It's probably been a quarter-century since I last watched more than a minute or two of Taekwondo. Having seen three Canadian matches over the last two days, I'm guessing it'll be another fifty or so years before I see any more ... well, after these Olympics are finished.
I got my first exposure to Taekwondo at the urging of Ken Wai-Kin Cheung, an energetic young man (at the time), promoting the opening in Brampton of his first Taekwondo Studio. This was back in the late 70's. Ken Wai-Kin was already a high mucky-muck within world Taekwondo circles. He was on his way to becoming a world-certified referee, spending a fair time back in South Korea. He was also involved in both the Ontario Taekwondo Association and Taekwondo Canada. He certainly was enthusiastic.
If memory serves me correct, he TWICE took Ken Giles and myself out the dinner to ply us for information on how best to promote his sport. He was actually DOING what was best, but he wanted to know how to push buttons further. He was earnest, willing to take advice from the two of us to put his new club in the best light. But he also wanted to push the Taekwondo agenda too. Brampton, at the time, was a hotbed for judo and there were more than a few karate black belts in town too. Ken Wai-Kin wanted a piece of the publicity pie.
Which he got.
I ended up being the writer assigned the opening of the club. And I also tended to follow the kids at the studio a little more energetically than I might have otherwise. Couldn't turn down free food, afterall. It might very well have been a little bit of a conflict. But I'll tell you, Ken Wai-Kin earned that extra attention with his own efforts.
He kept pushing and eventually became a top-ranked Canadian official at multiple Olympics. He was the team leader for Canada as recently as the 2003 Pan American Games. But his name is nowhere to be seen in the info for Taekwondo Canada for this year's Olympic team. Nonetheless, with Canada's medal hopes pretty high for at least three of the competitors in Beijing, I didn't switch over to another channel when the heavily-armoured contestants popped up on the screen.
Now, some 25 years later, having been re-introduced to Taekwondo thanks to the efforts of the CBC, I'm all for throwing the sport OUT of the Olympics. The jobbing Ivett Gonda got at the hands of the judges in her opening round match was obvious to my eyes. And if my eyes deceived me, then the scoring in the sport is too arcane for my poor mind to follow. That the decision survived official protest means rot has set into the sport at a level impossible to root out. The same thing has occurred in both boxing and judo.
I'm glad Ken Wai-Kin isn't around in an official capacity in Beijing. He's probably there anyway, but not having to blast his passion with him officially in the target site, makes it easier for me to take the position I have. When the fix is in, out has to go the sport.
Good-bye Taekwondo.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
MOVIES: Stargate: Continuum
With Atlantis going the way of the occasional DVD movie (see below), I am reminded that the reason that is so, is the success of the two Stargate SG1 movies released over the last year.
Ark of Truth was the wrap-up movie, tying up the many, many loose ends left by the cancellation of Stargate SG1 after 10 years of surprisingly strong life. It repaired that "What, THAT'S the end?" feeling one got to watching the final episode of the actual TV series. I can't REALLY criticize any show with Morena Baccarin in it, but it ended a story arc in the Stargate original universe that frankly didn't appeal to me. Some good action, great special effects, the previously mentioned spectacular Ms. Baccarin, and a chance to say hello and good-bye again to the old crew was most of what it meant to me.
Now Continuum, released last month, was a different kettle of fish. The movie starts pleasingly with the SG1 team, with Colonel Jack O'Neill (Richard Dean Anderson) along for the ride, as they take Ba'al off to his execution. Ba'al, played with mirthful malevolence by Cliff Simon, doesn't go quietly. Indeed, due to some forethought, he succeeds in freeing himself and wiping most of the team out of existence. Makes for a killer out at the first break, when they eventually put this thing on TV.
Turns out, clever old Ba'al, sent a team back in time, to Earth's history and contrived to prevent the Stargate itself from reaching American shores. That changes things quite dramatically. When the remaining members of the team use a gate to get back to familiar territory, they don't arrive deep in the bowels of a Rockies mountain. Nope. The gate is inside a soon-to-sink ship in the Arctic, having been frozen there for most of sixty years. They escape from the fire into the freezer and mount a doomed trek to civilization. Things look dim until O'Neill, albeit not THEIR O'Neill, arrives in a nuclear sub to save their hides.
Yes, we have that hoary old cliche, the parallel universe to explore, hoping to find their own way back to their timeline. There ARE changes, and frankly, they don't do much hero-ing for quite some time. The best part of the movie is when they get read the riot act by the new timeline's General Landry (Beau Bridges), who lets them know he's fully aware that they plan to destroy the timeline he and 300 million or so Americans live in. Let alone the rest of the populous. Makes the label mass-murderer seem insignificant somehow. If the Goa'uld fleet hadn't arrive to do the very same honours anyway, he wouldn't be letting them loose to try and change history yet again. It's a great response to a familiar situation where everyone seems so willing to sacrifice millions of lives. Refreshing.
At any rate, things work out in the end. Some of the twists and turns tie up very neatly. People get a chance to play a little outside of norm for their characters and enjoy it immensely. None more so than Claudia Black. But everybody's there and it ends up being a really enjoyable hour and a half.
Liked this movie a lot. Hope it continues to auger well for the series of DVD releases that Stargate has devolved into.
One last thing. This was Don D. Davis's last work, as the genial General George Hammond survived the movie, but lost his life to cancer after filming was finished. He will be missed.
Ark of Truth was the wrap-up movie, tying up the many, many loose ends left by the cancellation of Stargate SG1 after 10 years of surprisingly strong life. It repaired that "What, THAT'S the end?" feeling one got to watching the final episode of the actual TV series. I can't REALLY criticize any show with Morena Baccarin in it, but it ended a story arc in the Stargate original universe that frankly didn't appeal to me. Some good action, great special effects, the previously mentioned spectacular Ms. Baccarin, and a chance to say hello and good-bye again to the old crew was most of what it meant to me.
Now Continuum, released last month, was a different kettle of fish. The movie starts pleasingly with the SG1 team, with Colonel Jack O'Neill (Richard Dean Anderson) along for the ride, as they take Ba'al off to his execution. Ba'al, played with mirthful malevolence by Cliff Simon, doesn't go quietly. Indeed, due to some forethought, he succeeds in freeing himself and wiping most of the team out of existence. Makes for a killer out at the first break, when they eventually put this thing on TV.
Turns out, clever old Ba'al, sent a team back in time, to Earth's history and contrived to prevent the Stargate itself from reaching American shores. That changes things quite dramatically. When the remaining members of the team use a gate to get back to familiar territory, they don't arrive deep in the bowels of a Rockies mountain. Nope. The gate is inside a soon-to-sink ship in the Arctic, having been frozen there for most of sixty years. They escape from the fire into the freezer and mount a doomed trek to civilization. Things look dim until O'Neill, albeit not THEIR O'Neill, arrives in a nuclear sub to save their hides.
Yes, we have that hoary old cliche, the parallel universe to explore, hoping to find their own way back to their timeline. There ARE changes, and frankly, they don't do much hero-ing for quite some time. The best part of the movie is when they get read the riot act by the new timeline's General Landry (Beau Bridges), who lets them know he's fully aware that they plan to destroy the timeline he and 300 million or so Americans live in. Let alone the rest of the populous. Makes the label mass-murderer seem insignificant somehow. If the Goa'uld fleet hadn't arrive to do the very same honours anyway, he wouldn't be letting them loose to try and change history yet again. It's a great response to a familiar situation where everyone seems so willing to sacrifice millions of lives. Refreshing.
At any rate, things work out in the end. Some of the twists and turns tie up very neatly. People get a chance to play a little outside of norm for their characters and enjoy it immensely. None more so than Claudia Black. But everybody's there and it ends up being a really enjoyable hour and a half.
Liked this movie a lot. Hope it continues to auger well for the series of DVD releases that Stargate has devolved into.
One last thing. This was Don D. Davis's last work, as the genial General George Hammond survived the movie, but lost his life to cancer after filming was finished. He will be missed.
TV: Atlantis Sunk!
I'm all in a funk on the news that Stargate Atlantis will not be renewed for a sixth season. Instead, it will join parent Stargate SG1 as a series of occasional straight-to-DVD movies. That's too bad.
Stargate, the phenomena, has always puzzled me. When I heard it was going to become a TV series, I opined widely and loudly, that they couldn't last a year. The original series went 10 years. I was almost as trepidatious about the debut of Atlantis five years ago. Seeing the city rise out of the ocean is one of my favourite TV moments. I was sold.
Over the years, I think I've enjoyed Atlantis more than SG1 when it was running side-by-side. It might not have been as good as SG1 at it's prime, but it was better than the last couple of years when Richard Dean Anderson abdicated for Ben Browder. Not that Browder and Claudia Black, the Farscape escapees were bad, but they just didn't have what Anderson brought to SG1 and what Joe Flanigan brought to Atlantis, the timely quip that echoed what the audience was thinking.
However, it was apparent that the end was nigh for Atlantis. Already, talk of Jason Mamoa's departure at season's end had hit the internet. Although not an original, Mamoa had been that hulking power presence that made the away team of Atlantean explorers complete. He was yin to the yang of Dr. Rodney McKay, played with brilliant obsequiousness by Canadian David Hewlett. Brains and brawn needed beauty, and you couldn't ask for more than Rachel Luttrell. Add in Flanigan and a host of commanding officers and civilians to rail against, and you had the perfect action serial. And what was really too bad, was the fact that Robert Picardo had already established that his Richard Woolsey was going to be a most-interesting change of pace as the new chief administrator.
Darn it! The more I reminisce, the more I realize I'll be the first in line when they issue the first of what I hope will be many straight-to-DVD movies.
Stargate, the phenomena, has always puzzled me. When I heard it was going to become a TV series, I opined widely and loudly, that they couldn't last a year. The original series went 10 years. I was almost as trepidatious about the debut of Atlantis five years ago. Seeing the city rise out of the ocean is one of my favourite TV moments. I was sold.
Over the years, I think I've enjoyed Atlantis more than SG1 when it was running side-by-side. It might not have been as good as SG1 at it's prime, but it was better than the last couple of years when Richard Dean Anderson abdicated for Ben Browder. Not that Browder and Claudia Black, the Farscape escapees were bad, but they just didn't have what Anderson brought to SG1 and what Joe Flanigan brought to Atlantis, the timely quip that echoed what the audience was thinking.
However, it was apparent that the end was nigh for Atlantis. Already, talk of Jason Mamoa's departure at season's end had hit the internet. Although not an original, Mamoa had been that hulking power presence that made the away team of Atlantean explorers complete. He was yin to the yang of Dr. Rodney McKay, played with brilliant obsequiousness by Canadian David Hewlett. Brains and brawn needed beauty, and you couldn't ask for more than Rachel Luttrell. Add in Flanigan and a host of commanding officers and civilians to rail against, and you had the perfect action serial. And what was really too bad, was the fact that Robert Picardo had already established that his Richard Woolsey was going to be a most-interesting change of pace as the new chief administrator.
Darn it! The more I reminisce, the more I realize I'll be the first in line when they issue the first of what I hope will be many straight-to-DVD movies.
SOFTWARE: The BULK of the Problem
I don't think much of the way rogers.com, my ISP, handles my email. They pre-pend [BULK] to the subject header of just about every email sent my way. For a time, I trusted them to get rid of the spam before it arrived, until I discovered I wasn't getting some [important] emails. They were being deleted before I even had a chance to sick my multi-levels of spam-filtering on them.
To be honest, I got crabby over that.
It seems, rogers' spam filters thought a WHOLE LOT of stuff was spam that wasn't. That 'smack em all and let god (Ted Rogers) sort it all out' approach hurt more than it helped. For example, it nailed all newsletters as spam. For another example, the bad one, it treated back-and-forth threads, with multiple re: and fwd: indicators in the header as spam. It treated forwarded comments from this blog as spam. I know there is a joke in there, but I'm going to leave it at that.
So, I told rogers to stop 'protecting' me and let me do my own spam filtering. I have three sort-of active accounts going at rogers, plus two at gmail. Then there's the hidden five other ones at rogers that I use internally for a variety of things. Because I don't share them, I never get any spam in them ... excepting rogers' own internal spam to me. Oh, well.
NOW, HERE'S THE REASON you've kept reading this dreadfully dull dirge this far. IF you use rogers or your ISP similarly mass-mangles email headers for you, here is a simple filter that will result in 90-95 per cent of the spam you get, getting shuttled off to trash before you even see it. It comes with some warnings, so don't use if you have ANY questions. By the way, I assume the magic nasty work for the ISP is [BULK]. It might be something else. From here on, wherever you see [BULK], just substitute your won pejorative.
If you use EUDORA:
Go to Tools|Filters and get rid of most of the filters you have been using to try to divert spam from your inbox to the trash before you have to look at it, let alone deal with it. NOW, click on the NEW button to start a new filter. Change the Header to be Subject:. Leave the contains box alone. Then type [BULK] into the field beside Contains. Next, change the second condition field to 'and' and the second Header box to From:. Change Contains to 'doesn't intersect address book' and pick <> from the selection of address books offered. Finally, in action, change it to Transfer To, and when the button appears, click it and choose trash. Exit out of the filters screen and you have instant wisdom at hand.
For Thunderbird:
Click Tools|Message Filters to get to the Filter entry screen. Click the New Button and type in your filter's name. I suggest 'Get rid of [BULK] bleeeeep.' Now DOT the first condition to March ALL of the following. Leave Subject and Contains alone, and type in [BULK] in the third box. Now, click the little PLUS SIGN button to add a second condition. Change this line's Subject to From. Change Contains to "isn't in my address book." Finally, leave the default selection of Personal Address Book alone. Down in the Perform these actions area, leave Move Message To alone and change the offered destination to TRASH. Click OK.
For Outlook and any of its relatives:
Don't know. If you're still using it, you're missing a good reason to switch to one of the two preceding programs.
Why this works? Obviously, since most of your email gets tabbed as [BULK], most of your email will trip the first condition. Righteously. However, you don't want to lose those threaded emailed comings and goings. Thus, the second condition. If the sender isn't IN your address book, it's highly likely that you're probably going to think this email is spam.
What happens if it's a cold call, contacting your for business? Unlikely that rogers will originally tag it [BULK], since it's a one-off. What if it's a continued correspondence with somebody new, not yet in the address book? Well, you better put the new contact in the address book pronto. And while you're there, put in any newsletters you've subscribed to in the last little while.
By the way, you CAN cheat a little and use a variation on your name for the newsletter. Say your first initial and your middle name. THEN, create a filter to push off any responses using THAT name in the header and put that filter AHEAD of the [BULK] filter. Right now, my [BULK] filter is fourth, behind bridge, roto and delphi filters that send emails I get with those headers to various folders before being swallowed up by the all-encompassing clean-up filter.
In Conclusion:
If you aren't getting substantial spam (possibly because you do not actually HAVE an email account), or leaving spam-handling to gmail or yahoo or whatever, or aren't using an ISP that pre-scans your email, then NEVER MIND. Otherwise, give this little one-size-fits-all filter a try. Check your trash with a quick over-glance. You might want to divert to JUNK rather than TRASH if you feel a little nervous. But get rid or your junk AND your trash every now and then. It mounts up pretty quickly.
To be honest, I got crabby over that.
It seems, rogers' spam filters thought a WHOLE LOT of stuff was spam that wasn't. That 'smack em all and let god (Ted Rogers) sort it all out' approach hurt more than it helped. For example, it nailed all newsletters as spam. For another example, the bad one, it treated back-and-forth threads, with multiple re: and fwd: indicators in the header as spam. It treated forwarded comments from this blog as spam. I know there is a joke in there, but I'm going to leave it at that.
So, I told rogers to stop 'protecting' me and let me do my own spam filtering. I have three sort-of active accounts going at rogers, plus two at gmail. Then there's the hidden five other ones at rogers that I use internally for a variety of things. Because I don't share them, I never get any spam in them ... excepting rogers' own internal spam to me. Oh, well.
NOW, HERE'S THE REASON you've kept reading this dreadfully dull dirge this far. IF you use rogers or your ISP similarly mass-mangles email headers for you, here is a simple filter that will result in 90-95 per cent of the spam you get, getting shuttled off to trash before you even see it. It comes with some warnings, so don't use if you have ANY questions. By the way, I assume the magic nasty work for the ISP is [BULK]. It might be something else. From here on, wherever you see [BULK], just substitute your won pejorative.
If you use EUDORA:
Go to Tools|Filters and get rid of most of the filters you have been using to try to divert spam from your inbox to the trash before you have to look at it, let alone deal with it. NOW, click on the NEW button to start a new filter. Change the Header to be Subject:. Leave the contains box alone. Then type [BULK] into the field beside Contains. Next, change the second condition field to 'and' and the second Header box to From:. Change Contains to 'doesn't intersect address book' and pick <
For Thunderbird:
Click Tools|Message Filters to get to the Filter entry screen. Click the New Button and type in your filter's name. I suggest 'Get rid of [BULK] bleeeeep.' Now DOT the first condition to March ALL of the following. Leave Subject and Contains alone, and type in [BULK] in the third box. Now, click the little PLUS SIGN button to add a second condition. Change this line's Subject to From. Change Contains to "isn't in my address book." Finally, leave the default selection of Personal Address Book alone. Down in the Perform these actions area, leave Move Message To alone and change the offered destination to TRASH. Click OK.
For Outlook and any of its relatives:
Don't know. If you're still using it, you're missing a good reason to switch to one of the two preceding programs.
Why this works? Obviously, since most of your email gets tabbed as [BULK], most of your email will trip the first condition. Righteously. However, you don't want to lose those threaded emailed comings and goings. Thus, the second condition. If the sender isn't IN your address book, it's highly likely that you're probably going to think this email is spam.
What happens if it's a cold call, contacting your for business? Unlikely that rogers will originally tag it [BULK], since it's a one-off. What if it's a continued correspondence with somebody new, not yet in the address book? Well, you better put the new contact in the address book pronto. And while you're there, put in any newsletters you've subscribed to in the last little while.
