The Dantom Menace

My noble, glamrock hating dog

Wed, 13 Dec 2006 00:58:36 GMT

So a couple of weeks ago I "rescued" a dog from the pound. I use the term "rescue" loosely because I live in the yuppie suburbia that is Orange County and I may have only saved this dog from a lavish lifestyle in beach-front property somewhere. But then again, those damn beach hippies probably don't pay attention when their dog jumps into the freezing Pacific. It's a tough call!

I've named this dog "Baron" since he is a noble creature with noble aspirations (namely, to have someone scoop up his poop for him every day). I'm pretty sure he has no clue that is his name. Right now he mainly responds to "get the hell over here, dog!" (or the equally frequent "get the hell off that, dog!")

I've never had a dog before so I don't really know how he compares, but he seems to be quite a character. All attentive and obedient one second and completely oblivious the next. I have done a scientific analysis of this and constructed a state-machine modeling Baron's behavior:

Food in hand?	Possum in yard?	Persona
No	No	Determined forager
No	Yes	Evil homewrecker
Yes	No	Angel sent from heaven
Yes	Yes	Hyperactive schizophrenic

He likes to follow me around everywhere. I must say this is pretty endearing, albeit somewhat disconcerting when I find him outside the bathroom door after doing my business. It's like I have my own stalker. That's another first (I think... some of these BYOND fanboys are a little sketchy).

Despite the fact that Baron has chewed up everything in the house (with the exception of his chew toys), I must say that I am enjoying his presence immensely. He is an endless source of entertainment and has me constantly pondering new things. For example, after he ate a piece of poop during our morning walk, I thought about how wonderfully recursive an "all poop" diet would be. It's the secret to perpetual motion, I tell you! I can't wait to use this story during my Nobel Prize acceptance speech.

I hope that stuffed dog enjoyed his 2.1 seconds of life, may he rest in peace

Tonight I learned that the dog doesn't like David Lee Roth, of Van Halen fame. This is news to me-- I thought all dogs liked Van Halen. But judge for yourselves: I was listening to the "Arena Rock" station on our TV with the thousand channels and David Lee Roth came on and started rocking his stuff. Baron, who was peacefully chewing my sock, immediately perked up and started this low growl that he usually reserves for cats. I looked outside for a cat, but none was in the vicinity (they are getting wise to our property boundaries). So I said, "What's the deal, dog?" And he said, "This sucks. Change it." So I switched to "80s Rock Ballads" and we enjoyed some Meatloaf together.

I'll make another post after Baron takes down his first wall (awwww, how cute!) We live in a house made of glass; it's only a matter of time!

With great power comes great responsibility...

Thu, 02 Nov 2006 20:04:20 GMT

... with your powers, not so much.

I don't watch much network TV, especially during basketball season, when I like to keep tabs on both my beloved Clippers and hated Lakers. That's countless hours per week I spend absorbed in pointless activity on a television screen. Combine that with the countless hours per week I spend absorbed in pointless activity on a computer screen and it's a wonder I don't have the pasty white complexion of a porcelain toilet bowl.

That said, earlier this week (whilst waiting for the endless NBA season to get underway) I happened to tune into this new show on NBC called "Heroes". This appears to be an X-men ripoff where all of the characters have been assigned the bonus power of "rubbish acting." However, as I have had a lifelong obsession with bettering myself through divine inspiration (see previous post), I went ahead and watched the whole thing.

As with X-men, "Heroes" deals with the idea that mutation in humans can lead to unusual abilities. While that's perfectly plausible, some of the powers strike me as a wee bit over the top. For example, one guy on the show can stop time! What kind of mutation causes that? Another guy can paint the future. I wonder if he'll eventually make a painting that reveals that the show has been canceled, LOL.

I realize that the writers of these shows are going more for entertainment than realism, but it strikes me that a truly clever show could get you thinking that the notion of "superpowers" need not be sci-fi, so long as its toned down a bit. There are plenty of documented cases about people who have extraordinary memories, or computer-like calculating abilities, or musical gifts from the great unknown. Aren't these effectively superpowers? Who's to say there aren't more fantastical cases out there?

