UWTB

 

Salo, Rumfoord’s crony on Titan, was a messenger from another galaxy who was forced down on Titan by the failure of a part in his space ship’s power plant. He was waiting for a replacement part.

 

He had been waiting patiently for two hundred thousand years.

 

His ship was powered, and the Martian war effort was powered, by a phenomenon known as UWTB, or the Universal Will to Become. UWTB is what makes universes out of nothingness – that makes nothingness insist on becoming somethingness.

 

Many Earthlings are glad that Earth does not have UWTB.

 

As the popular doggerel has it:

 

Will found some Universal Will to Become,

Mixed it with his bubble gum.

Cosmic piddling seldom pays:

Poor Willy’s six new Milky Ways.

 

   - The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut (page 138 of my Dell paperback)

 

I am enjoying Vonnegut, as I have the couple of times I’ve read him in the past. However, with this novel I’m detecting a small but significant undercurrent of creeping leftism. Now, I’m not a Vonnegutian scholar or anything like that, not even a proper fan, having only read a couple of his books. But there’s this vague odor of condescension or derision in his work, particularly when addressing religion. I don’t recall sensing it previously, though the last time I read him was in the late 90s and my radar wasn’t attuned to that frequency.

 

But it does subtract a little bit from the pleasure of reading his prose. He’s a genuinely funny guy, a brilliant writer, an excellent storyteller than keeps the reader consistently guessing what will happen when the page turns. Despite his leftish pet peeves, I’ll still give The Sirens of Titan an A-minus. The book I read prior to this one, Slaughterhouse-Five, I like a little better, so I’ll grant that full A status. And I’ll still seek out his novels in the future, shall my paths cross with theirs.

 

The best image that comes to mind is that the novels of Kurt Vonnegut (at least Cat’s Cradle, Hocus Pocus, Slaughterhouse-Five and The Sirens of Titan) are kinda like a more high-brow Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Though “high-brow” might not be the best adjective. Think of the comparison with Vonnegut and Hitchhiker more like Obama-era SNL versus Clinton-era SNL. I think that might be a more accurate analogy.

 

Anyway, I have a very ambitious and exciting reading project for October which I’ll post about later this week.

 

Oh, and September – you were an OK month. No, better than average. But, please, can you tell October to lower the thermostat down here? Thanks.

Average or Awesome?

 

So I got this from management where I work:

  

It’s a candle. I must admit when I first took it out of the bag I thought it read, “Thank You For Being Average”!

 

😊

 

If I really was “awesome,” though, wouldn’t they give me a raise, like a two-percent increase? Or maybe a one-time $500 bonus? Or even a $25 gift card, maybe every now and then when I do something “awesome”?

 

Not to be bitter, though, the company does give us a lot of perks. Wednesday they catered for the entire Finance Department (about 200 of us), and I feasted on barbecue brisket, turkey, cheese macs, and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. They also raffled off a ton of swag, but I didn’t win anything. I did win a fleece hoodie two years ago that I gave to Little One. Last year they gave us all t-shirts that, honestly, are pretty decent. I still wear mine 2-3 times a month.

 

A little work humor to end the week …

 

Vonnegutia

 

“Also, Barbara and her husband were having to look after Billy’s business interests, which were considerable, since Billy didn’t seem to give a damn for business any more. All this responsibility at such an early age made her a bitchy flibbertigibbet … “Don’t lie to me, Father,” said Barbara. “I know perfectly well you heard me when I called.” This was a fairly pretty girl, except that she had legs like an Edwardian grand piano.

   - Slaughterhouse Five, pages 28-29 of my Dell paperback

 

Billy Pilgrim says that the Universe does not look like a lot of bright little dots to the creatures from Tralfamadore. The creatures can see where each star has been and where it is going, so that the heavens are filled with rarified, luminous spaghetti. And Tralfamadorians don’t see human beings as two-legged creatures, either. They see them as great millipedes – “with babies’ legs at one end and old people’s legs at the other,” says Billy Pilgrim.

   - same, page 87.

