"Cemetery Row"

I'll be playing the part of 'Drew' in a reading of Karen Wurl's new play Cemetery Row. The reading is on Tuesday, November 4th at 6:30 PM at the Whole Art's Studio space in Kalamazoo. 246 N. Kalamazoo Mall, if you happen to see this beforehand. All are welcome.

In preparing for the reading, I ended up writing a bit of something from the perspective of the character as I see him. What came out was almost a short story unto itself, albeit an extremely vague one. Here it is:

I like the feeling that I get when I give Lauren Mix CD’s. It makes me feel a little bit closer to her in some ways, I think. Sometimes I wonder if…well, no. That couldn’t - no. Just, never mind. I like to make them for her.

I wish she wouldn’t bring up these guys that keep showing up dead. It reminds me of, uh, of Lisa. She wasn’t there. Lauren wasn’t, I mean. People die, okay? That’s just it. People die. Stop talking about it. Please.

I get just a little bit hard when Lauren plays. She’s so fucking hot on stage, you know? You know. The way she sweats a little I almost think she’s nervous - which is stupid because she’s so damn original - but it doesn’t show. That makes it more hot. Hotter? Attractive hot, not heat hot.

The record store? I like it, yeah. I mean, I know it’s kind of geeky/trendy to be me at that store. I realize that, but there must be a reason Stan hired me. I guess I know more about some of the lesser-known acts then a lot of people. And then there are acts that really ought to be known, but no one knows them, so they don’t get big, but if they got big then maybe it’d go to their heads, so maybe it’s good that only I know them. I really wish people would just take the time to find their own new music, though. Instead of coming in all the time and asking me just because I know “the weird stuff.” And it’s like, “listen, buddy, if you find it for yourself, then it’s new. If I tell you about it, it’s recycled. It’s using my talent and ear for music to avoid developing one of your own, so just get the fuck out alright?”

“Nice guys finish last” they say. How about “emotionally off-balance guys whose girlfriend blows her brains out on the front step finish last and then get fucked repeatedly in the ass by creepy townies from other small towns.”? No one ever says that. But it’s true.

And he’s probably not even from that town. Not only is he a townie, he’s an out-of-townie. And not only that, but he’s a fake out-of-townie. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never met anyone from north of here that didn’t have at least a trace of that ridiculous accent. And so, uh…put together, too. He’s got a word to say about everything. Everything. Who the fuck from Superior, Wisconsin knows about Neutral Milk Hotel? Hell, I only know them because I found their album in a fucking box in the back of the fucking store! Do they even have record stores in Superior?

How can she possibly feel a connection to that? He’s not from here, he doesn’t know a single thing about her. I know her. I fucking know her. He just…found her.

**Interruption**

Oh-kay, so. Guess who was right? That creepo is not from ANYWHERE in Wisconsin, and he is not called Josh. By anyone. Lauren is going to be so disappointed. Well, serves her right for falling for him if she was even that stupid. That’s mean. She’s not stupid. And I understand the attraction, I guess. He’s, or rather his character is a pretty nice guy. I can admit that, really I can. But he played her. I would never do that, ever. That…that could destroy a girl. I wish I could have seen this sooner. Like before “Josh” came in and swept her off her feet or whatever. I felt something off about him from the beginning, I just didn’t think anything of it until…well, until her phone was off the other night. There’s only one reason she’d turn her phone off. I know that reason. And I know that look on her face.

God dammit she is going to freak. I wish I could find some way to tell her without coming across like - like I would come across if I said: “Oh by the way your new boyfriend is either a heinously method up-and-coming indie actor named Matt Mulvane, or he’s a cheap lying prick named Matt Mulvane, or he’s a psycho named - can you guess? - Matt fucking Mulvane! In fact, look at that, there’s no question: he’s all three. By the way here’s a new CD.”? I mean, I’m positive not even a whole box of mix CD’s would be enough to cheer her up after that.