One thing about these people is clear: with their gifts comes some kind of deficiency, a twisted exchange in God's eyes. The great savant Kim Peek, a walking encyclopedia who was the inspiration for the movie "Rain Man", cannot even dress himself. Less extreme savants are often autistic; they just go on to become computer programmers.

So if we are to hunt for superheros, we might proceed by observing people who appear to lacking in certain skills we take for granted. This was on my mind when I had the following conversation with my roommate at the grocery store. I have long suspected he might be a borderline superhero (or, more likely, super-villain) since he already has a super-name: The Cog.

INT: Grocery checkout
A great looking guy with calves of steel-- an obviously well-trained cyclist-- and his homely sidekick are waiting in line. They observe some new technology in the aisle next over.

Me: It seems like all of these grocery stores are using self-checkouts now. We are quickly being replaced by machines. Hey, grab that box of ho-hos for me.

The Cog: I'm not going to bag my own groceries, I'll tell you that much.

Me: Wow, lazy!

The Cog: No, it's not that. It's... never mind.

Me: Now you have to tell me.

The Cog: Ok, but don't tell anyone...

Me: It's in the vault!

The Cog: Well, it's ... uh... I don't really know how to bag groceries.

Me: What does that even mean?

The Cog: It's hard for me to open those plastic bags... my fingers can't do it quickly enough, especially with people waiting. It's embarrassing!

Me: Cog... I think you might be a superhero! Get in the Cog-mobile and we'll get you back to the Cog-cave to run some tests!

INT: The Cog-cave
A top-secret lair in the heart of Orange, California (just 10 minutes to Disneyland!) High-tech accouterments line the walls, as do an assortment of junk-food wrappers.

Me: First question. Cog, is there anything you are good at?

The Cog: I have to say, that question is a little insulting.

Me: I mean, do you have an special abilities. For example, maybe you have perfect pitch?

The Cog: What is that?

Me: You know, the ability to recognize the pitch of any note you hear.

The Cog: Of course I can do that. Otherwise, how would I tune my trumpet?

Me: What I'm saying is, you can't tune your trumpet. Not without a tuning fork or something.

The Cog: I can totally tune my trumpet, dude. I've never owned a tuning fork in my life.

Me: Ok, let's test it it out, superboy. I'm going to tweak the 6th string on this guitar here I want you to put it back on "E". Set's it to B-flat You can't play any of the other strings or anything.

The Cog: Puleeze. This is a piece of cake. Fools around with tuning levers. Ok, done.

Me: Ready to mock The Cog. I am ready to mock you, Cog. Plays string and checks tuner. It reads just a few hertz flat of "E". WTF. Hmm, that's pretty good. I must be misunderstanding "perfect pitch."

The Cog: Sweet! I'm a superhero?

Me: Not quite. I mean, you were a little bit off. But I think it's safe to say that you have "pretty good pitch". I'm sure that would be useful in some sort of crime setting, Cog.

The Cog: Yippeee!

Me: Just remember, with great power comes great responsibility.

So of course I'm a little bitter (needless to say I tried testing myself for "pretty good pitch" and only managed to break a guitar string). While my roommate has mediocre superpowers, I have yet to uncover any of mine. And I have TONS of deficiencies (see, eg my nonexistent direction sense).

Oh yeah, I'm due for a big one, and I'm getting pretty grumpy waiting for it!

The greatest website in the history of mankind

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 00:37:37 GMT

Pandora

It is unclear to me how this wonderful project intends to make money. They are probably banking on the post-Y2K business model, AKA "let's get bought out by Google!" FYI, that's BYOND's plan too, but so far Google hasn't returned my calls.

An excerpt from the Great Adventures of Dantom del Byondo

Wed, 09 Aug 2006 19:21:08 GMT

As some of you may know, I recently embarked on a trek across (half of ) the USA with my trusty mountain bike, "Slick Chainey". Much thanks to fellow BIKE GOD Air Mapster for logging the journey. Although looking at that little Google map the whole thing seems rather pathetic. I'm telling you, each pixel represents a whole lotta pedaling!