By the way, you CAN cheat a little and use a variation on your name for the newsletter. Say your first initial and your middle name. THEN, create a filter to push off any responses using THAT name in the header and put that filter AHEAD of the [BULK] filter. Right now, my [BULK] filter is fourth, behind bridge, roto and delphi filters that send emails I get with those headers to various folders before being swallowed up by the all-encompassing clean-up filter.
In Conclusion:
If you aren't getting substantial spam (possibly because you do not actually HAVE an email account), or leaving spam-handling to gmail or yahoo or whatever, or aren't using an ISP that pre-scans your email, then NEVER MIND. Otherwise, give this little one-size-fits-all filter a try. Check your trash with a quick over-glance. You might want to divert to JUNK rather than TRASH if you feel a little nervous. But get rid or your junk AND your trash every now and then. It mounts up pretty quickly.
TV: Real Life Intrudes
Tonight's closing moments of Ron MacLean's segment moderating the Olympics broadcast on CBC ended dreadfully. MacLean's mother had passed away earlier in the day. He informed the viewers that he was signing off tonight, not just for the evening, but to fly back to Oakville to be with family and friends at this most terrible moment of anybody's life, the death of a parent (or a child).
MacLean handled the situation with the class that has become his trademark. He smiled, cheered on the folks around him undoubtedly feeling sad over the news, and lauded Scott Russell as his replacement over the next few days.
I hope never to have this happen to me. My parents have instructions to outlive me. But if it does happen, I hope, fervently, that I will handle the situation with some portion of the poise and professionalism MacLean demonstrated tonight.
MacLean handled the situation with the class that has become his trademark. He smiled, cheered on the folks around him undoubtedly feeling sad over the news, and lauded Scott Russell as his replacement over the next few days.
I hope never to have this happen to me. My parents have instructions to outlive me. But if it does happen, I hope, fervently, that I will handle the situation with some portion of the poise and professionalism MacLean demonstrated tonight.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
SPORTS: Two Canucks Doin' Their Best
And the best of Elliotte Friedman and Priscilla Lopes-Schliep is pretty good.
First, let me praise Friedman, the best Canadian sports broadcaster since Brian Williams was at the top of his game. Friedman is close to inheriting the mantle of the man who takes sports seriously and is willing to ask the tough question. Ron MacLean has a higher profile. He does sit at the right hand of God, errrr, Donald S. Cherry, afterall. But MacLean's more entertainer than penetrating interviewer. For me, Friedman is nearing the top of the food chain when it comes to Canadian sports broadcasting. He'll be the man to trust, in five years, if not already.
He also writes an irregular column called From the Pressbox. And the most recent installment of the column is all about how hard it is NOT to cheer in the pressbox, or even in the stands, if caught hob-nobbing with the masses. He admits he's almost done it once, and came perilously close to doing it again Monday night. The cause celebre?
The astonishing bronze medal won by Priscilla Lopes-Schliep in the women's 100-metre hurdles in Beijing.
I admit that in my dotage (and the fact I'm not a sports reporter anymore), I haven't followed track and field as assiduously as I once did. But I still knew Canada's medal hopes went out the door when Perdita Felicien, a glorious creature in her own right, couldn't overcome health problems to compete in Beijing. Even a finals appearance was unlikely with the perpetual runner-up Angela Whyte also unhealthy. I KNEW Lopes-Schliep was there to carry the colours, but didn't for a second believe that she had a chance at MAKING THE FINAL.
Wrong I was. There she was in lane 8 awaiting the starter's pistol. More muscular along her shoulders and maybe a little less gazelle-like than her competition, Lopes-Schliep sort of stood out. At first sight, my first impression was, "SHE'S in the final?!?" Looks can be SOOOOO deceiving.
Lopes-Schliep's good friend, the American hurdling star Lolo Jones, broke to the front and was crusing to the gold medal. Then, with as much suddeness as befell Felicien an Olympiads ago, Jones' whole universe shattered as she clipped the final hurdle. That struck her from the victory roll, affected runners on either side of her and let five runners suddenly joust for two medals and three bad memories of what might have been. The timers had all five within two one-hundredths of a second. Two of them, the Australian girl, and Lopes-Schliep, were deemed one fingernail faster than the others in the group. Suddenly, the girl who was third in Canada was third in the whole wide world.
I saw an interview with Lopes-Schliep last night with MacLean. She cleans up awfully well. She's warm, bubbly, confident and anybody with half a heart must be totally over the moon that this lady has garnered the recognition that a medal will bring her.
Friedman's right. This is one performance worth standing up and applauding. Even if you're a (lapsed) journalist.
First, let me praise Friedman, the best Canadian sports broadcaster since Brian Williams was at the top of his game. Friedman is close to inheriting the mantle of the man who takes sports seriously and is willing to ask the tough question. Ron MacLean has a higher profile. He does sit at the right hand of God, errrr, Donald S. Cherry, afterall. But MacLean's more entertainer than penetrating interviewer. For me, Friedman is nearing the top of the food chain when it comes to Canadian sports broadcasting. He'll be the man to trust, in five years, if not already.
He also writes an irregular column called From the Pressbox. And the most recent installment of the column is all about how hard it is NOT to cheer in the pressbox, or even in the stands, if caught hob-nobbing with the masses. He admits he's almost done it once, and came perilously close to doing it again Monday night. The cause celebre?
The astonishing bronze medal won by Priscilla Lopes-Schliep in the women's 100-metre hurdles in Beijing.
I admit that in my dotage (and the fact I'm not a sports reporter anymore), I haven't followed track and field as assiduously as I once did. But I still knew Canada's medal hopes went out the door when Perdita Felicien, a glorious creature in her own right, couldn't overcome health problems to compete in Beijing. Even a finals appearance was unlikely with the perpetual runner-up Angela Whyte also unhealthy. I KNEW Lopes-Schliep was there to carry the colours, but didn't for a second believe that she had a chance at MAKING THE FINAL.
Wrong I was. There she was in lane 8 awaiting the starter's pistol. More muscular along her shoulders and maybe a little less gazelle-like than her competition, Lopes-Schliep sort of stood out. At first sight, my first impression was, "SHE'S in the final?!?" Looks can be SOOOOO deceiving.
Lopes-Schliep's good friend, the American hurdling star Lolo Jones, broke to the front and was crusing to the gold medal. Then, with as much suddeness as befell Felicien an Olympiads ago, Jones' whole universe shattered as she clipped the final hurdle. That struck her from the victory roll, affected runners on either side of her and let five runners suddenly joust for two medals and three bad memories of what might have been. The timers had all five within two one-hundredths of a second. Two of them, the Australian girl, and Lopes-Schliep, were deemed one fingernail faster than the others in the group. Suddenly, the girl who was third in Canada was third in the whole wide world.
I saw an interview with Lopes-Schliep last night with MacLean. She cleans up awfully well. She's warm, bubbly, confident and anybody with half a heart must be totally over the moon that this lady has garnered the recognition that a medal will bring her.
Friedman's right. This is one performance worth standing up and applauding. Even if you're a (lapsed) journalist.
Monday, August 18, 2008
SPOTS: Insane Usain
Fourty years ago, I watched ABC announcers go wild as Bob Beamon did the impossible and soared into history as the surprise winner of the Men's Long Jump at the Olympics in Mexico City. The otherwise little-known Beamon never came close before or since that one special moment in time. He bettered the existing record by an 'impossible' amount. (I read the Sports Illustrated article later that said just that)
Since then, better training, equipment and the continued general growth in mankind, has allowed Beamon's mark to be met and bettered. That doesn't take away that one night of perfection when he showed the future of mankind.
On the weekend, I had the exact same feeling. I never wondered if Beamon was on drugs when he made his leap into history. And I have to confess, I wonder about Usain Bolt because, well, history has taught us to be wary of the 'Fastest Man in the World.' The night Ben Johnson was caught in Seoul, I believe there wasn't a clean athlete in the final. Ben, the trusting soul that he is, was the only one to get caught that night.
That said, if Bolt truly ran unaided by chemical means, that the performance he put on brought back the exact same chills that watching Beamon produced. Sure he diminished the performance by not trying to the end. Sure he slopped away the start, which might have made him a tenth of a second faster. But be ran a 9.69 fergawdsakes! The question to be asked, surely at the end of a paycheque from some rich Arab sheikh, is just how fast this next-generation kid can run? Certainly he had 9.65 within his grasp just by running through to the finish line. 9.60 without a sloppy start and finish. Does he actually have it within him to run 9.50? Lower?
Bolt is 21. Just a colt. He just started to run the race this year for some training for the race he usually runs, the 200 metres. He has set world records in the event TWICE this year. And he's doing it to pass away the time.
I know Michael Phelps put on a week-long show, setting more world records than any mere mortal should be able to. But those swim suits make me think Bolt's bolt down the backstretch takes the cake for gob-smacking, jaw-dropping moment of the Games.
Since then, better training, equipment and the continued general growth in mankind, has allowed Beamon's mark to be met and bettered. That doesn't take away that one night of perfection when he showed the future of mankind.
On the weekend, I had the exact same feeling. I never wondered if Beamon was on drugs when he made his leap into history. And I have to confess, I wonder about Usain Bolt because, well, history has taught us to be wary of the 'Fastest Man in the World.' The night Ben Johnson was caught in Seoul, I believe there wasn't a clean athlete in the final. Ben, the trusting soul that he is, was the only one to get caught that night.
That said, if Bolt truly ran unaided by chemical means, that the performance he put on brought back the exact same chills that watching Beamon produced. Sure he diminished the performance by not trying to the end. Sure he slopped away the start, which might have made him a tenth of a second faster. But be ran a 9.69 fergawdsakes! The question to be asked, surely at the end of a paycheque from some rich Arab sheikh, is just how fast this next-generation kid can run? Certainly he had 9.65 within his grasp just by running through to the finish line. 9.60 without a sloppy start and finish. Does he actually have it within him to run 9.50? Lower?
Bolt is 21. Just a colt. He just started to run the race this year for some training for the race he usually runs, the 200 metres. He has set world records in the event TWICE this year. And he's doing it to pass away the time.
I know Michael Phelps put on a week-long show, setting more world records than any mere mortal should be able to. But those swim suits make me think Bolt's bolt down the backstretch takes the cake for gob-smacking, jaw-dropping moment of the Games.
SOFTWARE: That Icon Bugs Me!
A little tip if you ever run into the following situation: The Volume Control icon in my Windows XP system tray turned into the same icon as the one for my current anti-virus program of choice, Avast!.
I tried right-clicking and fiddling with both Volume Control (in disguise) and Avast!. Trust me, nothing worked. I let the situation fester for a couple of days. Then I just reached the limit of patience (a heretofore unmeasurably small amount) and went into the Control Panel and started up the Sound and Audio Devices applet. I unchecked the "Place volume icon in the taskbar" and clicked APPLY. Suddenly, I only had one Avast spinning blue ball. Then I re-checked the checkbox and pressed OK.
Problem solved. Itch scratched. Only took three days to think of it.
I tried right-clicking and fiddling with both Volume Control (in disguise) and Avast!. Trust me, nothing worked. I let the situation fester for a couple of days. Then I just reached the limit of patience (a heretofore unmeasurably small amount) and went into the Control Panel and started up the Sound and Audio Devices applet. I unchecked the "Place volume icon in the taskbar" and clicked APPLY. Suddenly, I only had one Avast spinning blue ball. Then I re-checked the checkbox and pressed OK.
Problem solved. Itch scratched. Only took three days to think of it.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
BOOKS: Robots Have No Tails - Henry Kuttner
Going through a recent issue of Locus, I noticed that next spring will see a paperback reprint of a book I have long cherished. Henry Kuttner's collection of Gallegher tales called Robots Have No Tails, might be as funny a science fiction book as has ever been published.
A little publication history. The book originally was published in 1952 or thereabouts. It was also by-lined at that time by Lewis Padgett, which was a pseudonym used by Kuttner, sometimes with, and sometimes without, the aid of writer wife C.L. Moore. The edition I first came across last century was a 1969 reprint, which credited Kuttner, although it's apparent Moore had some input into at least some of the five stories in the book. These are all somewhat long short stories, nearly novella length fun and frivolity.
Galloway Gallegher was a genius. Actually, that's partially a lie. Gallegher's sub-conscious was a genius. A demented genius, amoral to the extreme. And the only way to get through to the genius was for Gallegher to get truly plastered, a job Gallegher was always way too willing to do. That part, with today's political correctness about drinking (and I am a teetotaler myself, so I COULD be disturbed, but I am not) will offend some readers. You've been forewarned. Yet the drunkenness is so completely over the top as to be laughable. Very, very laughable.
While in the state of drunken bliss, Gallegher can "start with a twist of wire, a few batteries, and a button hook, and before he finished, he might contrive a new type of refrigerating unit." The sole issue resulting from his drunken excesses of success, is that the sober Gallegher isn't much brighter than the average Joe off the street. Most times, he looks at what the smart-ass inside of him invented and has not the tiniest little clue as to what it does.
That's part of the charm of the stories. Gallegher gets into a pickle his sub-conscious solves. Then he has to approach inebriation close enough to get a tad smarter, but still not enough in the sack not to remember the explanation for the cure that's staring him in the face. Tends to be delicate. And hilarious. And inventive. More than a half-century later.
I went looking for my copy of the book and couldn't find it. That tends to happen in my over-flowing library. But I DID latch onto a copy of The Best of Henry Kuttner. A seventies reprint of the 1965 original. I should mention here that Kuttner died in the late 50's, having already given up writing science fiction, which he was amongst the masters of in the preceding two decades. The Best of book only features one Gallegher tale, the original (I think), Proud Robot.
In it, Gallegher wakes up from his latest binge to find Joe, the impossibly vain robot of the title, preening into a mirror. Genius-Gallegher invented him to solve a problem with the TV industry where the number two company has patented a new Magna process to expand TV so that it will play in flawless high-definition format in theatres, long abandoned after TV's advent into the home had killed off the movie industry (well, he got THAT one wrong). What's worse, the louts for the suddenly dominant number two company, have been stealing from the good guys, the industry leaders, who pay and treat talent well and had assumed the leadership on merit. Patent law and a corrupt judge or two has put the good guys into dire straights. Unless Gallegher invents a Magna rival that isn't patent-breaking, the bad guys will win.
Well, you KNOW the bad guys won't win. This WAS the day of black hats and white hats. Joe, despite all appearances, DOES have a talent or two. I invite you to solve the problem along with Gallegher the UnDrunk. I'd forgotten the solution in the 30 years or so since I first read the story. Was a true pleasure as I realized just how the bad guys were going to get undone. A real grin.
In Robots Have No Tails, there's four more just like that one. If you can't wait and can't dig up a copy of any earlier edition DO try out the Best of book, which is much more universally available.
And if you do, check out the lead-off story, Or Else. A re-write of a Mexican stand-off, ACTUALLY using Mexicans as stars, this story could have been re-written for today's world, with Sunnis and Shiites playing the Mexican roles. The USA would be the alien peacemaker who lands in the middle of a firefight between two Mexicans, each desperately trying to gain dominion of the only small water spring in their part of the Sonora desert. The tale is as true today as it was 60 years ago when Kuttner (and maybe Moore) first wrote it.
Sure, the stories are dated and are possibly a little politically incorrect. But this IS classic science fiction. I can't recommend either book more highly.
A little publication history. The book originally was published in 1952 or thereabouts. It was also by-lined at that time by Lewis Padgett, which was a pseudonym used by Kuttner, sometimes with, and sometimes without, the aid of writer wife C.L. Moore. The edition I first came across last century was a 1969 reprint, which credited Kuttner, although it's apparent Moore had some input into at least some of the five stories in the book. These are all somewhat long short stories, nearly novella length fun and frivolity.
Galloway Gallegher was a genius. Actually, that's partially a lie. Gallegher's sub-conscious was a genius. A demented genius, amoral to the extreme. And the only way to get through to the genius was for Gallegher to get truly plastered, a job Gallegher was always way too willing to do. That part, with today's political correctness about drinking (and I am a teetotaler myself, so I COULD be disturbed, but I am not) will offend some readers. You've been forewarned. Yet the drunkenness is so completely over the top as to be laughable. Very, very laughable.
While in the state of drunken bliss, Gallegher can "start with a twist of wire, a few batteries, and a button hook, and before he finished, he might contrive a new type of refrigerating unit." The sole issue resulting from his drunken excesses of success, is that the sober Gallegher isn't much brighter than the average Joe off the street. Most times, he looks at what the smart-ass inside of him invented and has not the tiniest little clue as to what it does.
That's part of the charm of the stories. Gallegher gets into a pickle his sub-conscious solves. Then he has to approach inebriation close enough to get a tad smarter, but still not enough in the sack not to remember the explanation for the cure that's staring him in the face. Tends to be delicate. And hilarious. And inventive. More than a half-century later.
I went looking for my copy of the book and couldn't find it. That tends to happen in my over-flowing library. But I DID latch onto a copy of The Best of Henry Kuttner. A seventies reprint of the 1965 original. I should mention here that Kuttner died in the late 50's, having already given up writing science fiction, which he was amongst the masters of in the preceding two decades. The Best of book only features one Gallegher tale, the original (I think), Proud Robot.
In it, Gallegher wakes up from his latest binge to find Joe, the impossibly vain robot of the title, preening into a mirror. Genius-Gallegher invented him to solve a problem with the TV industry where the number two company has patented a new Magna process to expand TV so that it will play in flawless high-definition format in theatres, long abandoned after TV's advent into the home had killed off the movie industry (well, he got THAT one wrong). What's worse, the louts for the suddenly dominant number two company, have been stealing from the good guys, the industry leaders, who pay and treat talent well and had assumed the leadership on merit. Patent law and a corrupt judge or two has put the good guys into dire straights. Unless Gallegher invents a Magna rival that isn't patent-breaking, the bad guys will win.
Well, you KNOW the bad guys won't win. This WAS the day of black hats and white hats. Joe, despite all appearances, DOES have a talent or two. I invite you to solve the problem along with Gallegher the UnDrunk. I'd forgotten the solution in the 30 years or so since I first read the story. Was a true pleasure as I realized just how the bad guys were going to get undone. A real grin.
In Robots Have No Tails, there's four more just like that one. If you can't wait and can't dig up a copy of any earlier edition DO try out the Best of book, which is much more universally available.
