The Anchor States Part I

Friends,

We live in a deceptive world. In the year 1837, you'd have seen the original title of this missive (Final Resolution) crossed out and replaced with the title above. Amidst the pen strokes you might even pick up on the sureness with which the original title was eschewed (a decisive eastward stroke). The keenest eye would detect the sense of hesitation furled up in the single downward line after "Part." Not a shaky line, but a curious one.

If we lived even further back in time, when parchment was a luxury and literacy was magic, you'd quickly realize you're reading a palimpsest. And that lurking behind the critical meta-analysis before you – in letters faded and forced out – was a letter of resignation. A suicide note. A quit.

But fortunately, thanks to electricity, the semi-conductor, and the backspace key, you are none the wiser. And the truth of this original post, this "final resolution," shall remain forever unresolved. You cannot seen the shiver of the cursive, nor the unnatural spaces between the diffident words. And moreover, instead of fear, you feel hope. Because part one promises a part two; and thus the careful reader will instead look forward to a final resolution, rather than the final resolution.

I need to stop posting sober. And exercising more.

Harvey

Cyberbullying

Two parents argue from opposite sides of the breakfast table.

Dad: Tyson! Where is that kid? His food is getting cold.
Mom: Derek, stop. He doesn’t want to come down. You know he’s feeling low.
Dad: Why? Because of that kid online?
Mom: Yes. He’s being cyberbullied.
Dad: How is that a thing?
Mom: It’s very real.
Dad: Getting bullied online? What kind of a vagina is this kid?
Mom: Derek!
Dad: Look getting bullied on the playground is one thing. Tyson is a twerp and will obviously get pounded by someone bigger than him. But isn’t the computer supposed to be his domain? He’s constantly in front of that thing. Don’t tell me he’s a loser online too.
Mom: Derek. Our son is not a loser. But the other kids are making fun of him online and—
Dad: Can’t he just turn it off? Am I missing something here?
Mom: He’s not going to turn off his computer every time.
Dad: Then tell him to close the tab!
Mom:
Dad:
Mom: I don’t know if he’s using a tabbed browser.
Dad: Jesus, then what kind of a nerd is he?

Poetry for nerds

My Memory's Key

Vulcanized rubber, ebon and blue
Ferrous its thin ribs align in a queue
They let you/us be and they let you/us see
Unlocking the code of my memory's key

The locksmith is knowledge, he falls to his knees
The subcon is fires; unanswers my pleas
Gyres flow gelid from bubbling to thick
Four billion bits fast to the reveille stick

A library not, but a letter contains
Confessional, edict and summ'ry of pains
I finally convinced you/the truth/that it's through
That moment I relayed the gumstick to you

E-mails are tacky, and phone calls too cold
Texting too timid, and meatworld too bold
But one single letter on a memory stick

Like the final connection on crepe paper ripped
Or approach of the slider on the last tines unzipped
Or a corolla of petals too untimely clipped
Extinguished your dreams; in plain, did the trick

Words I hate

Having had enough of my BlackBerry suggesting "ducking" when I want to convey "fucking," I decided to clean up my custom dictionary.  (For those that don't know, this can be accessed via your Options menu, but I'll be Goddamned if I'm going to tell you how.  What is this, Howard Forums?)

What I found was a lexicographical nightmare.  To my shame, I had a cache of loathsome non-words each added by Yours Truly.  I can't honestly say I was drunk when adding every one, but I'd like to think that I was.

For educational purposes I am publishing my findings.  I consider these terms deprecated.  I hope you will do the same.

• biggie
• boners
• bonerz
• bonkers
• boyee
• boyeeeeeeee
• cocksuckerism
• drupal
• dping (as in "double-penetrating")
• dunner
• froxen
• hottie
• killah
• Mariah (I have no idea)
• Mississauga
• probs
• sestina
• travis
• wendyswendys
• whattup
• wots
• zut
  

I'm particularly embarrassed by the inclusion of Drupal.  Everyone knows it's all about WP.