For the first time on one of these extended trips, I had the discipline to maintain a daily journal. I am in the process of transcribing this in what will surely be an award-winning travel-log, or at least a tale of underpreparation and overpacking. However, I wanted to write something here-- a sampling of the forbidden fruit, if you will-- mainly because I'm worried that my blog might die of neglect.

I deliver a rant from South Dakota. This particular incident occurred near the end of the trip. The previous week, my buddy and I had scaled the Big Horn mountain range, an abominable monstrosity in the middle of Wyoming. They should pave it and put a Walmart there, like they do in California. But that's a different rant!

I'm going to lobby to get this sign on the Big Horn route

We were in the Black Hills, a beautiful canyon on the western side of the state (the eastern side is an extended plain so flat that you can see your dog run away from home for three days). On this day, we had pleasant weather and perfect scenery. But what had us in the best spirits was the knowledge that we were done with the climbing for the trip. Sure, there were some little bumps here and there (it ain't called the Black "Hills" for nothing), but nothing sizeable on the map and that was good news!

So it came to our surprise when, starting at the entrance of Spearfish Canyon, we found ourselves on an extended hill. It wasn't steep, like the #^%$#& 12% grade on the Big Horns, but it was enough to at least be a workout. At what appeared to be the top, we took a break for lunch. There I had a conversation with the waitress.

Me: What's the deal with this hill?
Waitress: What hill?
Me: Points
Waitress: Oh, that goes on for, um, two miles? Maybe? I don't bike.
Me: Thanks. Damn women don't know how to give directions...
Waitress: Get out of my restaurant.

Well, it went something like that.

Six miles later...

And we were still climbing! I found myself getting a a tad grumpy, which was a shame because like I said the conditions were otherwise splendid. Suddenly the hill leveled off-- could this be the top? There we saw a general store so I decided to talk to a REAL MAN to find out what was going on here. Lo and behold, I found one, a bandanna-wearin', Harley ridin', behometh of a MAN sitting on a bench next to his MANLY motorcycle and his MANLY girlfriend (er, that didn't come across right). This guy would know the gameplan.

Where all the REAL MEN hang out

Me: What's the deal with this hill?
REAL MAN: No worries, you're almost done.
Me: How much more?
REAL MAN: A mile and an eighth.
Me: Did you say "an eighth"? Hot damn, I've hit the gold mine of direction givers!
REAL MAN: Yeah, a mile and an eighth. Might be a mile and a quarter. Somewhere between a mile and an eighth and a mile and a quarter.
Me: Thanks!
REAL MAN: This last part is kind of steep. 8.5% grade. But it's only a mile and an eighth.

I didn't like that grade, but over just a mile (and an eighth), I could buckle down and grind it out. More than that, and it'd be trouble.

A mile and an eighth later...

I saw my friend up ahead of me, frantically pointing up in the air. I took this to mean "Summit! We're at the summit!" So I did a little celebration jig in my head, kind of like when I bluff someone out of a huge pot in nofoldem holdem (not that I would ever gamble). I rode up to where my friend was and... no summit. Apparantly he was pointing to say "Up! More up! Go up we must!" When you have been climbing for a while proper grammar is the first thing to go.

At a mile and a quarter...

By now I was pretty tired. Remember, I'd been busting my balls in a middle gear to try to plow up this thing. But the guy was awfully confident. So it must be that my odometer was off?

Another mile later...

WTF. No way was my odometer this off. I'd dropped to my lowest gear. Any lower and I'd be on footpower. I cursed stupid REAL MAN. I swore to knock him off his bike if he rode by here. I'd forgotton how huge and mean-looking he was. When you have been climbing for a while, proper judgement is the next thing to go.

#^$�@ miles later...

And I was on foot. This hill had beaten me down, what with it's 8.5% (feels more like 10%) grade over an endless climb. I was dripping with sweat, ready to collapse, when suddenly I saw my friend napping under a a tree up ahead. Beyond the tree was all downhill, glorious downhill. Finally. The climb came to an end at three miles. Actually, three miles and an eighth. God was laughing at me.