And if you do, check out the lead-off story, Or Else. A re-write of a Mexican stand-off, ACTUALLY using Mexicans as stars, this story could have been re-written for today's world, with Sunnis and Shiites playing the Mexican roles. The USA would be the alien peacemaker who lands in the middle of a firefight between two Mexicans, each desperately trying to gain dominion of the only small water spring in their part of the Sonora desert. The tale is as true today as it was 60 years ago when Kuttner (and maybe Moore) first wrote it.
Sure, the stories are dated and are possibly a little politically incorrect. But this IS classic science fiction. I can't recommend either book more highly.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
SPORTS: I Wish ...
For Christmas this year, I wish for a dose of reality to hit Manny Ramirez right in the pocket-book. I need all of the GM's in major league baseball to simultaneously achieve intelligence and Barry Bonds Ramirez and his grubby little agent, Scott Boras.
Ramirez is a hall-of-fame talent most of the time and is such a leech on a ball club's soul, that nary a player bleated anything when the Boston Red Sox traded Ramirez PLUS two decent minor leaguers to acquire piece of mind ... and Jason Bay. And that, despite being in quite a tussle to make the playoffs.
Just how big a jerk do you have to be to be addition by subtraction? When at your best, you're first ballot Hall of Fame talent! Forget adding Boras to the list of crimes against baseball that Ramirez is about to commit, how about committing the ultimate sin in pro sports...intentionally jaking.
Ramirez didn't want to settle for 20 million bucks in each of the next two years. His agent flea kept whispering in his ear, "Rodriguez money. Maybe more. Maybe ... gasp ... 30 million a year!" He could not push his way out of town, as he did to the senior citizen traveling secretary of the team. He couldn't mutter and misspeak his way out. He finally quit playing, literally when the other team threw good pitchers, and figuratively as well. Even his staunchest supporters recognized him for what he was, a treacherously self-interested twit who was better off playing elsewhere.
I have no doubt that Ramirez will get big bucks this winter. But it would make me happy enough to abstain ALL OTHER CHRISTMAS PRESENTS if he was forced to sign a contract for merely $19,999,999.99 a year. Less would be good too. Really good. Would keep me happy until my birthday NEXT summer. But I'd except that symbolic penny with gratitude and yuletide tidings to all that made it possible.
Or even better, him getting the REAL Bonds treatment.
Ramirez is a hall-of-fame talent most of the time and is such a leech on a ball club's soul, that nary a player bleated anything when the Boston Red Sox traded Ramirez PLUS two decent minor leaguers to acquire piece of mind ... and Jason Bay. And that, despite being in quite a tussle to make the playoffs.
Just how big a jerk do you have to be to be addition by subtraction? When at your best, you're first ballot Hall of Fame talent! Forget adding Boras to the list of crimes against baseball that Ramirez is about to commit, how about committing the ultimate sin in pro sports...intentionally jaking.
Ramirez didn't want to settle for 20 million bucks in each of the next two years. His agent flea kept whispering in his ear, "Rodriguez money. Maybe more. Maybe ... gasp ... 30 million a year!" He could not push his way out of town, as he did to the senior citizen traveling secretary of the team. He couldn't mutter and misspeak his way out. He finally quit playing, literally when the other team threw good pitchers, and figuratively as well. Even his staunchest supporters recognized him for what he was, a treacherously self-interested twit who was better off playing elsewhere.
I have no doubt that Ramirez will get big bucks this winter. But it would make me happy enough to abstain ALL OTHER CHRISTMAS PRESENTS if he was forced to sign a contract for merely $19,999,999.99 a year. Less would be good too. Really good. Would keep me happy until my birthday NEXT summer. But I'd except that symbolic penny with gratitude and yuletide tidings to all that made it possible.
Or even better, him getting the REAL Bonds treatment.
SPORTS: Break A Leg, Brett
Was a fan of Brett Favre. Not any more. Hope he gets plenty mashed in New York. He might then appreciate how good he had it in Green Bay, afterall.
The Favre story was a pretty good one. NOT a lifetime Packer (he DID start down in Atlanta), he nevertheless cemented a Hall-of-Fame career in cheese country. He went out on a high note, leading the Packers to an unexpected National Conference championship game, before falling, in overtime, to the eventual Super Bowl champs, the New York Giants. He held a tearful retirement presser and filed his papers with the NFL.
Green Bay management tried to talk him out of retirement. They'd gotten used to doing it the last couple of years. They kept drafting quarterbacks in case Favre was serious. This time he was. He waffled a bit, but claimed his wife put a kibosh on it.
So, having twice, once before and once after, to try and convince Brett he had a year (or two) still to play, Green Bay set up their off-season agenda. Using money freed up by not having Favre taking up a sizable percentage of the salary cap, Green Bay strengthened other positions and drafted another QB, to start off the post-Favre era. The money was spent. Spring training camp came and went.
Then, Favre decided, wife-be-damned, he wanted to play. And since the first phone call to Green Bay didn't result in cartwheels about the change in heart, version umptymillion, he decided to take offence and demand that Green Bay release him so that he could play anywhere his little brain desired (I can't say little heart, because we all know how big-hearted he is). And there's where he lost me.
Green Bay acted in good faith. They truly believed they'd put Favre's big contract behind them. They spent (hopefully) wisely the money previous allotted to Favre. No, there was no money in the till to put that contract BACK on the books. Now, if Favre, who's made a TON of money from Green Bay over the years, had offered to restructure to play for his equivalent of peanuts, he could have been welcomed back. But eo accommodate his coming back, Green Bay would have had to cut and/or restructure contracts. I doubt it would have been possible. Favre COULD have said I'll play for the minimum. But he didn't.
He not only wanted to play, he wanted his multi-millions too. Which he COULD have had, had he decided to return before Green Bay set up its post-Favre plans.
And putting the stake through the hearts of those who'd paid him so well over the years, he didn't want a trade, he wanted to pick his own new uniform. And those black beauties in Chicago or the purple pants in Minnesota looked awfully good to him. It's one thing NOT to have Favre in the line-up. It's another thing to deliver him, FOR FREE, to one of those other teams in the competitive division Green Bay resides in.
No way they were going to let Favre say Thanks for All the Years, by helping trying to beat the Pack!
All of this is obvious to anyone who doesn't have a vested interest in the fortunes of the Packers, Bears or Vikings. I'm sorry. You CAN change your mind. But then you have to honour the contract your took into retirement. And that doesn't make you a free agent because management is sick and tired of your waffling and wants to get on with their organizational lives.
And speaking of waffling, didn't Favre seriously negotiate a 20 million bribe to STAY retired? Sort of impacts on the belief he wants to come back some, doesn't it. Others will see his refusal to take the bribe as something pure and praise-worthy. That the same package will be there for him upon his REAL retirement means it's hollow praise.
Athletes frequently live in a cocoon. It's almost a metaphor for a quarterback's pass protection, isn't it? Here's hoping Favre gets a knock in the head and wakes up to the reality that he's lost his beloved status.
Break a leg Brett. I really, really mean it.
The Favre story was a pretty good one. NOT a lifetime Packer (he DID start down in Atlanta), he nevertheless cemented a Hall-of-Fame career in cheese country. He went out on a high note, leading the Packers to an unexpected National Conference championship game, before falling, in overtime, to the eventual Super Bowl champs, the New York Giants. He held a tearful retirement presser and filed his papers with the NFL.
Green Bay management tried to talk him out of retirement. They'd gotten used to doing it the last couple of years. They kept drafting quarterbacks in case Favre was serious. This time he was. He waffled a bit, but claimed his wife put a kibosh on it.
So, having twice, once before and once after, to try and convince Brett he had a year (or two) still to play, Green Bay set up their off-season agenda. Using money freed up by not having Favre taking up a sizable percentage of the salary cap, Green Bay strengthened other positions and drafted another QB, to start off the post-Favre era. The money was spent. Spring training camp came and went.
Then, Favre decided, wife-be-damned, he wanted to play. And since the first phone call to Green Bay didn't result in cartwheels about the change in heart, version umptymillion, he decided to take offence and demand that Green Bay release him so that he could play anywhere his little brain desired (I can't say little heart, because we all know how big-hearted he is). And there's where he lost me.
Green Bay acted in good faith. They truly believed they'd put Favre's big contract behind them. They spent (hopefully) wisely the money previous allotted to Favre. No, there was no money in the till to put that contract BACK on the books. Now, if Favre, who's made a TON of money from Green Bay over the years, had offered to restructure to play for his equivalent of peanuts, he could have been welcomed back. But eo accommodate his coming back, Green Bay would have had to cut and/or restructure contracts. I doubt it would have been possible. Favre COULD have said I'll play for the minimum. But he didn't.
He not only wanted to play, he wanted his multi-millions too. Which he COULD have had, had he decided to return before Green Bay set up its post-Favre plans.
And putting the stake through the hearts of those who'd paid him so well over the years, he didn't want a trade, he wanted to pick his own new uniform. And those black beauties in Chicago or the purple pants in Minnesota looked awfully good to him. It's one thing NOT to have Favre in the line-up. It's another thing to deliver him, FOR FREE, to one of those other teams in the competitive division Green Bay resides in.
No way they were going to let Favre say Thanks for All the Years, by helping trying to beat the Pack!
All of this is obvious to anyone who doesn't have a vested interest in the fortunes of the Packers, Bears or Vikings. I'm sorry. You CAN change your mind. But then you have to honour the contract your took into retirement. And that doesn't make you a free agent because management is sick and tired of your waffling and wants to get on with their organizational lives.
And speaking of waffling, didn't Favre seriously negotiate a 20 million bribe to STAY retired? Sort of impacts on the belief he wants to come back some, doesn't it. Others will see his refusal to take the bribe as something pure and praise-worthy. That the same package will be there for him upon his REAL retirement means it's hollow praise.
Athletes frequently live in a cocoon. It's almost a metaphor for a quarterback's pass protection, isn't it? Here's hoping Favre gets a knock in the head and wakes up to the reality that he's lost his beloved status.
Break a leg Brett. I really, really mean it.
TV: Live Is A Relative Term
Always interesting to watch LIVE events being broadcasted simultaneously by the CBC and NBC. Since I have two TVs turned on and watching both, I can tell you LIVE is a concept that needs redefining at both networks.
NBC, of course, believes in showing as little LIVE from an Olympics as a crackerjack tape editing team can manage. Can't turn out heart-jerkers and thrills if you don't have the completed script in hand. On the other hand, some events require LIVE broadcasting. And so far, I can watch it LIVE on CBC about seven seconds before I see it on NBC. It's actually funny.
The CBC has it's own, somewhat diminishing, problem with the LIVE screen bug. Frequently early, but less and less since the days have gone by, that little LIVE bug is a total lie. But they've been called on it and are doing it less. The CBC still puts NBC to shame, but it can do better.
The preceding was a tape-delayed presentation of the GM Media blogging system.
NBC, of course, believes in showing as little LIVE from an Olympics as a crackerjack tape editing team can manage. Can't turn out heart-jerkers and thrills if you don't have the completed script in hand. On the other hand, some events require LIVE broadcasting. And so far, I can watch it LIVE on CBC about seven seconds before I see it on NBC. It's actually funny.
The CBC has it's own, somewhat diminishing, problem with the LIVE screen bug. Frequently early, but less and less since the days have gone by, that little LIVE bug is a total lie. But they've been called on it and are doing it less. The CBC still puts NBC to shame, but it can do better.
The preceding was a tape-delayed presentation of the GM Media blogging system.
SPORTS: Missed It by That Much!
Liar, liars, bathing suits on fire.
Michael Phelps will win his record-setting eighth gold medal tonight. Or will he? Record-tying seventh for sure. But I still don't think he won that seventh one last night. Didn't think it watching it live. And didn't think it after replays.
And the laughable part? The video replies "conclusively show" that he did touch out Milorad Cavic (a fellow Yank wearing Serbian colours). That's baloney. No one can see one one-hundredth of a second's difference on video tape. No one. The machine came back with the tale that Phelps won. But if that is really true, then my eyes are betraying me in new and different ways.
Do I believe it's possible that Phelps won? Yes. Do I think he won? Possibly. Am I sure he won? Not till my dying day. And yes, machines often spit out interesting stories. I'm a computer programmer.
If the furor that mushroomed and then imploded with equal swiftness hadn't been resolved to everybody's complete satisfaction, we would be taking about this for some time. I'm betting young Mr. Cavic will be able to cash in on his 59 seconds of fame. If he already hasn't.
Should make conspiracy fodder for years.
Michael Phelps will win his record-setting eighth gold medal tonight. Or will he? Record-tying seventh for sure. But I still don't think he won that seventh one last night. Didn't think it watching it live. And didn't think it after replays.
And the laughable part? The video replies "conclusively show" that he did touch out Milorad Cavic (a fellow Yank wearing Serbian colours). That's baloney. No one can see one one-hundredth of a second's difference on video tape. No one. The machine came back with the tale that Phelps won. But if that is really true, then my eyes are betraying me in new and different ways.
Do I believe it's possible that Phelps won? Yes. Do I think he won? Possibly. Am I sure he won? Not till my dying day. And yes, machines often spit out interesting stories. I'm a computer programmer.
If the furor that mushroomed and then imploded with equal swiftness hadn't been resolved to everybody's complete satisfaction, we would be taking about this for some time. I'm betting young Mr. Cavic will be able to cash in on his 59 seconds of fame. If he already hasn't.
Should make conspiracy fodder for years.
SPORTS: Sorry for What, Exactly?
You've seen the pictures of the Spanish national men's basketball team proving you can be collectively stupid. They are using their fingers to 'slant there eyes' as a way of saying we're going to China for the Olympics.
The furor since, bad as it is, will quiet down before erupting in the opening week of the NBA season. That's when the players who play IN the NBA will find that those that are quick to offend, carry long memories. Protests are guaranteed here in Toronto, where Jose Calderon will be asked to apologize again. In L.A., Pau Gasol will have to do the same (and yes, my first reaction to what I was going to write was 'kowtow'). His brother Marc might escape too much scrutiny in Memphis, more for not being a well-known star, than for not being complicit.
It all comes down to the apology. Only one of which I have read. It comes from Calderon's own blog. I went to look it up again today, and couldn't find it. But the gist of the apology falls into one of the three categories of apologies.
The first apology, uttered by twits like The West Coast Smirk of the Lakers, is the lawyer-written apology. It's insincere and legally-c0nstructed and frequently written by said lawyers. Phony as a three-dollar bill.
The third apology is the heart-felt, I'm guilty and sorry beyond all belief, mea culpa. It's usually uttered by people who understand they've done wrong and are genuinely sorry for what has happened, even if it isn't all their fault. Takes these kind of people a long time to get over whatever (frequently minor) transgression they've made.
Calderon's falls into the second category. The apology for YOU, the other party, taking offence at something that was not meant to offend. "Look I didn't mean to offend, but since you ARE offended, I apologize," is the usual form of the apology. The issuer of these kind of apologies are usually honestly surprised that what they did offended others. And the apology is close, real close to being heartfelt. But there's a little bit (or sometimes a bigger bit), that says, Jeez, gimme a break. It's not like I insulted your mother or punched you in the nose.
I have, on occasion, used terms that people COULD take offence to. I HAVE told a Newfie joke or two in my time, claiming half-Newfie parentage as my defence. It's always been considered allowable to make dumb jokes about your own ethnic heritage. Or should it be? I know one resident of the island didn't particularly care to be labeled stupid and told me so. I stopped telling Newfie jokes.
Calderon strikes me as an exemplary young man. He's the kind of guy you want your daughter to bring home. And it's not because he's making millions playing roundball. He's a gentleman who just happens to have participated in a group mind melt. Having made a type two apology, he's going to find he's going to have to do it over again.
And again, and again.
The furor since, bad as it is, will quiet down before erupting in the opening week of the NBA season. That's when the players who play IN the NBA will find that those that are quick to offend, carry long memories. Protests are guaranteed here in Toronto, where Jose Calderon will be asked to apologize again. In L.A., Pau Gasol will have to do the same (and yes, my first reaction to what I was going to write was 'kowtow'). His brother Marc might escape too much scrutiny in Memphis, more for not being a well-known star, than for not being complicit.
It all comes down to the apology. Only one of which I have read. It comes from Calderon's own blog. I went to look it up again today, and couldn't find it. But the gist of the apology falls into one of the three categories of apologies.
The first apology, uttered by twits like The West Coast Smirk of the Lakers, is the lawyer-written apology. It's insincere and legally-c0nstructed and frequently written by said lawyers. Phony as a three-dollar bill.
The third apology is the heart-felt, I'm guilty and sorry beyond all belief, mea culpa. It's usually uttered by people who understand they've done wrong and are genuinely sorry for what has happened, even if it isn't all their fault. Takes these kind of people a long time to get over whatever (frequently minor) transgression they've made.
Calderon's falls into the second category. The apology for YOU, the other party, taking offence at something that was not meant to offend. "Look I didn't mean to offend, but since you ARE offended, I apologize," is the usual form of the apology. The issuer of these kind of apologies are usually honestly surprised that what they did offended others. And the apology is close, real close to being heartfelt. But there's a little bit (or sometimes a bigger bit), that says, Jeez, gimme a break. It's not like I insulted your mother or punched you in the nose.
I have, on occasion, used terms that people COULD take offence to. I HAVE told a Newfie joke or two in my time, claiming half-Newfie parentage as my defence. It's always been considered allowable to make dumb jokes about your own ethnic heritage. Or should it be? I know one resident of the island didn't particularly care to be labeled stupid and told me so. I stopped telling Newfie jokes.
Calderon strikes me as an exemplary young man. He's the kind of guy you want your daughter to bring home. And it's not because he's making millions playing roundball. He's a gentleman who just happens to have participated in a group mind melt. Having made a type two apology, he's going to find he's going to have to do it over again.
And again, and again.
SPORTS: Time to Panic
It's a script the Toronto Argo have made reruns of for the last few years. Stumbling out of the gate, the Argos turn it on after Labour Day and end up with a decent chance at going all the way to the Grey Cup. It was hard to panic when the eternal optimist, Pinball Clemons, was out there telling everybody everything was not only fine, but watch us win five of the next seven and challenge for first place!
