There are a few films that are considered classics in my family -- mostly comedies. (This, I think, says something positive about my family.) One of them is Cannonball Run. I think Dom DeLuise's portrayal of Captain Chaos in the film may have helped me to acccept Eris into my life...)

Dom has left us. He did good work here, and will be missed.

It's such a rarity to encounter good customer service. We ought to mention it more often.

I had two good experiences in the past few weeks.

The weekend before last I rented a wood chipper at the Catonsville ABC Rental Center. The delivery charge had gone up a lot since I last did this a few years ago, but the woman behind the counter halved the charge since I live close by. Then, when I had an issue -- couldn't get the motor started after shutting it down for a break -- they gave me the choice of another session with it, or just charging me for a half-day instead of a whole one. I was pleased.

And I recently ordered a fan from Mouser Electronics, to repair my bug zapper. It apparently got broken in transit. No problem at all, they're sending me a replacement, not asking me to return the old one, and not charging shipping on the replacement.

I also want to mention that I've mostly had good luck with Dish Network customer service -- I've been able to speak to knowledgeable people whose native language seems to be English, a combination becoming more and more rare on help lines for tech products and services.

The things you learn on the Internet: there is a 1927 Tilt-A-Whirl still in operation today.

When we went to amusement parks, my dad wasn't much for the rides. My mom was up for them, except the roller coasters. (After seeing the movie Rollercoaster about a terrorist blowing them up, she never rode one.) So her, my brother, and I would hit the flat rides. The Tilt-A-Whirl was a favorite, a classic, and I salute it.

A five-foot Ethernet cable might run you about $20 at Best Buy. Less if you shop around on-line or get a bargain-basement cable. A cheapo cable is more likely to fail, but once you get up to a decent quality Category 6 cable, a cable is a cable is a cable.

But the folks at Denon actually have the gall to charge $499 for their AK-DL1 "proprietary ultra premium Denon Link cable". It's got all the bells and whistles: even "signal directional markings are provided for optimum signal transfer." (Presumably the electrons read the markings to figure out which way to go, because moving under a voltage is just so out of style.)

Worse is that there are people who would buy this, the same sort of "audiophiles" who buy Monster cables and Brilliant Pebbles

More at Wired's Gadget Lab.

This week's Zelda's Inferno exercise: your first decree as master of the world

Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. As, by the grace of the divine, I take up the mantle of Emperor of Earth and Protector of the Moon, I make the following my first Imperial Decree:

Imprimus: the fighting-over-religion thing. Cut it out. I hereby declare that every religion is true, so you no longer need to prove the correctness of yours. And I declare that every religion is false, so you no longer need to prove your neighbor's wrong. There, done. Moving on...

Secundus: the sticking-your-nose-into-other-peoples-business thing. Cease and desist. It's none of your business what consenting adults do to themselves or their friends. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll are no reason to lock people in cages. If it doesn't affect you, you don't get a say in it. You will henceforth live and let live.

Tertius: the mine-mine-mine-and-you-can't-have-it thing. My loyal subjects, we're all in this together. We've go to share the planet. To that end, we will be downsizing the Imperial Palace, and re-assigning half of the Royal Army to be the Royal House-Building and Feeding People Corps. Every single person on the planet is entitled to, and will have, a warm, dry, safe place to sleep. And on a planet this fertile, inhabited by people as clever as we are, there is no excuse for people going hungry. On my watch, everybody eats.

Quartus: the letting-sick-people-die-in-the-gutter thing. My people, please familiarize yourself with the idea that disease is communicable. If your neighbor has the flu or tuberculosis, it is in your interest that he see a doctor ASAP. Therefore basic medical care will be available to all starting immediately.

Quintus: in conclusion, it's time for us to grow up and behave ourselves. And part of that is to stop looking for others to lead us. Therefore, as I take the throne, I hereby forever and irrevocably abolish the office and position of Emperor. I'm going on permanent vacation. You'll have to make your own decisions. Good luck.

Zelda's Inferno exercise: from >Writing Down the Bones: why do I write?

Why do I write? I write because if I don't it nags at me, like not brushing your teeth before going to bed. Or maybe more like flossing, the old joke about mental floss, writing is working that piece of gunk, that sesame seed or bit of corn, from betweeny our teeth.