My friend didn't have an odometer. "That seemed like more than a mile to me", he said. "I mean a mile and an eighth." I told him the facts and he laughed. I went off on a rant about how at least the waitress didn't profess to be some sort of direction guru. "A mile and an eighth!" I yelled, "I mean, if he had said, a mile or two, that would be one thing, but a mile and an eighth? That implies accuracy!"

Expletives followed.

So let this be a lesson on significant figures for all you kids out there. If you're going to claim to know something to 1/8th precision, please be sure before spouting it out. Your misinformation could kill someone!

The hippie vs the hip yuppie

Sun, 12 Mar 2006 23:16:53 GMT

BYOND Headquarters is currently located in a 150 square-foot office in downtown Costa Mesa. This office resides in a building that is shared by other entreprenuerial types. None of them knows what I do.

When I first interviewed with the office manager, I told him that the gaming system we have developed is mainly used by teenagers, and that one of my ambitions was to turn this into an educational tool for kids. Now everytime he introduces me to anyone he says "This is Tom... he works with children." Since that sounds more noble than my actual job (sitting in front of a computer all day), I haven't bothered correcting him.

One of the other office mates was very curious as to the workings of an Internet business, so I told him a bit about our financial model and future plans. I said that we offer a subscription service that activates certain features within the website. I also said that I was hoping to eventually capture more of the adult market, since in theory the software should appeal to an older crowd too.

I realized shortly thereafter that a "subscription" to something in the "adult market" doesn't make this business sound very wholesome! Especially if the second guy talks with the first guy and learns that I (allegedly) work with children all day. So if you hear about someone getting busted for operating a kiddie porn website in Costa Mesa, please inform the police that it's all a big misunderstanding!

But back to our story. Every Friday night, just as I am just getting into the coding groove (that statement is depressing even to write down), faint music invariably comes drifing into the office space. Last week, curious, I decided to investigate the source. As it turns out my office is a block away from a hip yuppie bar, and on Friday nights they have a live band.

"I am SO there!" I declared, trying to sound as hip and yuppie as possible (even though I was the only one left in the office, everyone else having busy social lives, the bastards.) Unfortunately this occurred on one of the three days a year it rains in California so I got rather soaked on the journey over. Moreover, I somehow managed to rip my coat whilst fiddling with the zipper. Despite all of the hardship, I covered those 100 feet in good time. Yes!

Due to the band, the bar had a cover charge. Now, that's no big deal, but I wanted to at least check it out a bit first. So I angled around the side and looked into the window to get a better view. Envision if you will, me in my hippie haircut glory, soaked and in tattered clothes. One of the patrons on the other side of the window actually tried to "shoo" me away... he must have thought I was a homeless guy! Thinking quickly, I reached into my wallet to pull out a wad of cash-- that would show him who earns the big bucks around here-- but realized I had blown it all on a recent casino trip (goddammit!) So I pulled out my American Express Blue Cash card. With the rain and all (actually at this point it was hailing... ouch!) I don't think he saw it, so I just gave him a mean glare. Then I went home; the stupid bar wouldn't take my Blue Cash anyway.

You may have won this battle, hip yuppie, but the war has just begun!

Why I have no direction sense: a pictoral explanation

Sun, 12 Mar 2006 23:16:34 GMT

This is a normal city. Note how straight the streets are. People who grow up here acquire a direction sense.

This is where I grew up. Was the city planner on acid? I feel like a rat trapped in a maze whenever I drive through here. People who grow up here do not acquire a direction sense.

That is all.

The best odds in Vegas

Mon, 17 Oct 2005 01:38:59 GMT

My roommate the Cog recently bought a condo in Las Vegas. On Friday we decided to go down there to get out of town for a bit. I figured it would be an opportunity for me to get some work done on my laptop, since his place isn't equipped with a phone or internet or any of the usual distractions. And since I no longer gamble, it should have all worked out just fine. The polite phrase for this is "rationalization". The correct phrase is "being delusional".