And, you know, he pulled it off. More than a few times. No need for a re-write.
But times are a changing. Rich Stubler is now starring as Pinball. And this edition of the Toronto Argos don't have something Clemons' teams had--a shutdown defence run by Stubler.
Nothing is functioning at acceptable levels for these Toronto Argos. The defence has been bad in total, horrid against the run. The top-ranked pass defence is one of those mirages, created whole cloth out of the absence of the need for the other teams to pass. It's been a poor-tackling, collective failure. And at the same time, it's operating better than the offence.
League MVP Kerry Joseph has played, by my count, five good quarters this year. TOTAL! Four came in one game. I've been stumping for Mike Bishop to get his chance again. And Stubler heard my rumblings from all the way out here in the suburbs. Bishop played the second half of a game Toronto trailed 11-7 at the half. And his teammates showed an immediate desire to return to Joseph by dropping just about any pass that was near them. Bishop responded by throwing a pass to a Montreal player or two and just plain over-throwing everything and everybody the rest of the time. In essence, he was as bad as Joseph, with more receiver drops than I thought possible.
Injuries, that Toronto Blue Jay excuse on a repeating loop, will be blamed for a failed corps of receivers forced to resort to using fourth quarterback Reggie McNeal as a pass catcher. Problem is, he's been as good, if not better, than the rest of the receivers he's played with the last two weeks. If NOBODY is going to catch the ball, then let Bishop start. At least he'll throw to Arland Bruce III. Joseph won't. Or maybe switch McNeal and either of the two others. How in the world can he be any worse?
And do something about special teams' penalties. The Argos were penalized three times for ZERO yards in the first half last night. The Als declined each time, because their gain was better than the penalty!
Stubler isn't exactly a motivational speaker in public. He inspired a defence that dominated until this year. That largely returning defence either got old real quick (probably true) or wants him to take over again (who knows) or both. But the only way we'll find out if Stubler CAN do something with his defensive soldiers is to give him a chance and get back Clemons for a third stint on the sidelines.
Otherwise, there isn't much hope for a post-Labour Day revival along the lines of the Argo Bounce. Not this year.
And, you know, he pulled it off. More than a few times. No need for a re-write.
But times are a changing. Rich Stubler is now starring as Pinball. And this edition of the Toronto Argos don't have something Clemons' teams had--a shutdown defence run by Stubler.
Nothing is functioning at acceptable levels for these Toronto Argos. The defence has been bad in total, horrid against the run. The top-ranked pass defence is one of those mirages, created whole cloth out of the absence of the need for the other teams to pass. It's been a poor-tackling, collective failure. And at the same time, it's operating better than the offence.
League MVP Kerry Joseph has played, by my count, five good quarters this year. TOTAL! Four came in one game. I've been stumping for Mike Bishop to get his chance again. And Stubler heard my rumblings from all the way out here in the suburbs. Bishop played the second half of a game Toronto trailed 11-7 at the half. And his teammates showed an immediate desire to return to Joseph by dropping just about any pass that was near them. Bishop responded by throwing a pass to a Montreal player or two and just plain over-throwing everything and everybody the rest of the time. In essence, he was as bad as Joseph, with more receiver drops than I thought possible.
Injuries, that Toronto Blue Jay excuse on a repeating loop, will be blamed for a failed corps of receivers forced to resort to using fourth quarterback Reggie McNeal as a pass catcher. Problem is, he's been as good, if not better, than the rest of the receivers he's played with the last two weeks. If NOBODY is going to catch the ball, then let Bishop start. At least he'll throw to Arland Bruce III. Joseph won't. Or maybe switch McNeal and either of the two others. How in the world can he be any worse?
And do something about special teams' penalties. The Argos were penalized three times for ZERO yards in the first half last night. The Als declined each time, because their gain was better than the penalty!
Stubler isn't exactly a motivational speaker in public. He inspired a defence that dominated until this year. That largely returning defence either got old real quick (probably true) or wants him to take over again (who knows) or both. But the only way we'll find out if Stubler CAN do something with his defensive soldiers is to give him a chance and get back Clemons for a third stint on the sidelines.
Otherwise, there isn't much hope for a post-Labour Day revival along the lines of the Argo Bounce. Not this year.
SPORTS: Despicable Be Thy Name
JP Ricciardi, praised in the post below, is a lousy GM. He's a lying SOB and his work visa for Canada is a complete and utter mistake. If he's still the GM on opening day 2009 for the Toronto Blue Jays, I will not watch a single game again until he's no longer employed and has been deported back to the cesspool he came from.
Are we clear where we stand on this idiot?
The focus of my venom is sitting at home today, happily beaming about his part in increasing the American chances at a gold medal in baseball at the Beijing Olympics. His callous call-up of a Canadian Olympic team pitcher, one of the better ones, was purely to provide a very, very, very slight improvement in the American chances. Afterall, what were the chances the Yanks would need help in finishing ahead of Canada?
About the same chance that Scott Richmond would have been a better choice to throw into a game Canada led 4-2 against the USA, instead of the trio of washed-up or never-were pitchers Canadian manager Terry Puhl had on his beck and call. Richmond, a decent AAA pitcher and maybe a borderline big league bullpen member, might have been able to stave off the American offence. But he was sitting cooling his heels in Toronto, bound the next day for Syracuse, when Puhl and Canada needed him most.
The smug SOB in the Toronto GM chair COULD have let Richmond play for Canada. He could have even played the good guy role in announcing that upon Richmond's return from Beijing, he would be a September call-up. Afterall, it wasn't like anybody, beyond the peabrains employed to believe so, actually thought Toronto was still in a playoff race. No, Ricciardi, who DID play a part in picking the USA team, had one more patriotic duty. He had to stab his 'adopted' country through the heart for no better reason than that he could. I hope he chokes on his own hubris.
Poor Richmond has played the good soldier. He maintained he was thrilled to make his big league debut (now, rather than later). And there were no guarantees that he'd do well in China. He appreciated a chance to make the Big Show at the advanced age of 28. He wished his 'former' teammates well. He must have been sick to his stomach watching the Canada-USA game, while packing to return to the minor leagues. His two-week call-up might very well be his lasting memory of the spotlight. Three so-so starts to balance against the chance of a lifetime.
There will be no baseball in the 2012 Olympics. He'll never get a chance again to tug on a Canadian Olympic jersey. That's what his 'GM' cost him.
Ricciardi has to go. End of post.
Are we clear where we stand on this idiot?
The focus of my venom is sitting at home today, happily beaming about his part in increasing the American chances at a gold medal in baseball at the Beijing Olympics. His callous call-up of a Canadian Olympic team pitcher, one of the better ones, was purely to provide a very, very, very slight improvement in the American chances. Afterall, what were the chances the Yanks would need help in finishing ahead of Canada?
About the same chance that Scott Richmond would have been a better choice to throw into a game Canada led 4-2 against the USA, instead of the trio of washed-up or never-were pitchers Canadian manager Terry Puhl had on his beck and call. Richmond, a decent AAA pitcher and maybe a borderline big league bullpen member, might have been able to stave off the American offence. But he was sitting cooling his heels in Toronto, bound the next day for Syracuse, when Puhl and Canada needed him most.
The smug SOB in the Toronto GM chair COULD have let Richmond play for Canada. He could have even played the good guy role in announcing that upon Richmond's return from Beijing, he would be a September call-up. Afterall, it wasn't like anybody, beyond the peabrains employed to believe so, actually thought Toronto was still in a playoff race. No, Ricciardi, who DID play a part in picking the USA team, had one more patriotic duty. He had to stab his 'adopted' country through the heart for no better reason than that he could. I hope he chokes on his own hubris.
Poor Richmond has played the good soldier. He maintained he was thrilled to make his big league debut (now, rather than later). And there were no guarantees that he'd do well in China. He appreciated a chance to make the Big Show at the advanced age of 28. He wished his 'former' teammates well. He must have been sick to his stomach watching the Canada-USA game, while packing to return to the minor leagues. His two-week call-up might very well be his lasting memory of the spotlight. Three so-so starts to balance against the chance of a lifetime.
There will be no baseball in the 2012 Olympics. He'll never get a chance again to tug on a Canadian Olympic jersey. That's what his 'GM' cost him.
Ricciardi has to go. End of post.
SPORTS: If You Can't Say Something Nice ...
Going to end this little absent spell with a splash. Starting this lot off with something nice about JP Ricciardi. Yes, I know. It's unbelievable. But bear with me.
He signed Scott Downs to a three-year contract. That's a good thing. Better than the hopes for Scott Rolen and the meagre don't-hate-it signings of Brad Wilkerson and, to a lesser extent, Kevin Mench, there is nothing wrong with the Downs signing. Very good.
He signed Scott Downs to a three-year contract. That's a good thing. Better than the hopes for Scott Rolen and the meagre don't-hate-it signings of Brad Wilkerson and, to a lesser extent, Kevin Mench, there is nothing wrong with the Downs signing. Very good.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
TV: I'm Already Tired!
Trying to push through three months of programming changes in 13 days was idiotic and I bear responsibility for saying yes to it. Still, no man can program in a cone of silence. So, the Olympics play in the background.
And after, what, 48 hours, I can honestly say I am really, really sick of some of those Olympic commercials.
There's a couple I like. A lot. The Wonderbread tots dressed up as athletes is wonderful, even after multiple viewings. I turn around for that one. The Bell ads don't get old until about the fourth time you see them. So they're back to being awful background noise. But I look forward to new ones.
And before I turn off this de facto notice that I'm still alive, I have to tell you Americans (as IF anybody is actually reading this!), you should sue NBC for fraud. NBC is awful, compared to the around-the-clock top-notch job CBC is doing up here. It'd be a scandal if the populace actually cared about most of the Olympic sports outside of basketball.
And after, what, 48 hours, I can honestly say I am really, really sick of some of those Olympic commercials.
There's a couple I like. A lot. The Wonderbread tots dressed up as athletes is wonderful, even after multiple viewings. I turn around for that one. The Bell ads don't get old until about the fourth time you see them. So they're back to being awful background noise. But I look forward to new ones.
And before I turn off this de facto notice that I'm still alive, I have to tell you Americans (as IF anybody is actually reading this!), you should sue NBC for fraud. NBC is awful, compared to the around-the-clock top-notch job CBC is doing up here. It'd be a scandal if the populace actually cared about most of the Olympic sports outside of basketball.
Friday, August 01, 2008
BOOKS: Everywhere That Mary Went - Lisa Scottoline
I don't understand how anybody could enjoy Torture Porn filth like the "Saw" series. Stalker Porn (think of any of several Jennifer Lopez movies) only mystifies me slightly less. How can anybody derive enjoyment from reading about or watching somebody's terror is beyond me. Needless to say, these are two genres I don't indulge much reading in.
Frankly, Everywhere That Mary Went by Lisa Scottoline skates a little too close to the Stalker Porn cesspool than I would like. I needed something earthly and earthy after the Samurai Girls fantasies and the outright SF of Jack Campbell and Tanya Huff last week. So, I went a little deeper into the reading pool and came up with an early Scottoline work, the progenitor of her Rosato and Associates books. It's 15 years old, but was re-released in paperback just at the start of this century.
Several times, I just about gave up the book, feeling very uneasy about the goings on around young, widowed lawyer Mary DiNunzio. She lost her husband to an unsolved hit-and-run a year before the book starts. She's getting notes, hangup phone calls and the occasional glimpse of big ominous car. Her saving grace is a best friend, who's another lawyer at her firm, and her legal secretary, a gay man who's been with her for all eight years there.
Stressed out over the impending decision that will make her a partner or a pariah, DiNunzio can't effectively deal with the stalker, for fear of losing needed votes to become partner. Then, the secretary is killed by that ominous car in yet another hit-and-run death. Could these two deaths be linked? Is somebody killing the men in her life? DiNunzio comes a hair's breath from falling completely apart. She retreats to her traditional Italian family, which includes a twin sister, who's a nun in a convent. DiNunzio is a lapsed Catholic and frankly feels too much like a lost little lamb most of the time.
It was about the time that the overly foul-mouthed DiNunzio confronts her religious background and visits her sequestered sister, that I resolved to finish the book. Like DiNunzio deciding to fight the battle straight on, I saw hope at the end of the tunnel. Although DiNunzio does nothing directly to reveal the stalker's identity, there's an effective ending sequence to the book, with the stalker getting justice in an agreeable way. The last page of the book is a spirit-lifter.
Depending on your ability to handle Stalker Porn, even as well done as this, you have my recommendation to read it.
Frankly, Everywhere That Mary Went by Lisa Scottoline skates a little too close to the Stalker Porn cesspool than I would like. I needed something earthly and earthy after the Samurai Girls fantasies and the outright SF of Jack Campbell and Tanya Huff last week. So, I went a little deeper into the reading pool and came up with an early Scottoline work, the progenitor of her Rosato and Associates books. It's 15 years old, but was re-released in paperback just at the start of this century.
Several times, I just about gave up the book, feeling very uneasy about the goings on around young, widowed lawyer Mary DiNunzio. She lost her husband to an unsolved hit-and-run a year before the book starts. She's getting notes, hangup phone calls and the occasional glimpse of big ominous car. Her saving grace is a best friend, who's another lawyer at her firm, and her legal secretary, a gay man who's been with her for all eight years there.
Stressed out over the impending decision that will make her a partner or a pariah, DiNunzio can't effectively deal with the stalker, for fear of losing needed votes to become partner. Then, the secretary is killed by that ominous car in yet another hit-and-run death. Could these two deaths be linked? Is somebody killing the men in her life? DiNunzio comes a hair's breath from falling completely apart. She retreats to her traditional Italian family, which includes a twin sister, who's a nun in a convent. DiNunzio is a lapsed Catholic and frankly feels too much like a lost little lamb most of the time.
It was about the time that the overly foul-mouthed DiNunzio confronts her religious background and visits her sequestered sister, that I resolved to finish the book. Like DiNunzio deciding to fight the battle straight on, I saw hope at the end of the tunnel. Although DiNunzio does nothing directly to reveal the stalker's identity, there's an effective ending sequence to the book, with the stalker getting justice in an agreeable way. The last page of the book is a spirit-lifter.
Depending on your ability to handle Stalker Porn, even as well done as this, you have my recommendation to read it.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
RADIO: Get Out the Salami and Cheese, It's Over!
We are hours, not days, away from the end of the Chuck Swirsky era. I think I will miss him on the airwaves with The Fan 590 AM radio and on the Toronto Raptors basketball broadcasts. But some of his idiosyncrasies will not be missed.
The Swirsk, as immortalized on Saturday Night Live, is a force of nature. His eternal optimism and boosterism for his adapted city and country were refreshing, but wearing. If there was one thing that bugged me about Swirsky, it was that he wouldn't get mad at what he saw or heard, when it was shoddy and below par entertainment-wise. The lowest he would go, in the face of absolute horrid play, was to say, "Let's face it folks, tonight, the Raptors have not played well." He'd follow up by promising better for the next game.
In all honesty, as an employee of the club, he COULD NOT rip the club. But sometimes, as a listener, I wanted him to get as mad as I was at what was going on before our eyes. He couldn't meet me half-way.
On his radio show, he perpetually had to mention to interview subjects that he wasn't shining them on or buttering them up, and then would proceed to do so. He didn't ask tough questions. But, because of his Larry King-like interviewing style, and history in both Chicago and Detroit, he got a fair representation of athletes and coaches to come on his show. And truthfully, he really wasn't all that different from the rest of the hosts on The Fan. Even Bob McCown, is more lustre than bluster when it comes to interviewing people, not that he doesn't huff and puff pre- and post-interview about how tough he is. The difference is that McCown won't have jocks on to babble while Swirsky would.
Having detailed what I didn't like about Swirsky (missed bemoaning his second favourite phrase, 'Onions, baby, Onions!'), let me tell you he injected enthusiasm into Raptor broadcasts that was welcome. Like Joe Bowen, his inflections rose and fell with the game, allowing one to follow what was going on, even if you weren't paying sole attention to the TV screen. He ran an excellent broadcast with Jack Armstrong, entertaining and informative. You could tell they enjoyed working together. I've said my piece about his work with Leo Rautins, which I blame more on Rautins.
The radio show was worth listening to during the afternoons. He was never offensive and had a regular three interviews per hour after the opening hour's call-in show. He genuinely loved Toronto and Canada and that's always good to hear somebody from somewhere else say. I never, ever picked up the phone and called into the station to complain about him, which I HAVE done for other announcers at the station.
Swirsky leaves to return to the States, and to Chicago specifically, for family reasons. He's taking a paycut to return to the Chicago Bulls as their radio announcer. It's a mark of the man that not one person I've listened to or read, in print or on the web, has not respected his wish that those reasons be kept private. I'm going to respect that decision too, and not even speculate.
He wasn't perfect, but Swirsky will be missed. Reluctantly, it's time to "Get out the salami and cheese," one last time. Good-bye Chuck.
The Swirsk, as immortalized on Saturday Night Live, is a force of nature. His eternal optimism and boosterism for his adapted city and country were refreshing, but wearing. If there was one thing that bugged me about Swirsky, it was that he wouldn't get mad at what he saw or heard, when it was shoddy and below par entertainment-wise. The lowest he would go, in the face of absolute horrid play, was to say, "Let's face it folks, tonight, the Raptors have not played well." He'd follow up by promising better for the next game.
In all honesty, as an employee of the club, he COULD NOT rip the club. But sometimes, as a listener, I wanted him to get as mad as I was at what was going on before our eyes. He couldn't meet me half-way.
On his radio show, he perpetually had to mention to interview subjects that he wasn't shining them on or buttering them up, and then would proceed to do so. He didn't ask tough questions. But, because of his Larry King-like interviewing style, and history in both Chicago and Detroit, he got a fair representation of athletes and coaches to come on his show. And truthfully, he really wasn't all that different from the rest of the hosts on The Fan. Even Bob McCown, is more lustre than bluster when it comes to interviewing people, not that he doesn't huff and puff pre- and post-interview about how tough he is. The difference is that McCown won't have jocks on to babble while Swirsky would.