Guess who I just - you’ll never guess who I just ran into. Fucking Emily Miller Martin. I was on my way home last night and I saw her across the street. I was like, “Is that -? No. Holy shit, it is.” And, whatever, so I kind of followed her a little bit and pulled that “you look awfully familiar” routine so she wouldn’t think I was some sort of stalker, and we got to talking about a certain film project with a certain up-and-coming indie actor named - uh-oh! - MATT MULVANE. And guess who “Josh Mueller” is? Or what he is, anyway.

So I’ve got a plan, and maybe meeting Emily Miller Martin will take the edge off Lauren finding out that her Josh is not hers, and not Josh. Yeah. He’s Emily’s fucking boyfriend. I just hope that…yeah, never mind. I hope this works.

**Interruption**

Fuck.
Fuck, I…
Fuck.

Variable Star

Over at the Robert A. Heinlein society webpage I came upon a lengthy conversation about the Heinlein/Spider Robinson novel Variable Star. (Unfamiliar with the story here? Correct that.)

I expected to find there a healthy range of sentiments. I did not. On the reader-review-O-meter, the highest esteem I could hunt down in the thread might measure as high as "slightly tepid" or even "lukewarm." The first and most scathing comment of the bunch is so replete with negativity that my scale can't even measure it.

What the hell?

I can understand the high hopes of a die-hard Heinlein fan, of anyone who catches wind of newly discovered material from a favorite, long-dead artist. I also understand just how high those hopes can get, and how rarely they are ever met by the material. The memories of prior experience with an artist are often so vivid, so emotional, and above all so far removed from the actual work that anything 'new' from them cannot surpass or even meet expectations. The only thing better than the best book you've ever read is the quality of your memory of reading it.

Which is why these folks seem so disappointed by Variable Star. It is unfair to ask Spider Robinson to meet these unrealistic expectations. His burden was huge, however gladly he accepted it. Who are we to ask perfection of him? I came to the novel excited, with an open mind. I was not disappointed.

Even if, and this is a big if, someone could do a better job than Mr. Robinson did, they certainly haven't been born yet. I love Variable Star, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

So consider this my public hope that there are more out there who share my opinion than there are those who don't.

Brain emulation

In response to a forum post over at www.freeinfosociety.com which read "do you think it will be possible to emulate a person's brain in the future?..." I wrote:

I apologize for the length here. I've been waiting a while to have a conversation like this, so here are my pent-up thoughts on the whole business.

We already can emulate the Brain in terms of storing and recalling information. Performing calculations, too. That's what computers do. The Mind, well, that's different. The key to developing A.I. does not simply lie in development of a binary computer system complex enough to support a consciousness. Speed isn't an issue either. Which is not to say that our current systems are as fast as the human brain, but that all we need to do on that front is bide our time. Computers today would choke and stall on the hilariously inadequate processing power of even the most top-of-the-line PC from twenty years ago. Hell, the systems that helped American astronauts to orbit and beyond on the Apollo missions had less computing capability than a modern Texas Instruments graphing calculator. So I don't worry about that. Speed will come.

What we have to figure out is the Mind. Even the best-equipped computer around today must be told what to do at least once before it will accomplish anything. ****** hit on something here, I think, when he said

it's just a question of making a computer that can modify its own low-level configuration drastically...

In order to create an artificial intelligence we need to figure some way to provide a computer with the ability to program itself based on a set of "instincts." It's what we humans do. Somewhere in there is the question of desire, too. Much of what we do is derived from either an instinctive need, like avoiding a hot oven, or from an emotional desire, like reading a book or having a conversation.

So that's the difficulty...not just to create a computer than can change itself, but one that will - in effect - want to do so. What do you think?

This is not your brother's blog.

Really, it isn't. I cannot say for sure if I'm actually trying to do anything with this. It seems that most blogs fall under one of two categories. The Journalistic and The Old Standard.

The Journalistic is a news-bearing blogger. Anything seen in this type of web-log is a more personal, more detailed version of the sorts of things one might see/hear/read in more formal news publications. Human interest. News. Tech. Whatever.