Animal conversions

The use of horsepower is a little outmoded right?

Wrong.

Personally, I appreciate the use of animals to measure the output of our machines. I can't believe you could think otherwise. (I'm disappointed, frankly.)

But it's worth asking, does it allow the level of granularity we need? I recently discoved that a garage-door-opener is 0.5 horsepower. Surely we have smaller animals to measure lower power engines. I did some research and according to my findings: we do.

After several days modelling complex calcluations, I have made some determinations. I propose the following conversions:

1 horse = 5 great danes
1 great dane = 5 sharpfin barracudas
1 sharpfin barracudas = 10 meerkats (or trumpeter swans in England)

So one horsepower would equal the power of 25 sharpfin barracudas or 250 meerkats. I think that sounds reasonable, right?

On the other hand, we have machines that can produce thousands of horsepower. Perhaps we can use some larger animals to fill the gaps here. For example:

4 horses = 1 giraffe
10 giraffes = 1 saltwater crocodile
3 saltwater crocodiles = 1 Pleistocene era ground sloth
15 ground sloths = 1 Sauroposeidon (S)

You get the point. I've tried to keep the conversions as simple as possible for quick calculation. Trying to measure the power of an commercial mineral-boring auger? It's about 105 saltwater crocodiles or 35 Pleistocene era ground sloths.

Your family lawnmower? 443 sharpfin barracudas.

The space shuttle is 37 million horsepower or, more conveniently, 20 555.55 Sauroposeidons.

Now those are numbers I can wrap my head around. Look, it's a good system if you give it a chance. They all laughed at the metric system too.

Bigger is better

In case you were wondering, this blog* can also be reached by using the following, easy-to-remember, Huge Url:

http://www.hugeurl.com/?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

For the cocky touch typist with a photographic memory and a penchant for alphanumeric strings.

Enjoy.


*Ha! More like slog, am I right? Eh? Aw, forget it.

Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of Budweiser (Light),

Hey boys.  Long time drinker, first time writer.  Just wanted to say: saw your television commercial about that dude who drinks your beer and then is like, transported back in time to Salem, Massachussets where everyone's all "you're a witch", and he's like, "no, dude" and then his cell phone rings and again everyone's all "you witch!" and he's like "no, man, it's a text message".

Well, I gotta say, I got ya. Because for starters they totally didn't have cell phone towers that would be able to relay the message to like 200 years ago. So he totally could not get that text message.

But second, and more important, even if he could get that message, do you know what the consequences of inter-time communication would be? Don't even joke about that shit, man. It would be fuckin' insane.

Just imagine that that guy wasn't tied to a stake and about to be burned, and that he was able to reply to the text message.  Dude!  His friend in the 21st century could totally text him lottery numbers and shit!  And if his friend was writing a history exam, the dude could just text his friend the answers; from actual history!

That put my brain in a headspin.  I know you guys are about beer first, and that time-travel stuff isn't your forté.  No problem, I'm looking out for ya.  But seriously, you don't want to joke about this stuff.  The consequences are serious.  Imagine if the dude killed the guy who invented Budweiser beer.  Then there would be no commercial.  Wait, but then the guy couldn't kill the inventor of the beer.

Whoa.

Wicked beer guys,

Harvey

Of mosquitoes and (canned) meat

Many summers ago, when I was a child, I asked my older (and wiser) cousin just what the point of mosquitoes was.

"So the birds have something to eat," was his calm and learned reply.

And standing in the hot sun --scratching my forearms and neck with vehemence-- I understood how everything, including pests, had a proper function in life. No matter how irritating or obscure, everything had a purpose, though perhaps beyond the comprehension of my tiny child mind.

But being older (and wiser) now, I'm not sure where spam fits in. I don't mean the lunch meat from Hormel -- which serves to feed poor Britons -- but rather unwanted electronic mail.

