, so long as those decisions involve ale selection, which new Ham radio or computer equipment to buy, or chocolate. I do have a vision, although it needs optical enhancement when I'm driving or reading fine print. I also have an envision, which is that I envision taking the company to new, unimagined heights through my incredible ability to navigate the tortuous class-5 rapids of the business world by telling everyone exactly what they want to hear and then taking my golden parachute when we can't deliver on any of those promises. But come on, isn't that really what most every CEO does? I'm just admitting it up front. Refreshing, isn't it?

a day in the life of a chief executive officer

• You communicate powerfully, often through Sanskrit

  ଏତତ୍ ଅହଂ ନ ଜ୍ଞାତବାନ୍। ହମ ଈ ନହି ବୁଝଲହୁଁ। !

• You are disciplined, focused and can hold headstand for at least 10 minutes

  I like discipline (in the right circumstances), I am focused after my third cup of coffee, and I can hold a reverse headstand for about fifteen minutes before I have to sit down (I have a bad back).

• You’re a long-term thinker. You already have a plan to bring yoga and luon to Mars by 2018

  I think so far into the future, it wraps around to the past. I not only plan to bring yoga and luon (I must confess, I though luon was a subatomic particle), I'll bring along Tai Chi and Chai Tea, as well. And scones.

• You break all the rules like getting your OM-on (loudly) whenever the urge arises

  I can't tell from this sentence grammatically whether getting your OM-on (loudly) occurs before or after the rule is broken. At any rate, "OM" to me means "Old Man," a term in amateur radio for any male operator. Since I would have radio equipment in a corner of my executive office, I would in a manner of speaking "get my OM-on (loudly)" whenever the urge arose. But the underlying premise of this statement seems to me to be pretty shaky, since as CEO I can simply exempt myself from whatever rule it is to which you are referring. Case closed.

• You elevate and cultivate the level of talent within the senior leadership team by holding The Bachelor lululemon. Only one successful SVP will get the final rose

  This sounds like some Polynesian sacrificial ceremony that ends with the SVP holding the rose being thrown into a live volcano. I'm down with that, actually.

• Not only do you lead the organization to create components for people to live long, healthy and fun lives, you know the secret to how they got the caramel in the Caramilk bar

  I can do you one better. I'll show you how to get it out without disturbing the chocolate shell.

• You wear The Mansy to lead our company-wide morning chant and kombucha ritual

  I've always worn the Mansy in my family, thank you very much. I'll be happy to lead the company anywhere you like so long as there is coffee at the far end. I have no idea what kombucha is, but given your track record with rituals, I can make a pretty good guess.

the finer print

• Your go-to party trick is your dead-on impression of the yogi in “Sh*T Yogis Say”

  I'm more of the "Sh*T Yogi Said" kinda guy. It's like déjà vu, all over again.

• You voted for Pedro

  The only Pedro I ever knew was a donkey. I probably would have voted for him, though. Better to vote for the jackass you know than ballot for one you know not of.

• You have Chip Wilson, Bill Clinton, Ellen DeGeneres and Oprah Winfrey on speed dial

  I have Flip Wilson, Bill The Cat, Helen of Troy, and Opie Taylor on mine.

• You actively live and breathe the lululemon culture – on Friday afternoons you hit up wheatgrass and tequila shots (it’s called work/life balance)

  I actively live and breathe. I like culture in my buttermilk, cheese, yogurt, and movies. I hit wheatgrass any chance I get, with whatever blunt instrument is available (I prefer didgeridoos). I never hit tequila, especially if it's Patron Añejo.

• You use your third eye to channel innovation

  I have a total of twenty seven eyes. I had twenty-eight, but there was a sports accident where I lost both an eye and the associated hyphen. I can channel innovation on HF, VHF, UHF, and even microwave if you like. I can also channel Groucho Marx, James Thurber, Robert Benchley, and Cynric of Bedwyn, a late ninth-century Anglo-Saxon thegn.

• Your lineage is directly related to Phidippides

  I'm not aware of any spiders in my lineage, although since you're looking with someone with at least three eyes, I can see why you would ask. I may have a few velociraptors and possibly the odd Giant Moa in the woodpile, but no arachnids.

• You own yoga

  I did once briefly own a Yugo. Does that count? Yoga gives me a rash. And hives. And headaches. And gout. And scoliosis. And Cotard's Syndrome.

My Humor Publications

Some of my published humor:

Anthologies


Husbandology in My Funny Valentine

Cut Here To Open in My Funny Major Medical

Prince of Fools in Open Doors: Fractured Fairy Tales

I also have a paperback humor book out called Ex Mentis Saxonicum that is available via Paypal for $10 (plus shipping). Send a message to humor@greatambience.com for ordering information.