Having detailed what I didn't like about Swirsky (missed bemoaning his second favourite phrase, 'Onions, baby, Onions!'), let me tell you he injected enthusiasm into Raptor broadcasts that was welcome. Like Joe Bowen, his inflections rose and fell with the game, allowing one to follow what was going on, even if you weren't paying sole attention to the TV screen. He ran an excellent broadcast with Jack Armstrong, entertaining and informative. You could tell they enjoyed working together. I've said my piece about his work with Leo Rautins, which I blame more on Rautins.
The radio show was worth listening to during the afternoons. He was never offensive and had a regular three interviews per hour after the opening hour's call-in show. He genuinely loved Toronto and Canada and that's always good to hear somebody from somewhere else say. I never, ever picked up the phone and called into the station to complain about him, which I HAVE done for other announcers at the station.
Swirsky leaves to return to the States, and to Chicago specifically, for family reasons. He's taking a paycut to return to the Chicago Bulls as their radio announcer. It's a mark of the man that not one person I've listened to or read, in print or on the web, has not respected his wish that those reasons be kept private. I'm going to respect that decision too, and not even speculate.
He wasn't perfect, but Swirsky will be missed. Reluctantly, it's time to "Get out the salami and cheese," one last time. Good-bye Chuck.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
SOFTWARE: The 411 on DNS
DNS, Domain Name Services, is/are very important to your computer. DNS is a translation service, turning www.google.com into it's numerical twin, 72.14.205.103. You will admit, that typing in www.google.com is a WHOLE lot easier than typing in, and remembering, that string of four numbers. Especially when it's going to become six numbers in the not too distant future.
This whole computer equivalent to a telephone directory offers ease of use over all other considerations. It lets you enter easy-to-remember word codes (the name part), tells the system what you REALLY mean is the IP code (the number part) and does this about as transparently as possible. And when the folks at various web-sites change the place where their web-site is, they can just tell the DNS directories and the changeover is handled pretty smoothly, many times with no visible change to the customer (the YOU part). Doesn't even require a change-of-address/telephone card (the pain in the butt part).
It's the last part of the DNS system that prevents me from going hog-wild and just changing over all of my bookmarks from the www.google.com to 72.14.205.103. It WOULD be faster UNTIL a change, then it wouldn't work at all. I'm not willing to spend several minutes changing something to save a micro-second, especially if I might later end up spending an hour figuring out why google suddenly seems unavailable on my machine and nobody else's.
Still, I should point out to you that there are more than one DNS service out there. Your ISP has one. Rogers in my case. There are several commercial DNS outfits who maintain a DNS service that is refined and filtered of crud (thus quicker and safer). Depending on the outfit, it might filter out sex sites and gambling sites, for example. A company who doesn't want its workers looking for such sites on company time and hardware, can employ a commercial site to lock these sites down, as well as a bunch of other not-so-good sites.
There are also free DNS services available, including the very highly regarded OpenDNS site. Besides PROBABLY being faster than your ISP site, it's also got some other goodies that make it worth your time to consider moving to OpenDNS for your DNS needs. In fact, for the time being right now, it might be a VERY GOOD IDEA to switch. I know for SURE that OpenDNS has been protected against the most recent security vulnerability discovered in Windows. I'd LIKE to think Rogers has been jolly on the spot, but you never know ...
A recent article at ComputerWorld does a good job of outlining the issue AND showing a step-by-step how-to to fix the issue for sure in 30 seconds ... plus the time to reboot your computer. Take a look at it. You might find some small gains out of it and a little bit more piece of mind.
And yes, if you don't want to pass along the long link above, have them type in 63.251.179.17.
NOTE: With all CW articles, the story can be removed or archived at any time. There is not guarantee the site above will work forever.
This whole computer equivalent to a telephone directory offers ease of use over all other considerations. It lets you enter easy-to-remember word codes (the name part), tells the system what you REALLY mean is the IP code (the number part) and does this about as transparently as possible. And when the folks at various web-sites change the place where their web-site is, they can just tell the DNS directories and the changeover is handled pretty smoothly, many times with no visible change to the customer (the YOU part). Doesn't even require a change-of-address/telephone card (the pain in the butt part).
It's the last part of the DNS system that prevents me from going hog-wild and just changing over all of my bookmarks from the www.google.com to 72.14.205.103. It WOULD be faster UNTIL a change, then it wouldn't work at all. I'm not willing to spend several minutes changing something to save a micro-second, especially if I might later end up spending an hour figuring out why google suddenly seems unavailable on my machine and nobody else's.
Still, I should point out to you that there are more than one DNS service out there. Your ISP has one. Rogers in my case. There are several commercial DNS outfits who maintain a DNS service that is refined and filtered of crud (thus quicker and safer). Depending on the outfit, it might filter out sex sites and gambling sites, for example. A company who doesn't want its workers looking for such sites on company time and hardware, can employ a commercial site to lock these sites down, as well as a bunch of other not-so-good sites.
There are also free DNS services available, including the very highly regarded OpenDNS site. Besides PROBABLY being faster than your ISP site, it's also got some other goodies that make it worth your time to consider moving to OpenDNS for your DNS needs. In fact, for the time being right now, it might be a VERY GOOD IDEA to switch. I know for SURE that OpenDNS has been protected against the most recent security vulnerability discovered in Windows. I'd LIKE to think Rogers has been jolly on the spot, but you never know ...
A recent article at ComputerWorld does a good job of outlining the issue AND showing a step-by-step how-to to fix the issue for sure in 30 seconds ... plus the time to reboot your computer. Take a look at it. You might find some small gains out of it and a little bit more piece of mind.
And yes, if you don't want to pass along the long link above, have them type in 63.251.179.17.
NOTE: With all CW articles, the story can be removed or archived at any time. There is not guarantee the site above will work forever.
BOOKS: The Lost Fleet: Valiant - Jack Campbell
Things move slowly quickly in the universe inhabited by Jack Campbell's The Lost Fleet series. Campbell's tales of interstellar war between the good guys from The Alliance and the bad guys from The Syndic Worlds are tales told at a snail's pace, setting up brief episodes of battle that pass all too quickly.
Valiant is the fourth book in the series, which has been engrossing throughout. Yet this one feels like the lesser of the books. It starts with the Second Battle of Lakota and manages to make the replay of the only skirmish the Alliance fleet's relatively lost since Black Jack Geary took over command of the armada, last for almost half the book's length. If you love turn-based battle simulations, then those 100 plus pages are going to entertain you and keep you guessing at how Geary will pull the Alliance's fat out of the fire. Even if you don't like simulation games, you'll enjoy the ride.
These battles, done as realistically as physics will allow in a universe with the conceit of interstellar flight through space, have been the focus of the series. No Star Wars-like battles with fast and faster spaceships dueling like World War II era airplanes. No, hours and days take place before battle can be joined. Then, the chance to score hits on the opponents lasts seconds, if that, before velocity shoots your ship past their's. It takes time (and pages) before you can curve around for another engagement. It all feels VERY 'real' in a way. All in all, this is military SF at a high level.
Then we get the second half of the book.
It's a 'character development' section of the series. After three books, the love/lust triangle between Geary, his ship's captain Tanya Desjani, and Senator Victoria Rhone, Co-President of the Callas Republic, takes half a book to get resolved. At least in terms of who's gong to end up with who. It's handled awfully awkwardly by a writer obviously much, much better versed in the ways of physics than writing bad romance material.
Interspersed with the girls-and-guy stuff, we get a move by the conspirators in the fleet to make one last gasp attempt to dethrone Geary. It's done through computer worms. Several waves of them. And it's all so unbelievable that the security guys aboard the command ship Dauntless can't track them, even though the team admits to knowing about many, many shadow-nets running through the fleet's main computer systems. At the same time, they've been able to detect how the aliens (secretly monitoring the fleet and having started the Alliance-Syndic war a century ago) have been piggy-backing on their computer systems. Unh-hunh.
Ultimately, I think the biggest issue Campbell has to face continuing this series is the unbelievability factor. The fleet sailors and marines think Geary has been a gift from the gods. His winning against all odds at Lakota has surely made it impossible for any but the stupidest to believe the fleet would back any coup attempt. It's not rational. They'd be better off letting him work his magic and get the lost fleet back to Alliance space, then assassinate him there.
With his need for character development behind him, I'm hoping Campbell focuses in on the remaining battles to get Dauntless and company home. Peace will ensue and then Geary and humanity can turn their attentions to the aliens that caused all of this grief, death and destruction during his 'extended' life-time. Let's say there's another two books to go in the Lost Fleet series. Then he can start Humanity's Hope.
In other words, Geary's romantic fulfillment is still a LOOOOOONG ways away!
Valiant is the fourth book in the series, which has been engrossing throughout. Yet this one feels like the lesser of the books. It starts with the Second Battle of Lakota and manages to make the replay of the only skirmish the Alliance fleet's relatively lost since Black Jack Geary took over command of the armada, last for almost half the book's length. If you love turn-based battle simulations, then those 100 plus pages are going to entertain you and keep you guessing at how Geary will pull the Alliance's fat out of the fire. Even if you don't like simulation games, you'll enjoy the ride.
These battles, done as realistically as physics will allow in a universe with the conceit of interstellar flight through space, have been the focus of the series. No Star Wars-like battles with fast and faster spaceships dueling like World War II era airplanes. No, hours and days take place before battle can be joined. Then, the chance to score hits on the opponents lasts seconds, if that, before velocity shoots your ship past their's. It takes time (and pages) before you can curve around for another engagement. It all feels VERY 'real' in a way. All in all, this is military SF at a high level.
Then we get the second half of the book.
It's a 'character development' section of the series. After three books, the love/lust triangle between Geary, his ship's captain Tanya Desjani, and Senator Victoria Rhone, Co-President of the Callas Republic, takes half a book to get resolved. At least in terms of who's gong to end up with who. It's handled awfully awkwardly by a writer obviously much, much better versed in the ways of physics than writing bad romance material.
Interspersed with the girls-and-guy stuff, we get a move by the conspirators in the fleet to make one last gasp attempt to dethrone Geary. It's done through computer worms. Several waves of them. And it's all so unbelievable that the security guys aboard the command ship Dauntless can't track them, even though the team admits to knowing about many, many shadow-nets running through the fleet's main computer systems. At the same time, they've been able to detect how the aliens (secretly monitoring the fleet and having started the Alliance-Syndic war a century ago) have been piggy-backing on their computer systems. Unh-hunh.
Ultimately, I think the biggest issue Campbell has to face continuing this series is the unbelievability factor. The fleet sailors and marines think Geary has been a gift from the gods. His winning against all odds at Lakota has surely made it impossible for any but the stupidest to believe the fleet would back any coup attempt. It's not rational. They'd be better off letting him work his magic and get the lost fleet back to Alliance space, then assassinate him there.
With his need for character development behind him, I'm hoping Campbell focuses in on the remaining battles to get Dauntless and company home. Peace will ensue and then Geary and humanity can turn their attentions to the aliens that caused all of this grief, death and destruction during his 'extended' life-time. Let's say there's another two books to go in the Lost Fleet series. Then he can start Humanity's Hope.
In other words, Geary's romantic fulfillment is still a LOOOOOONG ways away!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
MISC: Look What They've Done to My Bottle, Ma
It might not be a song beloved by all, but I'm tellin' ya, I'm pretty peeved about the latest attempt to re-invent the ketchup bottle.
Back about two months or so, I went out and got my ketchup supply for the summer. Then, in a pleasant surprise, Casey Slack came over and donated a case of the new 1.25 litre bottles with the new format, allowing me to feel comfortable not going to Costco again until the ides of December will be upon me. All told, I think I had 30 bottles of the delicious red nectar on hand at the time, easily six month's supply.
Now, to be honest, I use a LOT of ketchup. I'm addicted to the stuff. Have been all of my live. My only defence is that I never put it on chocolate ice cream, which at least one member of my family can't claim. I even put ketchup on my canned tomato soup. My name is Gary and I am a Ketchup-holic.
Over the years I've had all kinds of ways of getting my ketchup. I even arranged to have my ketchup delivered directly from Heinz for a while, the only purveyor of the stuff that should be allowed to sell it. Nothing angers me more than to be served weak imitation stuff. It's insulting to the very notion of ketchup.
When ketchup' mode of delivery turned from glass to plastic, I have to admit I was pretty happy. I knew the tricks for extracting ketchup, which did NOT include hammering the bottom after opening it, hoping to start the red flow flowing. Course, I learned that by ending up wearing ketchup. Or worse, having my pops wearing it. It's funny after the fact, but he wasn't grinning at the time. A little judicious knifework and any slow-moving glass bottle of ketchup could be made to give up the goodness.
Then, along came plastic. The perfect taste in the perfect delivery system. What more could a connoisseur want? Well, some people had trouble getting the last little bit of ketchup out. It was exactly the SAME problem as with glass bottles. And easy to solve. Yet somehow, someone pandered for a flat top to allow for stable, easy inverting of the bottle. That would allow for the congregating of the last bit of ketchup in the head of the bottle.
Voila. Was born the flattop. A solution to a problem already solved. (HINT: Empty tall glass, near empty ketchup bottle inverted. Dunh!!?!?). And of course, the solution created a brand-new problem.
The laser-like accuracy of the squirt from the now-old plastic bottle was a thing of beauty. You could coat that hot dog or even do individual french fries. Need a little dot on the corner of that grilled sandwich? No problem.
But not with the flattop. The squirts is still small, but now you have a two-inch diameter shield blocking you from seeing the target unless you twist and contort yourself around to see just where the dribble is going. And yes, I have detected a minute change in ketchup formulation to make it slightly runnier. I detect a little more 'red water' pre-pour from these bottles.
However, it's not the reduced firing visibility that incenses me most about the new format bottles. It's that the bottles have been made slimmer to be more fridge-friendly. It even champions the cause of storing the ketchup in the refrigerator.
STOP THIS INSANITY!!
The very idea of ketchup being kept in the fridge to congeal to a stolid, heat-killing mass is an affront to civilization! Lumpy, cold ketchup on hot food? When will this nightmare end? If it is at ALL possible that you might actually have an opened ketchup bottle sitting around unconsumed long enough to spoil, BUY A SMALLER BOTTLE!
Or open it up, use the two squirts you bought it for, and then send it to me. Postage paid.
Back about two months or so, I went out and got my ketchup supply for the summer. Then, in a pleasant surprise, Casey Slack came over and donated a case of the new 1.25 litre bottles with the new format, allowing me to feel comfortable not going to Costco again until the ides of December will be upon me. All told, I think I had 30 bottles of the delicious red nectar on hand at the time, easily six month's supply.
Now, to be honest, I use a LOT of ketchup. I'm addicted to the stuff. Have been all of my live. My only defence is that I never put it on chocolate ice cream, which at least one member of my family can't claim. I even put ketchup on my canned tomato soup. My name is Gary and I am a Ketchup-holic.
Over the years I've had all kinds of ways of getting my ketchup. I even arranged to have my ketchup delivered directly from Heinz for a while, the only purveyor of the stuff that should be allowed to sell it. Nothing angers me more than to be served weak imitation stuff. It's insulting to the very notion of ketchup.
When ketchup' mode of delivery turned from glass to plastic, I have to admit I was pretty happy. I knew the tricks for extracting ketchup, which did NOT include hammering the bottom after opening it, hoping to start the red flow flowing. Course, I learned that by ending up wearing ketchup. Or worse, having my pops wearing it. It's funny after the fact, but he wasn't grinning at the time. A little judicious knifework and any slow-moving glass bottle of ketchup could be made to give up the goodness.
Then, along came plastic. The perfect taste in the perfect delivery system. What more could a connoisseur want? Well, some people had trouble getting the last little bit of ketchup out. It was exactly the SAME problem as with glass bottles. And easy to solve. Yet somehow, someone pandered for a flat top to allow for stable, easy inverting of the bottle. That would allow for the congregating of the last bit of ketchup in the head of the bottle.
Voila. Was born the flattop. A solution to a problem already solved. (HINT: Empty tall glass, near empty ketchup bottle inverted. Dunh!!?!?). And of course, the solution created a brand-new problem.
The laser-like accuracy of the squirt from the now-old plastic bottle was a thing of beauty. You could coat that hot dog or even do individual french fries. Need a little dot on the corner of that grilled sandwich? No problem.
But not with the flattop. The squirts is still small, but now you have a two-inch diameter shield blocking you from seeing the target unless you twist and contort yourself around to see just where the dribble is going. And yes, I have detected a minute change in ketchup formulation to make it slightly runnier. I detect a little more 'red water' pre-pour from these bottles.
However, it's not the reduced firing visibility that incenses me most about the new format bottles. It's that the bottles have been made slimmer to be more fridge-friendly. It even champions the cause of storing the ketchup in the refrigerator.
STOP THIS INSANITY!!
The very idea of ketchup being kept in the fridge to congeal to a stolid, heat-killing mass is an affront to civilization! Lumpy, cold ketchup on hot food? When will this nightmare end? If it is at ALL possible that you might actually have an opened ketchup bottle sitting around unconsumed long enough to spoil, BUY A SMALLER BOTTLE!
Or open it up, use the two squirts you bought it for, and then send it to me. Postage paid.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
BOOKS: Samurai Girl - Carrie Asai
I am totally, utterly confused about the Samurai Girl series (set mostly in contemporary Los Angeles) of young adult novels by Carrie Asai. First, the books are supposedly aimed at tween girls, which shocks me completely. Secondly, the first book in the series, The Book of the Sword, is a pretty decent action book that will probably make a decent TV series (There IS a Samurai Girl TV series on the way in September). And third, the next three books of the series fail to expand on the promising start, instead detailing the stupidest heroine since Pauline of the Perils of Pauline stepped aside.
By the way, I'm not kidding about it being aimed at tweens. First, the TV series is going to come from ABC Family. And secondly, from the Amazon.ca page's description - "Grade 6 Up ... A step above the usual action/adventure series book, Sword is great for all audiences, but especially reluctant readers." It's a step above, no doubt. The rest of that excerpt is wrong.
Testing the waters to see if this would be something Angela would like, I discovered the debut book was more up A.J.'s alley. There was some girlie pining by the heroine, Heaven Kogo, for her sensei Hiro, but generally, the first book was action-oriented. Plus, the book was about a woman (young at 19, but still a woman) having your basic disastrous wedding. Or an attempt at one. She's marrying the odious Teddy Yukemura at the behest of her father. Just before the final "I do," the wedding is interrupted by a ninja or two. One kills the other, the victim being Heaven's brother Ohiko.