For what birds are these pests nourishment? Most of the time my Bulk Unsolicited Mail (BUM) takes the form of Faulkneresque streams-of-consciousness, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, cold calls for Viagra in pidgin English. Today however, I received this pointed missive in my box, addressed to me and six other lucky recipients:

I hate to be the bearer of bad news but if you
are not making at least $1500 or more per week
from your own place then you haven't listened to
my message yet so shame on you...but you can make
a wrong right by giving me 2 minutes of your time.

This is so easy is crazy. As long as you have a phone
you too can do this. Best of all..

No Selling
No Cold Calls
No trying to recruit your friends and family.

So quit wasting precious time and call to listen.
866.727.89O8

Huh. I sure don't earn a grand and a half a week sitting at home. Come to think of it, I earn nothing. Am I wasting precious time? I asked myself rhetorically. No, no, wait. I'm sure I'll have to sell something to make this work.

What's this? No selling? No cold calls, even?

I call the number.

Voice of Opportunity: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Marshall—
Harvey: Good afternoon to you. I'm looking to speak with Kent?
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry, who?
Harvey: Kent. Kent.

I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"

Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated tone.) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?

And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:


Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.

I proceed as if leaving voicemail:

Harvey: Kent, this is Harvey, Harvey Kornbluth. I want you to know that I am ab-satively pos-olutely revved up to hop on board. Give me a shout so we can pull the trigger on this bitch. Hit me at at XXX-XXX-XXXX again, that's Harvey Kornbluth at XXX-XXX-XXXX. We met on the beach in Oahu? I am looking forward to your call at your earliest convenience. Please do not call me before eleven in the morning.

The man on the other line starts to speak. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound -- for more options.

Voice of Opportunity: Sir? Um. Sir?
Harvey: Kent is that you?
Voice of Opportunity: No, it's still me. I will forward your message for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Harvey: Yes, damnit. Can you please tell me about this opportunity that will change my life?

I would tell you here that he spoke at length about Ponzi schemes and reselling Beanie Babies, but in truth I called the number twice and just got a disconnected tone.

Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.

Sunday nights can be dull you know.  I wonder how the other six fared.

A long overdue phone call

In my apartment, the buzzer to let people in has to be connected to a phone line. There is no intercom panel near our apartment's front door, no buttons to hold down, or awkward radio-switching from "listen" to "talk" while shouting into a wall-mounted piece of plastic. I'm not bragging mind you; it sometimes blows. For the first few weeks after we moved in we had to physically attend to our visitors five floors down — like fucking slaves.

My roommate and I (yes, I have a roommate, and no, he is not a emotionally volatile misanthrope like me, and yes, we are related, and yes, he has a high paying job, and no, I don't know what I am doing with my life yet, enough of the questions, would you please?) having fully embraced the future, do not have a land line. (That's phone-you-can't-fit-in-your-pocket for the Luddites reading.) We are both encumbered with BlackBerrys that allow (nay, force) us to prattle on like douche bags in silk suits about short selling, or convoluted legal doctrine, or how hard it is to find good help. Well, I just use mine to play BrickBreaker, but I digress.

The solution to the buzzing problem was to forward all calls to my old cell phone: a sturdy Nokia that I purchased from a sketchy Russian I met on Craig's List. Though I was reluctant to relegate my trusty phone to such a pedestrian task, sacrifices must be made. Now my old cell phone sits virtually dormant (on our virtually dormant TV) waiting for a visitor's ring like a tiny electronic doorman.

(Incidentally, there is a photograph on the background of my phone that I have taken to referring as "the doorman". He is a tabletop creation, two-dimensional for all intents and purposes, made of the rolled-up remnants of a coaster shredded by a combination of frustration and caffeine withdrawal. He looks dapper in his almost-fedora and necktie, but he is trapped for all time in the guts of my trusty Russian phone, doomed to a life of service as a smiling digital concierge.)

(But I digress.)

I brought the phone into my room last night because I had to receive a text message from Fido because — God damn this is a long explanation, fuck it.