To make a long story less long, I ended up losing $200 playing low-limit nofoldem holdem, the game I "retired" from earlier this year. We initially went to one of the casinos to check out the football on the big screen tvs in the sports-betting room (so much for no distractions). This happened to be near the poker room, and, well, one thing led to another and we found ourselves in a game. Initially, the Cog and a few other table "bullies" were betting big to push everyone around. To counter this, I played very patiently, waiting for good cards to get the best odds against the maniacs. But playing like that becomes like a job after a while (and you know how I feel about jobs), and since it wasn't winning me any money either, I ultimately decided to loosen up a bit and play more hands. Recalling my brutal beatdown at the Hawaiian Gardens casino, I also opted to introduce another important element: alcohol. I had a beer and waited for the drunken magic to kick in. Unfortunately, that never happened; I blame this on the fact that I had to drive us back later and therefore couldn't take advantage of the necessary intoxication level to really up the magic. The loss was inevitable.

Oddly, afterwards I wasn't upset in the least, which I believe means I have reached poker nirvana-- accepting (and even enjoying) the pointless nature of the nofoldem games. I still LOL@ the "poker is skill, I swear!" zealots who sit at the table and complain about the bad beats they take time and time again. I know I am better than that. 2 7 flopping a full house, you no longer faze me.

There is a moral to this story. Just as I was convinced that the only people who won in Vegas were lucky bastards, something happened that ... completely confirmed my theory! After I lost my 2nd $100 in holdem (my straight getting beat on the river by a flush, typical), I just wandered around the casino for a while. The Cog was really drunk and of course winning, so I had to kill some time. One of my buddies told me that after getting beaten in holdem the last time, he was so annoyed he decided to just play something that at least didn't pretend to involve skill-- roulette. So I thought I'd try that. Unfortunately, I only had $1 in my wallet and none of the limits were that low. So I decided to play 5-card draw on the slot machines, a game which presumably has among the worst odds in Vegas and practically no skill element at all. Basically it's just a machine that (on the screen) deals you five cards and lets you pick which ones to hold, at which point it redeals the remainder (known as "drawing" cards). After that, the hand is paid off based on how good it is, with a single high pair being the lowest winning hand and a royal flush the highest.

I found a machine that let you make two-cent bets, enough to buy me some fun with my last dollar. After about twenty minutes I was around even and getting bored (same thing that did me in in holdem), so I hit some of the buttons to try to up the betting. I'm not sure exactly what I did but it made it so that instead of playing one hand at a time it dealt five (the same starting cards played, but when you drew cards there were five separate draws, so you had more chances to meet your draw). I also managed to up the bet, as it was now costing me like 40 cents a pop. That meant I only got two tries if I didn't hit anything. The first try won nothing, but on the second I was dealt 10 Q K A of spades! So I held those cards and prayed for the royal flush. I hit the draw button and it showed a 7 of hearts. Darn. But it also showed the results of my four other draws (because I was playing that weird mode) and, I couldn't believe it, one of them hit the J of spades! It paid about $100, by far the most I've ever won in Vegas (I thought I should get more for a royal, but I guess I can't complain since it's not a bad return for a $1 investment).

[here envision picture of winning slot machine that I wish I had taken]

For about ten seconds I considered putting that $100 back into a holdem game, but then I remembered why I was playing slots at 4am in the first place. So sometimes we do get wiser with age.

I can't believe these guys make more money than me

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 04:36:59 GMT

As a man of such important stature in the community, it is essential that I assist future generations by offering up the useful lessons I have garnered. Rather than harp on the usual misfits-- drunken debauchery, youthful indiscretions, and so forth-- I prefer to focus on a much more practical topic: foolish organizations and the fools who run them. This particular tale comes from my roommate, a former engineer at one of the many pointless corporations here in the OC. I'll refer to him as "the Cog", and his place of employment as "Square Wheel, Inc." Let this story serve as a warning to you future engineers.

In the mid-to-late 90s, with the dot-com boom in full swing, tech companies were getting insane amounts of funding for even the most obviously rubbish scenarios. It was pretty much impossible for a tech company NOT to get funding. In fact, I can only think of a single startup in this era that didn't. Damn. But I digress.