Instead of a Mafia Princess riff done Japanese style, we get a Heaven on the run from who knows what. Doesn't take her long to discover daddy dearest and Teddy and his family are all yakuza. Ohiko's dying words were for Heaven to seek out his friend Hiro. Heaven succeeds in short order, coming in contact with the man who will become her trainer in the ways of the Samurai.
Think a lot of 12-year girls are into this kind of story? Me neither, although a certain segment of the tween audience WILL read, understand and enjoy this book.
The remainder of the first book consists of Heaven training, occasionally fighting, sighing a lot over the unrequited passion she feels for Hiro, and trying to figure out what is going on. That mystery seems entertaining enough. Some people obviously want her dead. Others want her to return home and to continue the marriage. It's all properly mysterious and portends great fun in trying to figure who's who amongst the good and bad guys. Interspersed throughout the book are personal memos from the other characters in the story, allowing the reader to understand more of their motivations.
A big factor in wanting to continue the series was the top-notch packaging, by the Simon Pulse literary imprint. It's graphical representation makes it feel like something produced in the Orient, with marginal graphics on most pages. In fact, the marginalia greatly reduces the 215-page length to something you should be able to get through in about three hours. There are illustrations scattered throughout by Annabelle Verhoye that are evocative of Japanese woodblock art and are well-suited to the story. The last nice touch, the one that I truly think WOULD appeal to the tween girl, is a page of Samurai Girl temporary tattoos.
Good book, good package, bring on the rest of the series.
What a complete and utter disappointment the next three books are. The pining for Hiro becomes over-powering. Clearly overkill and filler. Studious editing would have cut down the books by 10 per cent without losing any substance. We get that Heaven has a big crush in Hiro. We even get Hiro wishes he could reciprocate. Even the interference by that needy witch Karen, Hiro's girlfriend, plays out over too many pages. Hammering away at it only makes the reader turn pages, waiting for the next fight.
The books follow Heaven's development as a Samurai, turning her into a literary version of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Instead of vamps, Heaven develops the ability to dispose of thugs (mostly of Japanese origin) and ninjas as if THEY were the ones just beginning their training. Sure she gets bruised a bit. And companions don't always fare well when around her. But boy, can she kick and punch with the best of them. Bet all those ninjas have remedial classes awaiting them when they go back to their dark master, whoever he or she might be. The ludicrous road-side battle with Heaven and Teddy fighting off ten ninjas dropped from a helicopter in the fourth book ... well that was a reading-stopper.
I just had to stop and think about the wasted day of my life reading about Heaven's life on the run. It started innocently and logically enough. She finds Hiro very quickly. Okay. But then, these two supposedly well-schooled people then STICK AROUND for the bad guys to continually find them and try to kidnap and/or murder them.
EVERY time when Heaven gets asked her name, she says, "Heaven!" EVERY TIME! Never Betsy, Katie or Mieko or whatever. And most times, she's free with identifying herself as Heaven Kogo. You know, the girl from the HEADLINES and who's picture has been on TV. She doesn't do much to change her appearance, other than putting on clean clothes. No change in style, no change in hair, doesn't even put on fake glasses. And when bad people find her, she does NOT RUN FOR THE HILLS! Stays put. And if that doesn't work, she'll head off for the local club, where club-hopping Teddy finds her about three-quarters of the time. And while at the club, Heaven drinks. Swears off drinking, and then drinks some more. She discovers that drinking really DOES inhibit her ability to do the martial arts stuff, so she drinks some more. It's Weekday After-School Special-level devotion to showing the evils of drinking.
Oh, and she also calls various family and Yakuza members and seems insistent on telling where she is. Then, she's surprised when the ninjas show up.
I hate the potential that was wasted from the first book. I just hope the TV series, which will probably be a marriage of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles with Buffy, will benefit from some thought put into the lead character. It's REALLY, REALLY hard to pull for such a stupid woman.
I've read four books in the series. A total of six are out, as of this writing. Those two books will have to eventually find their way to somebody else's bookshelf.
By the way, I'm not kidding about it being aimed at tweens. First, the TV series is going to come from ABC Family. And secondly, from the Amazon.ca page's description - "Grade 6 Up ... A step above the usual action/adventure series book, Sword is great for all audiences, but especially reluctant readers." It's a step above, no doubt. The rest of that excerpt is wrong.
Testing the waters to see if this would be something Angela would like, I discovered the debut book was more up A.J.'s alley. There was some girlie pining by the heroine, Heaven Kogo, for her sensei Hiro, but generally, the first book was action-oriented. Plus, the book was about a woman (young at 19, but still a woman) having your basic disastrous wedding. Or an attempt at one. She's marrying the odious Teddy Yukemura at the behest of her father. Just before the final "I do," the wedding is interrupted by a ninja or two. One kills the other, the victim being Heaven's brother Ohiko.
Instead of a Mafia Princess riff done Japanese style, we get a Heaven on the run from who knows what. Doesn't take her long to discover daddy dearest and Teddy and his family are all yakuza. Ohiko's dying words were for Heaven to seek out his friend Hiro. Heaven succeeds in short order, coming in contact with the man who will become her trainer in the ways of the Samurai.
Think a lot of 12-year girls are into this kind of story? Me neither, although a certain segment of the tween audience WILL read, understand and enjoy this book.
The remainder of the first book consists of Heaven training, occasionally fighting, sighing a lot over the unrequited passion she feels for Hiro, and trying to figure out what is going on. That mystery seems entertaining enough. Some people obviously want her dead. Others want her to return home and to continue the marriage. It's all properly mysterious and portends great fun in trying to figure who's who amongst the good and bad guys. Interspersed throughout the book are personal memos from the other characters in the story, allowing the reader to understand more of their motivations.
A big factor in wanting to continue the series was the top-notch packaging, by the Simon Pulse literary imprint. It's graphical representation makes it feel like something produced in the Orient, with marginal graphics on most pages. In fact, the marginalia greatly reduces the 215-page length to something you should be able to get through in about three hours. There are illustrations scattered throughout by Annabelle Verhoye that are evocative of Japanese woodblock art and are well-suited to the story. The last nice touch, the one that I truly think WOULD appeal to the tween girl, is a page of Samurai Girl temporary tattoos.
Good book, good package, bring on the rest of the series.
What a complete and utter disappointment the next three books are. The pining for Hiro becomes over-powering. Clearly overkill and filler. Studious editing would have cut down the books by 10 per cent without losing any substance. We get that Heaven has a big crush in Hiro. We even get Hiro wishes he could reciprocate. Even the interference by that needy witch Karen, Hiro's girlfriend, plays out over too many pages. Hammering away at it only makes the reader turn pages, waiting for the next fight.
The books follow Heaven's development as a Samurai, turning her into a literary version of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Instead of vamps, Heaven develops the ability to dispose of thugs (mostly of Japanese origin) and ninjas as if THEY were the ones just beginning their training. Sure she gets bruised a bit. And companions don't always fare well when around her. But boy, can she kick and punch with the best of them. Bet all those ninjas have remedial classes awaiting them when they go back to their dark master, whoever he or she might be. The ludicrous road-side battle with Heaven and Teddy fighting off ten ninjas dropped from a helicopter in the fourth book ... well that was a reading-stopper.
I just had to stop and think about the wasted day of my life reading about Heaven's life on the run. It started innocently and logically enough. She finds Hiro very quickly. Okay. But then, these two supposedly well-schooled people then STICK AROUND for the bad guys to continually find them and try to kidnap and/or murder them.
EVERY time when Heaven gets asked her name, she says, "Heaven!" EVERY TIME! Never Betsy, Katie or Mieko or whatever. And most times, she's free with identifying herself as Heaven Kogo. You know, the girl from the HEADLINES and who's picture has been on TV. She doesn't do much to change her appearance, other than putting on clean clothes. No change in style, no change in hair, doesn't even put on fake glasses. And when bad people find her, she does NOT RUN FOR THE HILLS! Stays put. And if that doesn't work, she'll head off for the local club, where club-hopping Teddy finds her about three-quarters of the time. And while at the club, Heaven drinks. Swears off drinking, and then drinks some more. She discovers that drinking really DOES inhibit her ability to do the martial arts stuff, so she drinks some more. It's Weekday After-School Special-level devotion to showing the evils of drinking.
Oh, and she also calls various family and Yakuza members and seems insistent on telling where she is. Then, she's surprised when the ninjas show up.
I hate the potential that was wasted from the first book. I just hope the TV series, which will probably be a marriage of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles with Buffy, will benefit from some thought put into the lead character. It's REALLY, REALLY hard to pull for such a stupid woman.
I've read four books in the series. A total of six are out, as of this writing. Those two books will have to eventually find their way to somebody else's bookshelf.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Books: The Spellman Files - Lisa Lutz
Reading Week (all 12 days of it) ends with a very pleasant surprise. Despite a rocky start, Lisa Lutz' The Spellman Files proved to be a very entertaining read.
Although the book details the wacky goings on of a completely dysfunctional family of PI's, the central viewpoint character is Isabel Spellman, described by one reviewer as the love child of Dirty Harry and Harriet the Spy, by another as part Bridget Jones, part Columbo. I just liked her for having an obsession with old Get Smart episodes.
Spellman's whole family, mom and dad, big bro David, Isabel and little sis Rae are all PI's. Even Uncle Ray does his turn for Spellman Investigations, which is run out of the family home, a stately manor in San Francisco. Unfortunately, all three kids are off-kilter to one degree or another. David's the perfect child, who left the family firm to go into a well-paying job as a lawyer and source for a lot of the family's cases. He rebels against being perfect in ways that are predictable, but restrained at the same time.
Isabel is a real bit of work. A wild child, Izzie spent most of her teen years barely evading juvie hall. Put to work as a twelve-year old, she developed a skewed view of the world, especially as it pertained to personal privacy. She wanted it, assumed nobody else did. Rae turns out to be just Isabel put on fast-forward, doing her first surveillance work for the firm at age eight.
I know farmers often get their kids working at an early age. To me, that's reasonable and healthy. For a family that works and lives together, and are in the spying game, this kind of early child labour should be deemed illegal. Funny, but illegal.
The book itself is told in non-linear fashion. In fact, the opening scene is not caught up with, until three quarters of the book has passed by. Just as an aside, the opening paragraph had me worried. (paraphrasing) Her boots make echoing sounds as she tries to evade those trying to track her. She then makes a mental note not to wear these shoes if there's going to be a pursuit.
What woman confuses boots and shoes in the same paragraph?
At any rate, the featured case of the book doesn't really get started until the book is almost half-done. The solution to that case is obvious a hundred pages from the finish line, but tortuously, the book continues to wind down as the family dynamic of the Spellmans blows up. Sounds depressing, and it is on a human level.
But this is a VERY funny book. Lutz throws everything against the wall, chapter after chapter. A lot of it sticks to the funny rib. A fair bit of it shows the effects of a first-time novel writer. For example, footnotes denoting Get Smart's KAOS stands for The International Organization of Evil is amusing the first time. Not so much the two or three times after that. The over-use of footnotes wears out its welcome too. But boy, does the palaver between Rae and Izzie ring true. I've seen two bright kids of differing ages go at each other just like the two girls do.
The book ends sadly in at least one respect. Rebounding from that tragedy, Lutz offers up a hope for the future (already written in the form of Curse of the Spellmans) and I intend to follow her up on that offer.
All told, I got through eight books in the 12 days, work commitments and a day of computer re-arranging stopping me from doing more reading. But it was a good reading week this summer. I've still got the Samurai Girl series by Carrie Asai, military SF series books by Jack Campbell and Elizabeth Moon, Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian and one of John Zakour's wacky SF books atop the reading pile. Then there's a new Artemis Fowl book by Eoin Colfer, all those Monk books by Lee Goldberg, ...
Really, Reading Week never ends, does it?
Although the book details the wacky goings on of a completely dysfunctional family of PI's, the central viewpoint character is Isabel Spellman, described by one reviewer as the love child of Dirty Harry and Harriet the Spy, by another as part Bridget Jones, part Columbo. I just liked her for having an obsession with old Get Smart episodes.
Spellman's whole family, mom and dad, big bro David, Isabel and little sis Rae are all PI's. Even Uncle Ray does his turn for Spellman Investigations, which is run out of the family home, a stately manor in San Francisco. Unfortunately, all three kids are off-kilter to one degree or another. David's the perfect child, who left the family firm to go into a well-paying job as a lawyer and source for a lot of the family's cases. He rebels against being perfect in ways that are predictable, but restrained at the same time.
Isabel is a real bit of work. A wild child, Izzie spent most of her teen years barely evading juvie hall. Put to work as a twelve-year old, she developed a skewed view of the world, especially as it pertained to personal privacy. She wanted it, assumed nobody else did. Rae turns out to be just Isabel put on fast-forward, doing her first surveillance work for the firm at age eight.
I know farmers often get their kids working at an early age. To me, that's reasonable and healthy. For a family that works and lives together, and are in the spying game, this kind of early child labour should be deemed illegal. Funny, but illegal.
The book itself is told in non-linear fashion. In fact, the opening scene is not caught up with, until three quarters of the book has passed by. Just as an aside, the opening paragraph had me worried. (paraphrasing) Her boots make echoing sounds as she tries to evade those trying to track her. She then makes a mental note not to wear these shoes if there's going to be a pursuit.
What woman confuses boots and shoes in the same paragraph?
At any rate, the featured case of the book doesn't really get started until the book is almost half-done. The solution to that case is obvious a hundred pages from the finish line, but tortuously, the book continues to wind down as the family dynamic of the Spellmans blows up. Sounds depressing, and it is on a human level.
But this is a VERY funny book. Lutz throws everything against the wall, chapter after chapter. A lot of it sticks to the funny rib. A fair bit of it shows the effects of a first-time novel writer. For example, footnotes denoting Get Smart's KAOS stands for The International Organization of Evil is amusing the first time. Not so much the two or three times after that. The over-use of footnotes wears out its welcome too. But boy, does the palaver between Rae and Izzie ring true. I've seen two bright kids of differing ages go at each other just like the two girls do.
The book ends sadly in at least one respect. Rebounding from that tragedy, Lutz offers up a hope for the future (already written in the form of Curse of the Spellmans) and I intend to follow her up on that offer.
All told, I got through eight books in the 12 days, work commitments and a day of computer re-arranging stopping me from doing more reading. But it was a good reading week this summer. I've still got the Samurai Girl series by Carrie Asai, military SF series books by Jack Campbell and Elizabeth Moon, Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian and one of John Zakour's wacky SF books atop the reading pile. Then there's a new Artemis Fowl book by Eoin Colfer, all those Monk books by Lee Goldberg, ...
Really, Reading Week never ends, does it?
Friday, July 25, 2008
TV: Middling Bad News
I didn't hold out much hope that The MiddleMan would be anything more than a 13-and-out summer series. I liked it a lot, but thought pace and subject matter would doom the interesting little comic book conversion to short run memories.
Looks like I was wrong, and not in a good way.
The 13-and-out now looks like 12-and-out. And that's too bad. Cuz, in fact, the show has recovered to eliminate the one real roadblock, the staccato pace of verbiage delivery, and turned into an amusing campy sendup of comic books ... just like the printed version. It's become a not-so-guilty pleasure of mine.
Unfortunately, creator Javier Grillo-Marxuach announced over the last 24 hours that he and ABC Family have agreed that shortening the season by an episode was in everybody's best interests. Surrrrre, just like sticking the show at 10 pm was a good idea. Nope, the series is baked come summer's end.
There IS a promise of a boffo season-ender. That BETTER include lots of Mary Pat Gleason, who's been entertaining beyond all belief. She's sort of a hefty female robot version of snarky David Spade, without the desperateness of most of Spade's characters. Almost shed a tear this week when it looked like Gleason's Ida might have bit the electrical biscuit for a bit.
And let's be honest, if The MiddleMan IS going to bite the big one, then it should be made law that Natalie Morales, the exception to the rule that girls who wear glasses never get passes, HAS to appear in the outfit she wears in the opening credits for the WHOLE SHOW!
Looks like I was wrong, and not in a good way.
The 13-and-out now looks like 12-and-out. And that's too bad. Cuz, in fact, the show has recovered to eliminate the one real roadblock, the staccato pace of verbiage delivery, and turned into an amusing campy sendup of comic books ... just like the printed version. It's become a not-so-guilty pleasure of mine.
Unfortunately, creator Javier Grillo-Marxuach announced over the last 24 hours that he and ABC Family have agreed that shortening the season by an episode was in everybody's best interests. Surrrrre, just like sticking the show at 10 pm was a good idea. Nope, the series is baked come summer's end.
There IS a promise of a boffo season-ender. That BETTER include lots of Mary Pat Gleason, who's been entertaining beyond all belief. She's sort of a hefty female robot version of snarky David Spade, without the desperateness of most of Spade's characters. Almost shed a tear this week when it looked like Gleason's Ida might have bit the electrical biscuit for a bit.
And let's be honest, if The MiddleMan IS going to bite the big one, then it should be made law that Natalie Morales, the exception to the rule that girls who wear glasses never get passes, HAS to appear in the outfit she wears in the opening credits for the WHOLE SHOW!
BOOKS: Valor's Trial - Tanya Huff
And so, the Confederation tetralogy of novels comes to an end. Or at least, Valor's Trial by Tanya Huff ends with Gunny Sergeant Torin Kerr no longer in the Marines and on the way to a happier place with beau Craig Ryder.
To me, this is another solid effort by the Canadian writer of other material such as the Vicky Nelson vampire books (Made into a TV series last year). It's a fitting end, with some plodding moments that made my enthusiasm for super-marine Kerr wain a bit.
The first chapter, some 28 pages of it, gets through the task of introducing Kerr and Ryder, getting Kerr TO the front-lines for the first time in the quartet of books, and having the war end for Kerr in a BIG BOOM! No, she doesn't end up in yet another hospital.
She ends up somewhere far, far away in an automated prison facility.