The phone rang.

We had a visitor downstairs it seemed. I answered it.

"Y'ello?"

"Hello?" Replied a girl's voice.

"Hello?" I repeated back.

"Hello?" Replied the voice again. She sounded familiar. And then she asked, "who is this?"

"Who is this?"

I should pause here to mention: in an attempt to ensure that my roommate and I were at the top of the list of tenants names (displayed proudly in/on the lobby keypad/computer/thingie) we selected an alliterative alias of "Abraham Aardvark" to represent us. This appears as:

A.AARDVARK

on the panel in the lobby. So I've had the "who-is-this" conversation a few times before; many a drunkard has solicited us for entry — most probably due to our up-most position and our demonstrated love of the ant-bear. (And for the record, we always let them in.)

Assuming this was just another drunk girl, I prepared to unleash a bout of my usual date-rapier wit, but I was mistaken. Sort of.

"It's Celica."

It wasn't a drunken visitor, but a drunken dialer. A long distance misdial of my old number; a number I thought she had long since forgotten. I was speechless.

In a moment of confusion -- and wishful thinking -- I buzzed her in. But she was wasted, and all the way in Louisville, KY.

Real letters from real geeks

To whom it may concern (i.e., Nancy, the fat executive assistant at my cousin's law firm):

Would you please cease referring to the image on your desktop background as a "screen saver"? A screen saver is a program designed to keep static images from "burning" into your monitor's phosphors. (A problem, I might add, that monitors have not really suffered from since 1995.)

The "really cool" picture you downloaded of a Labrador retriever holding a rag doll in its adorable widdle jaws that is "like, soo cute" taking up the space behind the icons on your desktop is called a wallpaper. It does not move. Screen savers move. In fact, it is the very essence of a screen saver that it is a dynamic image with changing colours and shapes.

But wallpaper, to paraphrase Galileo, does not move. If they made desktop backgrounds that were animated (and they do) you might have a case for calling it a screen saver. But in your case, your photograph of Marbles the fucking adorable doggy is completely static. Yes, he is soo cute, but it is not a screen saver. Not a screen saver.

We'll talk about "logging on" to web sites another time.

All best,

Harvey

From soup to nuts

Perhaps some of you are wondering how these entries are created. In today's post I will take you behind the scenes of web-logging on the Internet.

Each post of course starts with an idea. Typically, this involves a three-hour "brainstorming" session with cigarillos, black coffee, and a thick pad of graph paper. Many times, I find it inspirational to head out-of-doors, into the realm of the of the great unwashed, as people-watching (and people-confronting) can be an incredible stimulus for a writer. And because of my grotesque appearance, I am able to work quietly almost anywhere without being disturbed. I find coffee shops, churches, the bus, the subway, phone booths, cell phone kiosks, record shops, ATMs, window ledges, courtyards, dentist offices and go-kart tracks excellent places to get started.

Did I mention I always have a hip-flask of Black Label at the ready at these brainstorming sessions? Well, I do.

Next, using my Smith Corona portable typewriter, I start writing copy. This is an arduous task. Depending on the length of the piece, this process can take weeks, or even months to complete. Unlike some other sites, my posts take about five months from inception before they are published. Case in point: is late July as I write this, but you probably won't see it until early next year. It is for this reason that these posts typically avoid mention of current events or the prices of commodities.

Next, the typed up first draft is given to my assistant Marianne for editing and proof-reading. To date, she has not found a single spelling or grammar mistake. (Though, she has been instructed that she will lose her job should she point one out to me.)

When a piece is completed and ready for publishing, Marianne hands the finished copy to the technical director, Charles, who places it on the Internet web-page of this site. It's a technical process I'm not entirely familiar with, but Charles has taken the time to explain it to me.

As you may know, anything you would like to placed on the Internet has to be sent to Internet Headquarters in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. There it is reviewed by a team of twenty experts from around the world who decide whether the work is worthy of publishing.