 

Forgot how much I enjoy reading Kurt Vonnegut. Read two of his books in the 80s as a high schooler and two others in the 90s as a single lad in a bachelor pad. Always an interesting read, and, as the excerpts above point out (at least to me), every paragraph a small gem of something quite humorous or something that makes me nod and pet my beard saying, “Wow … that’s unexpectedly deep.”

Currently reading Slaughterhouse Five with The Sirens of Titan in the On-Deck Circle.

 

Another Trip Round the Sun

 

 

Is done.

 

My birthday was this past Tuesday, but we celebrated on Saturday night. And it was everything I wanted at this stage in my life: Family, doing family things together. I find myself desiring that more and more as my wife and children get involved more and more in their own lives separate from the family, sometimes in separate locations as Little One, living 45 minutes away at school.

 

The girls custom-make me a big birthday dinner every year. Since we alternate and last year was homemade lasagna, this year was the old juicy steak, potatoes and asparagus combo. Three of my favorites, and each lady handled a different part of the meal. And it was delicious. I washed it all down with my favorite N/A craft beer, Free Wave by Athletic Brewing Company and was pleasantly stuffed.

 

Afterwards we sat down together and watched a heartwarming family film, A Quiet Place: Day One. Just kidding. It was suspenseful and violent with a touch of gore, but Little One and Patch are big fans of the Quiet Place franchise. I thought the movie was okay after the first watch, but on reflection a lot of it doesn’t work and it’s probably the weakest of the trilogy by far. We took a break midway through for a dessert of fruit tarts.

 

I opened my gifts, embarrassed as always by the profusion of love and good will. Little One bought me a spiced pumpkin Yankee candle (my favorite fall scent if it ever decides to drop below 90 degrees down here). She also got me a book that hadn’t arrived yet; she said she thought it was titled “What did you do Dad” or something like that. Each page has a prompt for me to write something about, er, me. Kinda like this blog, I suppose, but handwritten.

 

Patch bought me a giant sombrero that I can wear while mowing the lawn. Yes, we all laughed, but yes, also, men do wear them down here while doing yardwork. Texas sun is strong. Sometime over the summer Patch and I were driving somewhere and I noticed a sombrero-clad mowerman, and loudly announced “that’s exactly what I need!” And lo and behold, she made a note of it on her phone and now I have a sombrero to wear. Pics to follow, maybe.

 

She also picked up two albums for me – Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 in Dm and Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 3 in Dm. I dunno, must’ve been a D-minor day at the record store. Anyway, both worthy editions to my growing collection, both compositions by composers who I do not have. My collection is now up to 41 albums in just under two years, and Patch alone has gifted me 11 of them.

 

The Mrs. bought me three books on the Next Step in My Career. Rather, the Next Step in Finding a New Career. They say (don’t remember who “they” are) that the average American wage slave has seven career changes in his life. By my count I’ve had three. But I’ve been doing payroll accounting for 22 years now and my God is it ever time for a change. Hopefully these three books can help me un-stick myself from my stuckness in figuring out what the heck to do next.

 

She also bought me a box of “high-end chocolates” – a dozen truffles of dark chocolate from the Swiss company Laderach. Which is kind of funny, if you combine this with those three books. I’ve been joking for a while that I’m ready to chuck the spreadsheets and calculators and go after my dream of becoming a revolutionary chocalatier.

 

Who knows? Maybe this time next year, after yet another trip ’round the sun, I’ll be trading in that sombrero for a chef’s hat …

 

Hopper's Cave

 

Where I sit, busily overwhelmed in the occupation of earning a few extra shillings to satisfy the increasing costs of the rents and groceries. The corporation which employs me has seen fit a week ago to terminate the employment of my “partner,” who was quite discontent with the position, responsibilities, and workload, and in this case the “squeaky wheel” did not get greased; it got replaced.

 

Hence the dearth of posts of late. I anticipate more in the week to follow after a quite busy “birthday” weekend coming up – both of myself as well as my youngest daughter. In two weeks my oldest enters her third decade (she turns twenty) and there will be more celebration, though more muted as she’s technically away at college. September is the month we’re officially broke due to all these festivities. However, that “squeaky wheel” has provided me with the opportunity to earn a few more coins as extra responsibilities and workloads and an expanded position have fallen in my lap.

 

Oh well. Birthday recaps to follow later in the week.

