Or wherever your final destination may be

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I really hate flying. I hate everything about it. The short list includes:

* The shitty little bags of pretzels
* The chemical smell of the toilets
* The morons that refuse to check the baggage and slow the boarding process to a crawl as the park their fat asses in the aisle trying to shove stuff into the overheads. These same dumb-asses can’t grasp the concept of “wait until we reach the gate before standing up and pulling your shit back out.”

Air travel makes me resent people in wheelchairs…and old women on walkers…and children. Funerals and weddings of loved ones will get me on a plane again but it will be an act of duty and obligation. If I don’t look like I’m having fun when I get where I’m going it’s probably because I’m not.

Yes, Key West was warm and beautiful. And only a real party-pooper would complain about getting there and back. But the math doesn’t work for me. I need 100 hours of fun for every hour of travel time, and I never get it. And I never will. Let’s try this. I’ll spend a weekend on the beach with you for every weekend you spend sitting next to me while I surf the web. Come on, it’ll be fun.

Lucy: New Pup

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That’s the new pup’s name. We pick her up this coming weekend. She’ll be doing her business on the Wall Street Journal until house broken. If images of puppies make you queasy, you might want to stop back by in a month or two.

Key West Notebook.

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About 12 degrees when we left Kansas City. Then Atlanta. Then Ft. Lauderdale. Then Key West. Luggage didn’t make it. Left Ft. Lauderdale just after sundown in small 10-seater. Looking back at the lights of the city brought back memories of all the John D. novels where Travis jumped or was thrown overboard (I don’t think he ever fell overboard.) Toasty warm upon arrival.

Mays in centerfield

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It is 1958. July. About dusk. I’m standing in deep centerfield of the baseball diamond at Jones Memorial Park. I can hear music coming from the ice cream place across the street, behind me. I’m not really daydreaming but I’m not completely focused on the game, either. I might be closer to the ice cream place than to home plate.

A sharp “crack” yanks me back to the game. The crowd is yelling and looking in my direction. But up. A high, fly ball is coming my way. I frantically search the sky. If I don’t get a visual lock on the fly ball, it could land at my feet. It could smash into my face and kill me. I spot it. Coming straight down. It seems almost motionless, just getting larger and larger. There’s no time to raise my glove hand but I manage to get it open at my waist. Two thousand miles to the west, another Mays is standing in centerfield, Candlestick Park, executing a far more relaxed version of this same maneuver.

Back at Jones Memorial Park, the ball ricochets off my bony, ten-year-old chest and into my glove. Because of the distance and the angle, the crowd sees only Mays, in deep centerfield, making a perfect “basket catch.” But we’re not related.

Junior High Basketball Team

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I think Frank Proctor made me memorize the state capitols and all of the U. S. presidents (I no longer know either). One summer he started his “Merry Mobile” business. He drove up and down the streets of Kennett selling frozen treats. He was also the junior high basketball coach and one of my greatest achievments was “making” the team. I loved playing basketball in the back yard but was terrible at the real thing. I warmed benches through the 10th grade before hanging up my Chuck Taylors and rediscovered the joy of the game at the city park. The Web cannot be complete without this photo of the Kennett Junior High Basketball Team.

Kennett 8th Grade Basketball Team

Back Row: Terry Hunter, Mike Shipman, Robert Taylor, Phil Ayers, Buddy Shivley, Jerry Bird, Otis Mitchell, Randy Carter, Brett Baker. Front Row: Tommy LaTurno, Ben Pickard, Larry Hale, Bruce Baker, Steve Mays, John Robison, Tommy Saunches, Darrell Jackson, Tony Stewart.

Accidental Death Remediation

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One of the ten thousand billboards blighting Interstate 70 reads: Homicide, Suicide, and Accidental Death Remediation. Barb and I speculated about the services provided and she got it first try. I couldn’t get past, “Who the hell would be willing to do such a job?” I found the answer on their website:

“It’s a job no one else wants to do: cleaning up human blood and tissue and getting rid of the stench that often follows death. But a Menifee mother and daughter have started a business to do just that. Calling their business Crime & Trauma Scene Specialists, Debbie Haar and her mother, Shirley MacNeill will clean up homicide or suicide scenes, homes where someone has died a natural death or even what they call “pack-rat” homes that need special care. The two are also trained to do extensive cleaning of medical offices and funeral homes and can remove tear gas or pepper spray from inside buildings.”

Eastern Standard Tribe (Amazon summary)

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“Art is a member of the Eastern Standard Tribe, a secret society bound together by a sleep schedule. Around the world, those who wake and sleep on East Coast time find common cause with one another, cooperating, conspiring, to help each other out, coordinated by a global network of Wi-Fi, instant messaging, ubiquitous computing, and a shared love of Manhattan-style bagels. Or perhaps not. Art is, after all, in the nuthouse. He was put there by a conspiracy of his friends and loved ones, fellow travelers from EST hidden in the bowels of Greenwich Mean Time, spies masquerading as management consultants who strive to mire Europe in oatmeal-thick bureaucracy. Eastern Standard Tribe is a story of madness and betrayal, of society after the End of Geography, of the intangible factors that define us as a species, as a tribe, as individuals.” —  Amazon review of Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow. Or you can read it for free.

Quotes from William Gibson novels

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William Gibson –touring to promote the paperback release of Pattern Recognition– was interviewed by Leo Laporte on Tech TV’s The Screen Savers. Leo asked some good questions, including one about Gibson’s creative process. Gibson said he did not work out the plot in advance and wrote from day to day with no idea of what would happen next. He said he waited for the first sentence and everything grew (“fractally”) from that. And he would never consider going back to edit that first sentence because the story would (I think he said) “collapse.”

“The ghost was her father’s parting gift, presented by a black-clad secretary in a departure lounge at Nirita.” — Mona Lisa Overdrive

“I put the shotgun in an Adidas bag and padded it out with four pair of tennis socks, not my style at all, but that was what I was aiming for: If they think you’re crude, go technical; if they think you’re technical, go crude.” — Burning Chrome

“Through this evening’s tide of faces unregistered, unrecognized, amid hurrying black shoes, furled umbrellas, the crowd descending like a single organism into the station’s airless heart, comes Shnya Yamazaki, his notebook clasped beneath his arm like the egg case of some modest but moderately successful marine species.” — All Tomorrow’s Parties

“The courier presses his forehead against layers of glass, argon, high-impact plastic.” — Virtual Light

“They set a Slashhound on Turner’s trail in New Delhi, slotted it to his pheromones and the color of his hair.” — Count Zero

“The sky above the Port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.” — Neuromancer

“Five hours’ New York jet lag and Cayce Pollard wakes in Camden Town to the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm.” — Pattern Recognition