If the post is approved (and I'm happy to say that all I mine have been), the Internet begins the painstaking process of transferring each letter of text on to a punch card. It takes hundreds of workers to feed these cards, one-by-one, into a mega computer the length of three school buses. Charles says that once all the text is entered, it takes only forty-eight hours for the mega computer to publish the text to my web-site. That's a fast computer!

But of course, it doesn't end there. Once the post has made it on to the Internet, it is reviewed by myself and a selected panel of trusted confidants and sycophants for final approval. Believe it or not, most of my written material makes it through this highly rigorous and critical process. The posts are graded on clarity, creativity, tone, timbre, lustre and a general category we call "shine". It's the certain je ne sais quoi possessed by a good piece of writing. The panel finds that it is absent from approximately 90% of my writing. Fortunately, final say in the panel comes from myself, as I have been alloted triple voting power.

And there you have it. That is the process of how this web-log is made. Though the process is expensive, and lengthy, and largely injurious to my liver, it is a labour of love.

Please send money. Or booze.

Beat poetry in the dot com era

I see you white-grey box
Upon slender desk
I hear your rattle-clink-ching
And your desperate hum
I feel your overheat

You have corrupted
Sectors, clusters
Your hard drive
Is failing
My heart is breaking

Breathe once more
Box
I have to check my e-mail
Need to check my e-mail
Cold box, persist

Death
And rebirth external
I'm lost, so lost, so lost
Without my e-mail
Won't you let me check my e-mail

Real letters from real geeks

Dear XYZ Mobile,

I cannot remember not hating anything about your vile corporation. I have never been a voluntary customer of yours, expect where your abominable monopoly makes this impossible, and in those cases I do so only begrudgingly with a deep-rooted sense of enmity, hatred and rage.

I would be content to eschew any contact with your crummy outfit for the rest of my days, but now I am forced to write to you. You see, at work I must call XYZ subscribers fairly regularly, and thus must endure on an almost daily basis your company's staggering shittiness.

As you may know, when one calls a mobile subscriber who is not able to answer his or her phone, one is redirected to voicemail, and usually confronted with a message like this,

"Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Harvey Kornbluth, please leave me a message and I'll call you right back."

and this is typically followed by a short tone.

Not so for your subscribers.

XYZ has deemed it necessary to append another message before the tone, as if you do not trust your own subscribers to instruct callers appropriately. This message states:

Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording you may hang up or press pound for more options. If you would like to leave a call back number where you can be reached, press star.

Un-fucking-necessary.

It truly shocks me that anyone at your corporation could have decided that this was appropriate, and it angers me that there are not enough other people at your corporation to seek out and impale the masterminds behind this bullshit.

Look: enough time has passed since the invention of the answering machine that most people know what the purpose of that characteristic beep at the end of the-recorded-message-that-follows-a-lot-of-unanswered-rings is. And to remind me that I may hang up after I have finished recording is, simply put, fucking retarded.

For the handful of people that aren't up-to-date on answering machine technology, they are likely to drop dead of arrhythmia any day now. Can we lose this message? I have other calls to make.

Please stop wasting my time accommodating these ancients from another age. It's the twenty-first fucking century already.

Keep up the otherwise shitty work,

Harvey

Real letters from real geeks

Dear Research in Motion,

Just yesterday I was installing your Blackberry desktop software (BDS) on my home computer. I would like to take advantage of your media manager to transfer (not download, as some like to call it) some of my music (specifically Rupert Holmes and The Clash) to my Blackberry to listen to while jogging, or while waiting for public transportation, etc. I find listening to music while waiting helps the time go by faster. Of course, I realise time isn't actually going by faster, but only my subjective perception of it. I do understand the difference between changes in spacetime and my experience of the passage of time, thank you very much.

Anyway, when installing the BDS, I noticed that a new encryption key had to be generated as the software did not recognize my device. This was both understandable and commendable, and your dedication to security does not go unnoticed by this user. The next step however, nearly made me spit out a piece of éclair I happened to be eating at the time.