The Old Standard is the web-diarist. Is that a word? More pointedly, if it isn't, who cares? It works. It is a catalogue of the events of a single life, or the feelings of a single person. At times there are stories. At times there are rants. At other times there are academic treatises. Interesting to some, but not all.

Now there's a thought. A Truth, even. With a big T. What in this world is interesting to everybody? Pick a thing. Surround it by people who love it. Double the group. You'll find a few who might only like it. Double again, and some people are just there with a friend. Again, and someone doesn't quite know why they are there, but they heard something about free pizza. Double one more time and you get protesters.

This one is less directed than the others. I guess I'm Old Standard. I hope those small few of you who stumble upon this by random chance find something in my little paragraphs to make you think. I will never whine. I will never complain. I'm just a guy trying to put his words in order. You have my word.

Pasadena

On my way home from work I was thinking. Too deeply for driving, as it turned out, because I thought about how complicated the act of driving a car is. An old friend of mine pointed out once that "It's really amazing. We're these animals, these creatures, whose brains are capable of keeping track of the speed and motion of a number of other vehicles. While at the same time performing the tasks necessary to keep our own vehicle on the road. All of this at high speed, and we manage to (most of the time) drive safely within three feet of every other car."

And I wondered, am I really? I became sharply aware of each movement I made. Each motion became unique and separate from the next. Adjusting my speed was a matter of first lifting my foot slightly from the gas pedal. Then holding my foot still for a time. Then touching my foot back on the pedal. Then applying slight pressure in order to maintain my new speed. Nothing was fluid.

After a few minutes of that, I began to mark the individual motions of the car as well. How it shifted slightly to the right each time I took my hands from the wheel to shift. I should get my alignment checked. And how there is a slight shuddering each time I shift gears. I should get my transmission checked. Each time the blinker clicked was a unique and individual moment. Nothing was in series. Nothing was fluid.
The trees passed by slowly, and I lost control for no more than three seconds. My eyes were open in the right lane. I blinked. and my eyes were open five hundred yards down the road in the left lane.

I dropped the subject with myself and allowed my brain to go on unwatched. It seemed safer.

-------------------
Edit on Oct 22, 2008:
Thanks to Spider Robinson/Robert A. Heinlein (can't be sure which, the crafty bastards), I now know that what I described here is called "the Centipede's Dilemma."

once the centipede got to pondering just how he managed all those legs, he couldn't do it anymore.
-Spider Robinson, Variable Star (with Robert A.
Heinlein.), p.110

Annotated Margins

I have for a long time felt a slight pang of academic guilt at my lack of desire to make insightful little notes in the margins of my books. I like reading new books, and re-reading them once they become old books. And I like them both to be equally pristine. with exceptions made for natural degradation resulting from the passage of time and the addition of dirt and oil from my fingers.

This is not to say that I do not have frequent noteworthy thoughts pop into my head as I read, but rather that I often cannot spare the time to reach for a pen in order to jot them down. And once again, never in the margins. If I do make notes, I make them on a legal pad, in a pocket notebook, or - once - on a length of paper from a receipt printer. For who's to say whether the pages of a given book deserve to be marred by pencil or ballpoint? Least of all by my petty little ideas.

Note 1

I feel wholly unequipped to write about death.

The Money's Great, but the Nagging Desire Could Use Some Work.

A short note for those entire populations to whom this blog remains a mystery. I quit smoking. People have said to me, “good for you!” But while it is nice to have that sort of minor recognition from folks, I don’t feel the slightest touch of a patting hand on my back. I am still early in the process of quitting, you see: only five weeks gone since my last smoke. The physical withdrawal has lost its initial hammer-strength, and the money I’m saving can’t be beat. Still, I have not yet made my emotional peace with the dropped habit. As such, sitting in coffee shops with smoke billowing around the heads of the much calmer students not thirty feet away, I feel a lot like a diabetic studying in a chocolatier’s display case.