That certainly brings up issues. The Others, the usually unseen enemy, don't take prisoners. Although they seem to have taken exception for the legendary conqueror of the Silsviss and survivor of two encounters with the omnipotent Big Yellow (aka Little Grey). But it turns out she's not so exceptional. Others have been taken prisoner too. Some from before Kerr lost conscious in the BIG BOOM! And some are familiar faces from the first three books.
Unfortunately, for a prison without visible guards, conditions aren't all that good. A "Lord of the Flies" situation has developed where rank has given away to physical superiority. And the new 'colonel' of the prison gang is not a good man. Kerr promptly kills the NCO-turned-faux-colonel plus a bunch of henchmen, and restores proper military rank and file order, with her pointedly not at the top. Unfortunately, the new leader, an ineffectual Major, seems happy to stay put with his now less merriless band of inmates.
Kerr sets off to find an escape. She finds other prison groups of Marines and absorbs some old friends and new not-so-pals along the way. Her own merry band of wanna-escapees are sent on their way by the ruling officers, anxious to be rid of a rabble-rouser from their drone-like midsts.
At this point, the book slows down substantially. The next chapters detail slogging through tunnels and levels of the prison complex, like going through Castle Wolfenstein without benefit of guns or Nazis to shoot. It lasts seemingly forever and ends with a tussle, not a battle.
The tussle is between Kerr and one of the Others, an insectoid race first encountered back on Big Yellow. As quick as the tussle starts, it ends. The Others aren't just a single race, but one of several, just like the Confederation Marines. Quick as you can say deus ex machina (the ONE piece of functioning hardware the escaping Marines possess is a working translator), the enemies turn into frenemies, willing to work towards the common goal of escaping. The Others, hereafter to be referred to as The Primacy, have an adventuresome group of itchy escapees of their own. And they're willing to temporarily team-up to get out of the hell-hole.
Which they do. Into the fire. Literally.
The chapters detailing the continuing escape while the two groups slowly coalesce into one ratchet up the entertainment value a fair bit. Simultaneously, the next deus ex machina is unfolding, as Ryder and Presit, the not-beloved journalist, are more or less on the way to meeting up with Kerr. Not that they know so. Afterall, Kerr's categorically dead at this point. They are operating on Ryder's belief. It's all very Edgar Rice Burroughs-like.
Not surprisingly, everybody ends up where they have to be. The bad guys (hint: think yellow and grey) reveal themselves and their hand in the ongoing war between the Confederation and the Primacy. And the series grinds to a quite decent stopping point.
I applaud Huff for writing a coherent universe that makes sense out of a variety of alien life forms. Each of the various Confederation species seemed to have distinct attributes that contributed to the success of the Marine Corps, as well as liabilities that had to be conquered.
Well done!
To me, this is another solid effort by the Canadian writer of other material such as the Vicky Nelson vampire books (Made into a TV series last year). It's a fitting end, with some plodding moments that made my enthusiasm for super-marine Kerr wain a bit.
The first chapter, some 28 pages of it, gets through the task of introducing Kerr and Ryder, getting Kerr TO the front-lines for the first time in the quartet of books, and having the war end for Kerr in a BIG BOOM! No, she doesn't end up in yet another hospital.
She ends up somewhere far, far away in an automated prison facility.
That certainly brings up issues. The Others, the usually unseen enemy, don't take prisoners. Although they seem to have taken exception for the legendary conqueror of the Silsviss and survivor of two encounters with the omnipotent Big Yellow (aka Little Grey). But it turns out she's not so exceptional. Others have been taken prisoner too. Some from before Kerr lost conscious in the BIG BOOM! And some are familiar faces from the first three books.
Unfortunately, for a prison without visible guards, conditions aren't all that good. A "Lord of the Flies" situation has developed where rank has given away to physical superiority. And the new 'colonel' of the prison gang is not a good man. Kerr promptly kills the NCO-turned-faux-colonel plus a bunch of henchmen, and restores proper military rank and file order, with her pointedly not at the top. Unfortunately, the new leader, an ineffectual Major, seems happy to stay put with his now less merriless band of inmates.
Kerr sets off to find an escape. She finds other prison groups of Marines and absorbs some old friends and new not-so-pals along the way. Her own merry band of wanna-escapees are sent on their way by the ruling officers, anxious to be rid of a rabble-rouser from their drone-like midsts.
At this point, the book slows down substantially. The next chapters detail slogging through tunnels and levels of the prison complex, like going through Castle Wolfenstein without benefit of guns or Nazis to shoot. It lasts seemingly forever and ends with a tussle, not a battle.
The tussle is between Kerr and one of the Others, an insectoid race first encountered back on Big Yellow. As quick as the tussle starts, it ends. The Others aren't just a single race, but one of several, just like the Confederation Marines. Quick as you can say deus ex machina (the ONE piece of functioning hardware the escaping Marines possess is a working translator), the enemies turn into frenemies, willing to work towards the common goal of escaping. The Others, hereafter to be referred to as The Primacy, have an adventuresome group of itchy escapees of their own. And they're willing to temporarily team-up to get out of the hell-hole.
Which they do. Into the fire. Literally.
The chapters detailing the continuing escape while the two groups slowly coalesce into one ratchet up the entertainment value a fair bit. Simultaneously, the next deus ex machina is unfolding, as Ryder and Presit, the not-beloved journalist, are more or less on the way to meeting up with Kerr. Not that they know so. Afterall, Kerr's categorically dead at this point. They are operating on Ryder's belief. It's all very Edgar Rice Burroughs-like.
Not surprisingly, everybody ends up where they have to be. The bad guys (hint: think yellow and grey) reveal themselves and their hand in the ongoing war between the Confederation and the Primacy. And the series grinds to a quite decent stopping point.
I applaud Huff for writing a coherent universe that makes sense out of a variety of alien life forms. Each of the various Confederation species seemed to have distinct attributes that contributed to the success of the Marine Corps, as well as liabilities that had to be conquered.
Well done!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
HARDWARE: Trackballs
I have written about trackballs before. They are better for me than mice, unless I've been really slaving away. In which case, I need to resort to using a backup mouse to stave off repetitive stress injury. Happens once or twice a year.
All together, I have four trackballs in current use. Two are Logitech TrackMan Wheel devices. You can find them around for about 30 bucks. They are small and use a thumb-manipulated ball to move the cursor. They have a wheel between the two buttons. One goes on the laptop computer, the other on my second desktop. That's the one I use to read documentation and do some background tasks. It has a 22-inch Dell monitor, running in portrait mode (1200x1600).
The TrackMan Wheel devices are small. Maybe too small. It makes for a great trackball for the laptop, easy to include in the paraphernalia that I shove in the laptop case. But the device feels a little flimsy and I have never really been happy with it on the desktop if I have to use it a lot. But it does have a scroll wheel, which is REAL IMPORTANT these days. And truly it takes up very little desktop real estate (I'm talking about the hardwood desktop, not the Windows desktop).
My bedroom computer is merely a web browsing, Pzizz-playing machine these days. It's an old computer, running Win2000 with not much else but Firefox, Pzizz and a connection to the rest of the network. Pzizz is a sleep aid program, and I use it for afternoon power naps. The trackball on this machine is an original Logitech TrackMan Marble. Of course, you can't buy it retail these days, although you CAN find it for about 30 bucks on eBay. It's huge, heavy and a joy to use. Big ball that can be moved around by fingers OR thumb. Lots of buttons ... but no scroll wheel. And in today's Firefox universe, that's a no-no! I'd use it for the doc-viewer machine in a heartbeat, if it had that scroll wheel.
It must be obvious I like Logitech devices. Even my emergency mouse is a Logitech device. But there's a surprise coming for the trackball I use on my main machine.
I use a Microsoft Trackball Explorer! Yep, a Microsoft product! How's THAT for Microsoft bashing. But here's the catch. Microsoft discontinued the product. Once again, you have to head for eBay! The once-40 buck product, now fetches 75-200 dollars!
It's not quite so heavy as the TrackMan, but it's got decent heft. The ball is a big one, manipulated by the fingers. It can right and left button click with the thumb, and has a very good scroll wheel between those two thumb buttons. It also has two rarely-used buttons under my ring and little fingers.
About the worst thing I can say about the Trackball Explorer is that the software for setting it up runs close to 50Megs in size. I find that ridiculous, but it isn't like the Logitech mouse drivers are all that skinny either.
All in all, I heartily recommend trackballs. I hope you get lucky on eBay.
All together, I have four trackballs in current use. Two are Logitech TrackMan Wheel devices. You can find them around for about 30 bucks. They are small and use a thumb-manipulated ball to move the cursor. They have a wheel between the two buttons. One goes on the laptop computer, the other on my second desktop. That's the one I use to read documentation and do some background tasks. It has a 22-inch Dell monitor, running in portrait mode (1200x1600).
The TrackMan Wheel devices are small. Maybe too small. It makes for a great trackball for the laptop, easy to include in the paraphernalia that I shove in the laptop case. But the device feels a little flimsy and I have never really been happy with it on the desktop if I have to use it a lot. But it does have a scroll wheel, which is REAL IMPORTANT these days. And truly it takes up very little desktop real estate (I'm talking about the hardwood desktop, not the Windows desktop).
My bedroom computer is merely a web browsing, Pzizz-playing machine these days. It's an old computer, running Win2000 with not much else but Firefox, Pzizz and a connection to the rest of the network. Pzizz is a sleep aid program, and I use it for afternoon power naps. The trackball on this machine is an original Logitech TrackMan Marble. Of course, you can't buy it retail these days, although you CAN find it for about 30 bucks on eBay. It's huge, heavy and a joy to use. Big ball that can be moved around by fingers OR thumb. Lots of buttons ... but no scroll wheel. And in today's Firefox universe, that's a no-no! I'd use it for the doc-viewer machine in a heartbeat, if it had that scroll wheel.
It must be obvious I like Logitech devices. Even my emergency mouse is a Logitech device. But there's a surprise coming for the trackball I use on my main machine.
I use a Microsoft Trackball Explorer! Yep, a Microsoft product! How's THAT for Microsoft bashing. But here's the catch. Microsoft discontinued the product. Once again, you have to head for eBay! The once-40 buck product, now fetches 75-200 dollars!
It's not quite so heavy as the TrackMan, but it's got decent heft. The ball is a big one, manipulated by the fingers. It can right and left button click with the thumb, and has a very good scroll wheel between those two thumb buttons. It also has two rarely-used buttons under my ring and little fingers.
About the worst thing I can say about the Trackball Explorer is that the software for setting it up runs close to 50Megs in size. I find that ridiculous, but it isn't like the Logitech mouse drivers are all that skinny either.
All in all, I heartily recommend trackballs. I hope you get lucky on eBay.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
SOFTWARE: Let Me Add to THIS Rant
A site I check daily is Confessions of a Freeware Junkie. Maximillian doesn't post daily, just most days. He tries out new freeware and writes reviews. Mostly positive, allowing for readers like me to take advantage of his time spent reviewing to get good quality free software that does what it says it does.
Today, he went off on the freeware industry for the ubiquitous habit of installing specialized toolbars into your web browser. An option that is usually turned on by default. It's a good rant, with pictures and everything. He actually managed to load up his Internet Explorer with enough toolbars so that he couldn't see ANY web page at all! And he was still two short of seeing all the toolbars that were installed! (You can temporarily leave here and check his rant out. Come right back)
His rage is justified.
I run Firefox. So why would I want the Google Toolbar installed? Yet last night I was installing an update to IrfanView and had I NOT unchecked the box to install it, I would have had two different google search boxes on my screen. And Google Toolbar is one of the better toolbars out there. But it doesn't add a single thing to Firefox that isn't there or can be added without needing a space-taking toolbar.
MaxiMillian knows that the toolbar biz actually pays for a lot of today's freeware. Companies like Google pay to have the IrfanView's of the world include the installer as part of their free software installer, with the option to uncheck it available. That let's us continue to get good free software. How much Google pays the programmer of IrfanView is nobody's business, but it must be enough, since it, and a love of the project, has kept the programmer doing updates to the fabulous graphics viewer for years.
What MaxiMillian wants to know, is why the Google's of the world demand negative optioning? Why NOT let the programmer leave the box unchecked and ONLY have the the person installing make the decision to install it, rather than sleepily letting it install without thinking about it? Possibly, there should be an advertising page extolling the merits of the toolbar, with a big "CHECK HERE to install the latest and greatest software innovation since the discovery of the delete button!"
It's a question worth asking.
Today, he went off on the freeware industry for the ubiquitous habit of installing specialized toolbars into your web browser. An option that is usually turned on by default. It's a good rant, with pictures and everything. He actually managed to load up his Internet Explorer with enough toolbars so that he couldn't see ANY web page at all! And he was still two short of seeing all the toolbars that were installed! (You can temporarily leave here and check his rant out. Come right back)
His rage is justified.
I run Firefox. So why would I want the Google Toolbar installed? Yet last night I was installing an update to IrfanView and had I NOT unchecked the box to install it, I would have had two different google search boxes on my screen. And Google Toolbar is one of the better toolbars out there. But it doesn't add a single thing to Firefox that isn't there or can be added without needing a space-taking toolbar.
MaxiMillian knows that the toolbar biz actually pays for a lot of today's freeware. Companies like Google pay to have the IrfanView's of the world include the installer as part of their free software installer, with the option to uncheck it available. That let's us continue to get good free software. How much Google pays the programmer of IrfanView is nobody's business, but it must be enough, since it, and a love of the project, has kept the programmer doing updates to the fabulous graphics viewer for years.
What MaxiMillian wants to know, is why the Google's of the world demand negative optioning? Why NOT let the programmer leave the box unchecked and ONLY have the the person installing make the decision to install it, rather than sleepily letting it install without thinking about it? Possibly, there should be an advertising page extolling the merits of the toolbar, with a big "CHECK HERE to install the latest and greatest software innovation since the discovery of the delete button!"
It's a question worth asking.
SPORTS: The Inflection Point
"Inflection Point" was a term made popular by Andy Grove, the Intel CEO. As he defined it, I believe, it's the point where things change so much, you can't go back. The Doctor Who series on TV did a show called "Turn Left" and it was about what would have happened if a character had turned right, rather than left at a crucial point in history.
For the Toronto Blue Jays, the inflection point that took a season of promise and sent it careening downhill was the day GM J.P. Ricciardi signed David Eckstein.
There were some immediate results of the decision, even before the season got started. To rationalize the five million bucks Ricciardi had to pay Eckstein, a sacrifice had to be made elsewhere to get back under the team's budgetary constraints. Left-fielder Reed Johnson was sacrificed in favor of Shannon Stewart to pull back two million dollars, approximately, of the five now being spent on Eckstein.
And in doing so, Ricciardi doubly crippled the spirit of the team in ways only a number-cruncher could.
First, Eckstein made a bench-warmer out of the immensely popular John McDonald. Eckstein wasn't anywhere near the fielder Johnny Mac was, but he'd hit in the .300 neighbourhood and would supply some power, which was 'some' more than the powerless McDonald. Stewart would probably be the equal of Johnson in the average department, if not a little bit better. Would be worse in power and a LOT worse in defence. But he would share the position with Matt Stairs and they would both be keeping a spot warm for either Adam Lind or Travis Snider, set to later join Vernon Wells and Alex Rios in the Blue Jay outfield of the future.
Well, that was the plan. But a decidedly unfunny thing happened on the way to happily ever after for Ricciardi. Turns out stabbing McDonald in the back and shipping the just-as-popular Johnson out of town deadened the spirit of a team already devoid of leadership. Eckstein, along with Scott Rolen, were supposed to have replacement spirit. But it's hard to 'show' your new teammates spirit when you are hurt (Rolen, and later Eckstein) and underperforming (both). Funny how so many National League players struggle mightily on coming to the American League, or coming back, as in Eckstein's case.
It's the under-performing that hurt the most for an offensively-challenged team that couldn't afford anybody, let alone most of the starters, to under-perform. When Clarence Gaston came on board, it was time to earn your playing time. And Eckstein didn't. Neither did Stewart, notoriously fragile over most of this decade. Trading Johnson for fear of his injured back, to emplace Stewart, could only happen in a vacuum of common sense. It looked good in Roto though. Stewart is odds-on to never, ever play for Gaston, having disappeared into the hinterlands of the Injured Reserve List. He might very well be in the Witness Protection program.
The Eckstein signing and it's subsequent failure, ended up with two immediate victims. McDonald, who has battled puny hitting stats all of his career, just crumpled even further. A .220-ish hitter all of his career, McDonald, in sporadic playing time, has now fallen below the Mendoza Line. And his fielding, despite showing its lustre on occasion, has not been up to his own standards. That was patently obvious during his start on the weekend. It's hard to keep your concentration and spirits up, when you know spot-starting, where once you were a regular, is your lot in life.
It IS possible the Eckstein will be shipped out of town and that Gaston will use McDonald more often. I guess he's played about twice as often since the managerial switch as before. Maybe he can up that to playing MOST of the games at short over Marco Scutaro. Before the Eckstein signing, it was going to be McDonald as the regular, with Scutaro getting games and late-innings pinch-hitting opportunities aplenty. It would have probably been a pretty good tandem.
Certainly, if McDonald has any more games like he had Tuesday night, the chance of McDonald getting back what he earned last year is a lot better. McDonald was smooth afield, took a walk, hit a sacrifice fly and slugged a bases-clearing double to lead a Blue Jay comeback victory. Sure, Lind had the game-winning homer and a four-hit night. But it was McDonald that showed for one night at least, that he was the best Blue Jay option at shortstop.
On the field and at the bat!
NOTE: Johnny Mac became a first-time dad the day after the all-star game. No matter what happens from here on in, 2008 will have been a great year.
For the Toronto Blue Jays, the inflection point that took a season of promise and sent it careening downhill was the day GM J.P. Ricciardi signed David Eckstein.
There were some immediate results of the decision, even before the season got started. To rationalize the five million bucks Ricciardi had to pay Eckstein, a sacrifice had to be made elsewhere to get back under the team's budgetary constraints. Left-fielder Reed Johnson was sacrificed in favor of Shannon Stewart to pull back two million dollars, approximately, of the five now being spent on Eckstein.
And in doing so, Ricciardi doubly crippled the spirit of the team in ways only a number-cruncher could.