 

Carry on.

 

Klaus

 

After the rush to flee Globe Life Stadium with the stink of defeat upon us (the Yankees lost in humiliating fashion to the Texas Rangers), we managed to get out of the stadium parking lot ahead of the vast majority of hometown fans, still celebrating wildly. My wife was driving as she’s naturally more adept for situations like this, her career having her negotiate New York City, Washington DC, and now Dallas city streets on a near-daily basis. We quickly found ourselves on the highway heading home, around 10:15 pm, a 45-minute drive from Arlington.

Anyway, to entertain the Mrs., I monitored the Yanks’ twitter account and some fan blogsites reading aloud comments and commentary on the night’s debacle. To be honest, it was really quite funny. New York fans are the best and come up with some of the choicest one-liners. Most, however, were vulgar and I can’t really post them here. Regardless, we were chuckling and the shock of the night wore off as my wife turned off the main highway and drove the few streets before turning onto our block.

And there was Klaus in the middle of the road!

Klaus is the large Doberman who lives in the house diagonally behind us. He’s the size of a small pony and has a thunderous bark that often keeps us up at night, especially if he’s out in his yard chasing bunnies. He has a companion, an ancient bulldog named Champ, built like a fire hydrant made out of concrete. Though they’re both intimidating on first sight, they are sweet animals. Klaus is spastic and full of energy, about seven or eight years old, and Champ meanders along like a tank. I know this because I have met them several times. My youngest daughter Patch walks them every now and then for $15 an hour, and she always brings them by when she does. These dogs are the epitome of “bark-worse-than-bite.”

 

Patch and Klaus

 

My wife slammed on the brakes a few feet away from Klaus. Because I knew this dog, I rolled down the window and called his name over and over. We realized he was off the leash, escaped from his yard and wandering the neighborhood. Klaus heard me and paused, but by the time I got my shoes on and jumped out of the car he bounded down the alley behind my house.

I ran after him calling his name. Not sure what I’d do, since he was collarless. But perhaps I could re-assure him, pet him, calm him down, and maybe Patch could call his owner or even walk him back to the yard herself. I was halfway down the alleyway when Klaus stopped. Turned. And began growling at me, a low, menacing rumbling from his big chest.

Uh-oh.

I backed up as he advanced on me, slowly then more focused. Something had made him upset, very upset, and he obviously did not recognize me in the dark. I retreated up my driveway. I knew I couldn’t outrun him, and the only defense I could see was my giant recycling bin. Could I hide behind it? Could I throw it at him? These thoughts raced through my head as Klaus advanced up my drive. This all happened in something like ten seconds.

The Mrs., still in the car in the street facing the alleyway, illuminating the area with her headlights, fortunately hit the garage door opener at this moment. Klaus halted, spooked by the sudden noise of the door rumbling up and the new light from our garage shining in his eyes. I trotted inside the garage where there would be more items I could defend myself with – fold-up chairs, a broom, a weed whacker, even. But with all this new stimuli the dog turned on its heels and raced down the alley into the darkness.

Patch came out at this time, calling Klaus sweetly, with no luck. The wife pulled into the garage and we debated a course of action. Patch texted Klaus’s owner with no answer. She was confident that Klaus wouldn’t hurt her. In fairness, she has spent about a hundred times more, uh, time with him than I have. But I didn’t want her to go by herself. So for a half-hour we walked the neighborhood, calling his name, attuned for any motion or any barking. Nothing. All was silent and the only thing on the move were the foraging rabbits. Eventually we got in my car and slowly drove down to the ponds and a few further streets, again luckless.

We turned in for the night around midnight. Then – the owner texted Patch back! Klaus did, in fact, escape the yard when the woman got home from her job and let the dogs out. But he returned and she let him back in the yard before reading her texts and not seeing or hearing us looking for Klaus.

Lesson learned: Never, ever, ever approach a strange dog. And unless you’ve scratched his belly, all dogs are strangers.

 

Rangers 7, Yankees 4

 

The same company that sent my wife and me down to the ice to see the Dallas Stars for the first game of the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs gifted us with tickets to see the Texas Rangers take on the New York Yankees. The account exec over there is well aware my wife is a huuuuge Yankee fan and came through on his promise to send us to see Aaron Judge and his teammates the next time they came down to Arlington.