I write to save all sentient beings, stock bullshit Zen answer but still a truth nearby. Like Pirsig's idea that the real motorcycle you're working on is yourself, so the poem. I write to write myself into being.

I write because it's Sunday night coffee and vegetarian sushi rolls (one inari, one shitake) and the sun has just gone down and it feels like rain soon, cooling from a lovely mid-April day into another one of those multi-day April showers. I write to make the May flowers.

I write because the stage is a safe place to be, lesson learned as a child -- the bully cannot get you when all eyes are on you. So be an actor, be a singer, be a poet, still running from the kid who punched me in the gut when I was seven.

I write because there's nothing better than the flow when it comes, when you precipitate the truth out of nothingness and on to the page. Sex is not better, nor zazen, nor LSD or whiskey or cannabis or coca.

I write because everyone must know, must be made to know, what I know, what I see, the connections, the implications. Because I am course am right! And the sooner everyone sees that and does things my way, the better off we'll all be.

I write because if I don't then I am ordinary, mundane. I write to leave a mark, graffiti on human civilization.

I write to make the voices in my head more audible. I write to help build consensus in my mental committee. (No! I write to drown out the voices in my head! It's hierarchical imposition by the verbal mind over the rest of the brain. And the others will take it no more!) And so the dialog continues.

Zelda's Inferno exercise: based on the chapter "Nervously Sipping Wine" from Writing Down the Bones. Write a set of outrageous first lines, pick one and write a short piece from it.

The headache slid down his neck and spine and oozed out of his tailbone, dripping to the floor.

The dogs had a meeting late last night.

When I was a kid I would stay up after bedtime reading with a flashlight under the covers, and now I can only sleep on a mattress stuffed with books.

I do not believe in ghosts, but still on St. Patrick's Day I went back in the house to put on a green shirt lest the spirit of my grandmother haunt me.

Suddenly, over a small area in the middle of Interstate 83 in downtown Baltimore, gravity stopped working.

His paintbrush was made from the eyelashes of his ex-lovers.

He knew the children were plotting against him.

He checked the results three times, but there was no mistake, no miscalculation: due to obscure parts of the tax code, Uncle Sam owed him a Harrier jump-jet.

Her pen would not lay ink on the page unless the words were exactly right.

One morning I woke up to find that nothing special had happened.

His paintbrush was made from the eyelashes of his ex-lovers. He collected them from the pillow, over many years. Not mere head hairs, or eyebrow or body hairs or even pubic hairs would do. Only eyelashes, as if they would lend a bit of what the eyes had seen, as if some bit of vision had soaked into them through osmosis or diffusion or some other chemical absorption process the name of which he couldn't quite recall, and as if that vision would diffuse back out into the paint. And not the eyelashes of strangers, or friends, or even blood family, but only those of lovers, and only those left behind by accident or nature. A deliberately plucked one would not work, he was sure, though of course he never asked, he never told. For that is the nature of the thing: all artist have their secrets, even from their intimates.

From the poetryinbaltimore.com convocation: "ransom note poetry",
written based on cut-out words from junk mail.

special free offer
breathtaking artistry
your meditation invitation
generously sponsored by
exclusive dramatic thrills

plus
back in time
for brunch

enjoy!

expect travel --
dance dance dance!

face the sojourn
you will take

for your health
expect travel --
dance dance dance!

vonnegut, he say
peculiar traveling suggestions are dancing lessons from god

expect travel --
dance dance dance!

life is a journey
expect travel --
dance dance dance!

Tsutomu Yamaguchi was in Hiroshima on a business trip on August 6, 1945, when the U.S. flash-broiled thousands of Japanese citizens (a disproportionate number of the them children who were set to work making firebreaks in the city) in the area, in order to intimidate the U.S.S.R. with our new wonder-weapon.

He survived the attack and returned to his hometown of Nagasaki -- just in time for the second nuclear massacre.

I'm not sure if this is a very lucky man to have survived two mass killings, or a very unlucky man to have been present at them.

He's a doctor. He's a ninja. He's Dr. McNinja..

I'm reading my way through the archives of this fine web comic and enjoying it immensely. The only thing I can compare it to is The Tick -- if you enjoyed that comic (not the cartoon, which was quite good but in a different vein) I think you'll like this.