The software insisted I "move my mouse" in order to generate random data for an encryption key. Seriously? Move my mouse? Though I complied (as randomly as possible mind you) I was bewildered and bemused the entire time. I mean, are you sure the typical user's wrist movements are random enough? I began by moving my mouse in small back and forth waves before realizing that many other users would opt for this lazy (albeit easy) motion. Immediately, I began small, counterclockwise circles and some various other unpredictable designs I won't mention here for safety's sake.

I must ask, are you not leaving a bit too much to the user in this situation? When security is concerned, I think one can never be too careful. Perhaps you should encourage the home user to procure a fair die, or define an algorithm based on the name of one's pet. Better safe than sorry, I always say.

Otherwise, please keep up the excellent work.

Respectfully yours,

Harvey

Tracklisting for a shitty rock opera

Love in the Year 3000

1. Once were we young (Jermaine, Eloise)
2. Almost Forever! (Chorus)
3. We must to repair this station wagon (Japanese mechanic, Eloise)
4. A road is a life not driven (William, Robo2000)
5. Could you, would we, should they, are you? (Eloise, chorus)
6. Non-vegetarian waltz (Eloise, Jermaine)
7. I'd bet $75 that you're right (Jermaine, William)
8. Pay me back later (William)
9. I have a robo-soul (Robo2000)
10. Once we were young (reprise) (Chorus, Robo2000)
11. Entr'acte
12. I've never eaten meat before/Damsels in distress (Eloise, Clay, Japanese mechanic, Rudy)
13. I L-O-V Eloise (Jermaine)
14. Pay me back later (reprise) (Chorus)
15. Niggaz killin' 'bots (Rudy, Japanese mechanic)
16. SpaceTime (Eloise, William, Clay, Rudy, Japanese Mechanic, Robo2000, Chorus)
17. Almost, Almost Forever! (Chorus)
18. Yesterday's Tomorrow, Today/Once we were young/Finale (Chorus, Robo2000)

Music and lyrics by Harvey Kornbluth
Book by Harvey Kornbluth
Directed by Hal Prince

Religion reform #3

I happen to be a big fan of Scientology. It's appropriate use of technology and space-opera mythology appeal to my inner nerd. While I don't have the money to become a devout follower, perhaps some other, more-established religions could make some changes to accommodate me? Try:

Judaism:
Instead of a menorah, Hanukkah involves the lighting of a nine-pronged lightsaber. Using only the force, you must use said light-saber to dice a dreidel into four pieces.

Catholicism:
Instead of Jesus on the Cross, how about Jesus on a hover board? 'Nuff said.

Islam:
Put those dudes on Segways.

Zoroastrianism:
Don't change a damn thing. You guys already rule.

Hinduism:
Gods with multiple arms, gold. Gods with multiple robotic arms? That's SOLID gold.

Atheists:
Keep on rocking with your Blackberrys and espresso machines.

Finicky formatting finesse fantastic

Let's see here. I am trying to ascertain whether or not this function of my blog-machine is actually working. For those of you out there in Blog-land, would you be so kind as to drop me a line and let me know if it is working?

What I am trying to achieve is a subtle gradient in the colour of each of the letters. Ideally each word will start out dark black (or light black, I don't know) and slowly fade letter-by-letter to a rich shade of azure or indigo.

If there is a strong or emotional word in there (like "punch" or "hey"), I would prefer a less abrupt (but nonetheless smooth) transition to puce or a roan red instead. Now, if the word to be emphasized has its origins in another language, then I would like it to be italicized as well, but I would like the letters to slant left instead of right, as I would like to reserve those italics for regular words in the English language that merit emphasis, song titles, and the names of basketball teams.

And if the whole thing could be on a background that slowly changed colours based on the time of day, that would be super.

I am not sure how this aitch-tee-em-ell stuff works, so I can only hope by adding enough backslashes I will achieve decent results. Won't you please tell me if this doesn't work?