 

As a transplanted New Jerseyite, I’m not a big fan of the Texas Rangers. In fact, I’m not a fan at all, really. We’ve been down here three years and this was our fourth trip to Globe Life Field. I did watch some of the playoffs last year when the Rangers knocked out the despised rival Houston Astros, and I think I watched the last game of the World Series where they defeated the Diamondbacks to win their first World Series title.

 

I’m also not a big fan of Globe Life field. In fact, I kinda hate it. Picture a humongous Abe Lincoln hat, then bury it in the ground. That’s the stadium. It’s a giant cylinder two hundred feet below ground level. It has a retractable roof that’s square in size which makes the ceiling look weirdly disproportionate. Its sort of like the architectural style of “brutalism” applied to a sports stadium. Around the rim, street level, are dozens and dozens of fast food, beer, and memorabilia stands, interspersed with elevators and bathrooms. It’s like a mall and a steampipe factory had a baby.

 

Also, since the roof has always been closed the four times I’ve been there, the stadium is a great big echo chamber. After every pitch the sound system blasts out excessively decibeled distorted music that, after the third inning, reminded me of why I hated the club life I was forced to participate in during my twenties by the simple fact of having friends. But I go to these games because the Mrs. is a dedicated Yankees fan, and she doesn’t get enough Yankees down here just north of Dallas.

 

My head pounded for another reason, late in the game. For this game will forever be known as the Great Yankee Clay Holmes Implosion.

 

The author and his wife during better times, 

i.e, the third inning

The first half of the game went quickly. Lots of three up three downs. A pitchers duel. Yankees pitcher Carlos Rodon was striking out a lot of batters. Yeah, he did give up a solo home run in the bottom of the fourth, but other than that the teams were equally matched in performance. Our seats were good, about twenty rows deep just off the right of home plate. Lots of foul balls came out way, the closest only seven seats down from us.

 

Then the Yanks got some runners on base in the seventh and eighth and scored two runs each inning. The momentum was clearly on their side. The crowd – which comprised, I estimated, of about 30 percent Yankee fans and I spotted at least forty or fifty 99 jerseys – the crowd began chanting “Let’s Go Yan-Kees” and cheered them on. Texas fans surrounding us seemed depressed, that is, those that were not drunk or on the way there.

 

Then, with the Yankee relievers entering the game, and peppered by an error and defensive miscue, the Rangers put two runs on the board in the bottom of the eighth. Going into the final inning, the Yanks held a 4-3 lead, and, little did I know, being used to more dominant Yankees from my time up north, this was thin ice territory for Aaron Boone and his team.

 

And they lived up to it – er, down to it – in spectacular fashion. Relief pitcher Clay Holmes, who makes $6 million this year from what I scanned online, came in as the closer. And immediately loaded the bases, throwing pitches into the dirt, out of the strike zone, and, for the last batter he faced, right down the middle, to be hit out of the park for a walk off grand slam.

 

The crowd was on its feet as one. The volume was ear-shattering. The celebration seemed worthy of a second franchise World Series win. We slunked out of our seats and bolted up the stairs amidst Rangers fans hugging, taking selfies, and breaking out into group pockets of orgiastic cheering. Up on the ground level we scooted out with several hundred Yankees fans, sideswept by departing Rangers revelers, and left the stadium in record time. The Mrs. wouldn’t even allow me a trip to the rest room, that’s how fast she wanted out of there.

 

I sensed this was historic. I haven’t been following the Yanks or any MLB baseball this year (really since the league went woke around 2019 or so), but on the drive home we checked out the fan response on Yankees twitter and on the fan site Pinstripe Alley, and had a lot of belly laughs. I am now somewhat up to speed on the fiasco that is Clay Holmes, the erratic mismanagement of manager Aaron Boone, and see now why the Yankees organization can’t give Aaron Judge a ring to cement him as one of the all-time greats. It seems this is the eleventh blown save of Holmes this year, and the record of 14 is well within his reach as Boone doesn’t seem willing to bench him.

And then I was almost cornered and bit by a Doberman! But that’s a story for later this week …