First, Eckstein made a bench-warmer out of the immensely popular John McDonald. Eckstein wasn't anywhere near the fielder Johnny Mac was, but he'd hit in the .300 neighbourhood and would supply some power, which was 'some' more than the powerless McDonald. Stewart would probably be the equal of Johnson in the average department, if not a little bit better. Would be worse in power and a LOT worse in defence. But he would share the position with Matt Stairs and they would both be keeping a spot warm for either Adam Lind or Travis Snider, set to later join Vernon Wells and Alex Rios in the Blue Jay outfield of the future.
Well, that was the plan. But a decidedly unfunny thing happened on the way to happily ever after for Ricciardi. Turns out stabbing McDonald in the back and shipping the just-as-popular Johnson out of town deadened the spirit of a team already devoid of leadership. Eckstein, along with Scott Rolen, were supposed to have replacement spirit. But it's hard to 'show' your new teammates spirit when you are hurt (Rolen, and later Eckstein) and underperforming (both). Funny how so many National League players struggle mightily on coming to the American League, or coming back, as in Eckstein's case.
It's the under-performing that hurt the most for an offensively-challenged team that couldn't afford anybody, let alone most of the starters, to under-perform. When Clarence Gaston came on board, it was time to earn your playing time. And Eckstein didn't. Neither did Stewart, notoriously fragile over most of this decade. Trading Johnson for fear of his injured back, to emplace Stewart, could only happen in a vacuum of common sense. It looked good in Roto though. Stewart is odds-on to never, ever play for Gaston, having disappeared into the hinterlands of the Injured Reserve List. He might very well be in the Witness Protection program.
The Eckstein signing and it's subsequent failure, ended up with two immediate victims. McDonald, who has battled puny hitting stats all of his career, just crumpled even further. A .220-ish hitter all of his career, McDonald, in sporadic playing time, has now fallen below the Mendoza Line. And his fielding, despite showing its lustre on occasion, has not been up to his own standards. That was patently obvious during his start on the weekend. It's hard to keep your concentration and spirits up, when you know spot-starting, where once you were a regular, is your lot in life.
It IS possible the Eckstein will be shipped out of town and that Gaston will use McDonald more often. I guess he's played about twice as often since the managerial switch as before. Maybe he can up that to playing MOST of the games at short over Marco Scutaro. Before the Eckstein signing, it was going to be McDonald as the regular, with Scutaro getting games and late-innings pinch-hitting opportunities aplenty. It would have probably been a pretty good tandem.
Certainly, if McDonald has any more games like he had Tuesday night, the chance of McDonald getting back what he earned last year is a lot better. McDonald was smooth afield, took a walk, hit a sacrifice fly and slugged a bases-clearing double to lead a Blue Jay comeback victory. Sure, Lind had the game-winning homer and a four-hit night. But it was McDonald that showed for one night at least, that he was the best Blue Jay option at shortstop.
On the field and at the bat!
NOTE: Johnny Mac became a first-time dad the day after the all-star game. No matter what happens from here on in, 2008 will have been a great year.
BOOKS: Heart of Valor - Tanya Huff
The inscription inside the front cover of my copy of Heart of Valor by Tanya Huff asks, "What is it about you and women with big guns?"
Nothing. As it happens, women with guns figure prominently on the cover of this book (But NOT the next one) in the Confederation series by Canadian-resident Huff, as well as The Blonde by Duane Swierczynski. In the Huff book, featured hero Torin Kerr is a Marine who's a woman. But fundamentally, she could be a man. Just Huff's choice. And The Blonde doesn't spend much time with a gun or dressed to kill. So I deny the charge that I am obsessed with women and big guns.
That out of the way, let me tell you that Heart of Valor is another romp through an exceedingly well-plotted out universe. Huff, who's work I find hit and miss (HIT-The Blood series, aka Vicky Nelson booksl; MISSES-Everything else), surprised me with this military series. It's a style David Weber and John Ringo have mined successfully--the marooned squad of military grunts just trying to stay alive, under the stewardship of a charismatic leader.
Kerr makes for an interesting Marine. She's preternaturally right, as all sergeants are. She's staved off an alien horde (Valor's Choice) and fought an alien spaceship to a standoff (Better Part of Valor) in earlier books. This time, both storylines come into play as she accompanies a recuperating major and a squad of almost-Marines to the training world of Crucible. Twenty days of learning the ropes there, and the almost-Marines will be full-fledged Marines. And the Major, along with his personal physician, will see if he's ready to come back to war. He'd been injured badly and had a body regrown, almost completely.
Trying to avoid endless questioning about her first adventure against the horde-like Silsviss, Kerr jumps at the chance to get away from HQ and babysit the Major, a rare CO worth the rank. It'll be a cakewalk, just like the honor guard was on the Silsviss' home planet and the bodyguard detail for a bunch of scientists investigating the alien spaceship, dubbed Big Yellow, was. Surviving those 'cakewalks' had gotten her promoted from Staff Sergeant to Gunnery Sergeant.
Not shockingly, this one goes south in a hurry too. In fact, Big Yellow plays a part again, making life difficult. Compound that with an apparent attempt by the Others (the alien threat that forces the Confederation to have a Marine corps) and Kerr's lucky to escape with most of her team and her hide intact. Hey, there's a fourth book in the series up next, so it's no surprise Huff doesn't kill off her series star.
There's a B Plot in this book. Kerr's boyfriend Craig Ryder and obnoxious journalist Presit track down the story of the century. Based on guesses made by Kerr and substantiated to a degree by facts dug up by Ryder and Presit, it appears Humanity might have been manipulated by the leaders of the Confederation, the so-called Elder Races. How else would knowledge of the escape pod from Big Yellow be completely obliterated, except for Kerr, Craig and Presit? How indeed? The answer isn't as easy as Kerr initially thinks, although it will cause a spasm across the whole Confederation.
Things DO wrap up quite nicely for the upcoming Trial of Valor. I am looking forward to yet another Huff hit.
Nothing. As it happens, women with guns figure prominently on the cover of this book (But NOT the next one) in the Confederation series by Canadian-resident Huff, as well as The Blonde by Duane Swierczynski. In the Huff book, featured hero Torin Kerr is a Marine who's a woman. But fundamentally, she could be a man. Just Huff's choice. And The Blonde doesn't spend much time with a gun or dressed to kill. So I deny the charge that I am obsessed with women and big guns.
That out of the way, let me tell you that Heart of Valor is another romp through an exceedingly well-plotted out universe. Huff, who's work I find hit and miss (HIT-The Blood series, aka Vicky Nelson booksl; MISSES-Everything else), surprised me with this military series. It's a style David Weber and John Ringo have mined successfully--the marooned squad of military grunts just trying to stay alive, under the stewardship of a charismatic leader.
Kerr makes for an interesting Marine. She's preternaturally right, as all sergeants are. She's staved off an alien horde (Valor's Choice) and fought an alien spaceship to a standoff (Better Part of Valor) in earlier books. This time, both storylines come into play as she accompanies a recuperating major and a squad of almost-Marines to the training world of Crucible. Twenty days of learning the ropes there, and the almost-Marines will be full-fledged Marines. And the Major, along with his personal physician, will see if he's ready to come back to war. He'd been injured badly and had a body regrown, almost completely.
Trying to avoid endless questioning about her first adventure against the horde-like Silsviss, Kerr jumps at the chance to get away from HQ and babysit the Major, a rare CO worth the rank. It'll be a cakewalk, just like the honor guard was on the Silsviss' home planet and the bodyguard detail for a bunch of scientists investigating the alien spaceship, dubbed Big Yellow, was. Surviving those 'cakewalks' had gotten her promoted from Staff Sergeant to Gunnery Sergeant.
Not shockingly, this one goes south in a hurry too. In fact, Big Yellow plays a part again, making life difficult. Compound that with an apparent attempt by the Others (the alien threat that forces the Confederation to have a Marine corps) and Kerr's lucky to escape with most of her team and her hide intact. Hey, there's a fourth book in the series up next, so it's no surprise Huff doesn't kill off her series star.
There's a B Plot in this book. Kerr's boyfriend Craig Ryder and obnoxious journalist Presit track down the story of the century. Based on guesses made by Kerr and substantiated to a degree by facts dug up by Ryder and Presit, it appears Humanity might have been manipulated by the leaders of the Confederation, the so-called Elder Races. How else would knowledge of the escape pod from Big Yellow be completely obliterated, except for Kerr, Craig and Presit? How indeed? The answer isn't as easy as Kerr initially thinks, although it will cause a spasm across the whole Confederation.
Things DO wrap up quite nicely for the upcoming Trial of Valor. I am looking forward to yet another Huff hit.
Monday, July 21, 2008
SPORTS: MLB Needs World-Wide Draft
Gord Ash, the best of the last two GMs of the Toronto Blue Jays, has been stumping for a world-wide draft for major league baseball. And he's right.
It's not like there isn't a desire on the part to cut down on the monied clubs' ability to throw huge sums at itinerant youngsters fresh off the sandlots of Latin America. The fact that it helps them maintain their advantage is hardly news. And it would be nice not to have to pay the Michal Inoa's of the world millions of dollars and hope it pays off six or seven or more years down the road, as Oakland just did recently. And lastly, it would be nice if those players arrived speaking English, well-nourished and understanding of MLB's steroids policy.
And it would also be nice if those kids weren't turning over 30 percent (or more) of their signing bonuses to the wolves in friend's clothing that 'find' them for various MLB clubs. Or have their bonuses skimmed by MLB personnel, as has been alleged to have happened at, at least two different organizations. Maybe more.
So, it's time to get serious about foreign talent.
Okay, the basics of the world-wide draft are simple. You must register to be drafted, wherever in the world you are. You can start registering on your 17th birthday and stay on the list until age 23. You can register any time until age 23. For players playing for a recognized country's major baseball league, (primarily Cuba and Japan), you can register at any age for a one-year stay on the registered list, assuming you have NO contractual requirements in that country. Recognized countries are those that participate in the World Baseball Championships. Going undrafted throughout the COMPLETE duration of the registration period results in the player becoming a free agent.
That out of the way, it's time to get the MLB hands dirty. MLB has to open academies in all prospect-producing countries. These academies effectively become schools. Education, with an emphasis on learning English, in non-English-speaking countries, has to become part of the day. Tutoring on the fine art of baseball also needs to be paired with eduction on health and nutrition. Teaching what can and cannot be done in the future, needs to be started young. Getting rid of the influence of the good and bad 'talent scouts' would be worth millions of dollars. Judging the talent in the academy for a couple of years would lessen the ability of some nasty piece of business stashing a kid for a particular club. By making academy participation mandatory for being drafted in ages 17 and 18, means a stashed kid stays penniless for two years. That would be hard to pull off.
Of course, there are ways to profit from teaching a potential great at an academy. You could con your way into a percentage of future earnings. The rule to stop that is that any agreement made by an academy member with somebody connected to the academy, while AT the academy, is illegal. Also, keeping a kids' potential hidden for a certain club means any employee of the academy is prevented from accepting a major league job for three years after leaving an academy position. And no academy employee will ever be granted status as an agent. Ever. If you leave the academy to come back to the States, then it's college ball, high school ball or the independent leagues. For three years. And you never, ever work for a percentage. Ever.
In places like the Dominican, Venezuela and Nicaragua, there are probably academies from all 30 major league teams. They have to be combined under the umbrella of MLB and made universally accessible for all clubs. The MLB teams will still send scouts. You might like the big power-hitting outfielder, while I prefer the lefty pitcher with the killer curve-ball. Seeing is believing. At least they'll be watching 17-year olds rather than looking a 14-year old and trying to project seven years into the future. If you are the A's, Rays or Jays, making that prediction is the difference between winning and losing two decades down the line. If you're the Yanks, Bosox or the Angels, you throw money at the kid, knowing you only have to get lucky once a decade to maintain your spot atop the standings. Afterall, you are buying ten kids for every one that makes it. It's only money.
This plan would raise the level of kids playing ball all over the world. I'm not just saying it would raise talent levels. It would also raise the standard of living for a lot of them. That cannot be a bad thing. It would help them with the upcoming struggle that moving far, far away will create for them. And, if nothing else, as hockey has proved, there is no corner of the world so remote as to produce unwatched talent. Heck, hockey scouts and baseball scouts are now sharing airplane trips to the remotest regions of Siberia, to scout talent.
The two main problems with this whole concept is paying for it and the balkiness of the Players' Association. Lay off imposing a salary cap for one more contract, and the PA will sell out their future members with no difficulty. Cap's coming, just not in this next contract. Paying for the scheme will not be an inconsequential problem. The big money clubs will fight tooth and nail against communal pay, since it will wipe out their talent pipeline advantage. Oddly, it will save them money. But power is never given up easily. Possibly a basic commitment for each club will be augmented by a pay for each selection made from the academies. A plan can be worked out.
And no, Japan will not be a problem, despite losing the current operation that allows for big posting fees from the rich teams in big cities. They'll be outlawed. And the Japanese will come up with another solution. The player they want to post can register, having become a free agent. It's up to them to bid enough for a multi-year contract with the player to have him turn away from the offer he's getting from the team that drafted him. Then, they can post him the next year. Seems good for the player financially. And being a free agent that one year, he might just spurn staying in Japan and come over right there and then.
All in all, the MLB entry draft can be made world-wide. Then, it will go further along the path towards leveling the talent that the draft was designed to do in the first place. With fewer ways around the draft, the big money clubs will be forced into better management, since throwing money at hordes of Latinos will no longer serve as cushion for mistakes.
It's not like there isn't a desire on the part to cut down on the monied clubs' ability to throw huge sums at itinerant youngsters fresh off the sandlots of Latin America. The fact that it helps them maintain their advantage is hardly news. And it would be nice not to have to pay the Michal Inoa's of the world millions of dollars and hope it pays off six or seven or more years down the road, as Oakland just did recently. And lastly, it would be nice if those players arrived speaking English, well-nourished and understanding of MLB's steroids policy.
And it would also be nice if those kids weren't turning over 30 percent (or more) of their signing bonuses to the wolves in friend's clothing that 'find' them for various MLB clubs. Or have their bonuses skimmed by MLB personnel, as has been alleged to have happened at, at least two different organizations. Maybe more.
So, it's time to get serious about foreign talent.
Okay, the basics of the world-wide draft are simple. You must register to be drafted, wherever in the world you are. You can start registering on your 17th birthday and stay on the list until age 23. You can register any time until age 23. For players playing for a recognized country's major baseball league, (primarily Cuba and Japan), you can register at any age for a one-year stay on the registered list, assuming you have NO contractual requirements in that country. Recognized countries are those that participate in the World Baseball Championships. Going undrafted throughout the COMPLETE duration of the registration period results in the player becoming a free agent.
That out of the way, it's time to get the MLB hands dirty. MLB has to open academies in all prospect-producing countries. These academies effectively become schools. Education, with an emphasis on learning English, in non-English-speaking countries, has to become part of the day. Tutoring on the fine art of baseball also needs to be paired with eduction on health and nutrition. Teaching what can and cannot be done in the future, needs to be started young. Getting rid of the influence of the good and bad 'talent scouts' would be worth millions of dollars. Judging the talent in the academy for a couple of years would lessen the ability of some nasty piece of business stashing a kid for a particular club. By making academy participation mandatory for being drafted in ages 17 and 18, means a stashed kid stays penniless for two years. That would be hard to pull off.
Of course, there are ways to profit from teaching a potential great at an academy. You could con your way into a percentage of future earnings. The rule to stop that is that any agreement made by an academy member with somebody connected to the academy, while AT the academy, is illegal. Also, keeping a kids' potential hidden for a certain club means any employee of the academy is prevented from accepting a major league job for three years after leaving an academy position. And no academy employee will ever be granted status as an agent. Ever. If you leave the academy to come back to the States, then it's college ball, high school ball or the independent leagues. For three years. And you never, ever work for a percentage. Ever.
In places like the Dominican, Venezuela and Nicaragua, there are probably academies from all 30 major league teams. They have to be combined under the umbrella of MLB and made universally accessible for all clubs. The MLB teams will still send scouts. You might like the big power-hitting outfielder, while I prefer the lefty pitcher with the killer curve-ball. Seeing is believing. At least they'll be watching 17-year olds rather than looking a 14-year old and trying to project seven years into the future. If you are the A's, Rays or Jays, making that prediction is the difference between winning and losing two decades down the line. If you're the Yanks, Bosox or the Angels, you throw money at the kid, knowing you only have to get lucky once a decade to maintain your spot atop the standings. Afterall, you are buying ten kids for every one that makes it. It's only money.
This plan would raise the level of kids playing ball all over the world. I'm not just saying it would raise talent levels. It would also raise the standard of living for a lot of them. That cannot be a bad thing. It would help them with the upcoming struggle that moving far, far away will create for them. And, if nothing else, as hockey has proved, there is no corner of the world so remote as to produce unwatched talent. Heck, hockey scouts and baseball scouts are now sharing airplane trips to the remotest regions of Siberia, to scout talent.
The two main problems with this whole concept is paying for it and the balkiness of the Players' Association. Lay off imposing a salary cap for one more contract, and the PA will sell out their future members with no difficulty. Cap's coming, just not in this next contract. Paying for the scheme will not be an inconsequential problem. The big money clubs will fight tooth and nail against communal pay, since it will wipe out their talent pipeline advantage. Oddly, it will save them money. But power is never given up easily. Possibly a basic commitment for each club will be augmented by a pay for each selection made from the academies. A plan can be worked out.
And no, Japan will not be a problem, despite losing the current operation that allows for big posting fees from the rich teams in big cities. They'll be outlawed. And the Japanese will come up with another solution. The player they want to post can register, having become a free agent. It's up to them to bid enough for a multi-year contract with the player to have him turn away from the offer he's getting from the team that drafted him. Then, they can post him the next year. Seems good for the player financially. And being a free agent that one year, he might just spurn staying in Japan and come over right there and then.
All in all, the MLB entry draft can be made world-wide. Then, it will go further along the path towards leveling the talent that the draft was designed to do in the first place. With fewer ways around the draft, the big money clubs will be forced into better management, since throwing money at hordes of Latinos will no longer serve as cushion for mistakes.
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