My friend the Cog started working at one such company in '98. It was a new business, but after one month and one idea, it had already amassed a staff of over sixty employees. The Cog, being a cog and all, was not privvy to said idea. In telling the story to me, he did use the term "vaporware" a lot. Basically, the company made its money by selling a non-existent product to a bunch of eager clients. [On an unrelated note for potential investors: the "soon to be released" version of BYOND boosts your cpu speed by over 1000%. Send $$$ for details!]

Around this time, the CEO of Square Wheel, Inc. decided to hold a big team-retreat to encourage the workers to use teamwork to meet all of his unfulfilled and unreasonable demands. All sixty employees were carted off to a fancy hotel for a day of snacks and inspiring team-building exercises. The main activity was this:

The employees sectioned off into groups of six.
Each group selected two "visionaries", two "analysts", and two "developers". Nothing was said of what these terms meant. My friend got to be a developer.
Every group was given a standard, 100-piece box of legos.
The visionaries were called to the front to look over plans for a lego structure, presumably the instructions included with the box.
The analysts met with the visionaries, who would describe the plan to them.
The analysts went back to relay the instructions to the developers, who were responsible for building the structure.
The team had one hour to complete the lego assembly.

So basically what we had here was a lego-building contest among people whose one-day salaries probably totalled over $20K. Money was plentiful in the late 90s. In principle, this exercise was supposed to encapsulate the checks and balances of the various positions within a company. It was supposed to show how teamwork influences accomplishment. In retrospect, that's exactly what it did.

While the analysts were meeting with the visionaries to understand the plan, the Cog and his developer buddy did what any engineers would do with a box of legos in front of them. They opened it and started building.

"Look at these wings and this hull. This is obviously a watercraft."

"Yep. Look, there's a partial picture on the side of the box."

And so they began. By the time the analysts showed up with the initial instructions, they only had a dozen pieces left.

Analyst #1, we'll call her Debbie Downer, was quite dismayed.

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Building the plane. Looks pretty good, eh?" said the Cog.

Debbie was quite grumpy. "Look, you guys are messing this up. You have to take the long thin piece and hook it up to the wing..."

"We already did that. What next?"

"Um. I'll have to go talk to the visionaries for the next instructions."

The analysts left. This was pleasing to the developers, who proceeded to finish the watercraft. And with a half hour to spare.

"Excellent. We used all of the pieces!" High fives all around.

Ten minutes later, the analysts returned. Upon seeing the completed structure, Debbie became agitated.

"You are doing this all wrong. Take it apart!"

"Fine," said the Cog, breaking the structure up. "We've only got twenty minutes left. What do you want us to do?"

Debbie tried to recall the instructions from the visionaries. "Ok, first off, attach the thin pieces to the four wings."

"Well, we had already done that... but whatever." The developers grabbed at the pieces. "Hey, there are only three wings here."

"What?" Debbie looked puzzled. "We'd better go talk to the visionaries. Don't move!"

Now the developers were grumpy, but knowing the scolding they'd get for working on the craft, they sat tight for ten more minutes. At that point, the analysts came back with a message.

"Screw it. We'll have to make due with three wings. Just attach them like this..."

They relayed a few instructions. The developers complied.

"It looks like a disabled bird."

"We've got over fifty pieces left."

"We're never gonna make it."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

Time ran out. The team looked at the pathetic lego structure in front of them. It no longer resembled the picture on the box.

The CEO walked to the podium. "Nice work, everyone. Do you see how teamwork improves productivity? Let's see how you did."

He walked to each team's table and looked at the structure. The Cog intercepted him before he could comment on their assembly.

"Just so you know, it looked a lot better before the analysts tore it apart."

"We were just doing as we were told." responded Debbie.

Rather than be upset, the CEO smiled.

"I see the wing situation threw you off!"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, when you weren't looking, I took one of your wings."

"Why would you do that?"

"In business, you have to get used to adversity."

He walked back to the front.

"Well, I'm sorry to see that not all of the teams succeeded. But I hope you learned the importance of teamwork."

Indeed, as they marched out of the auditorium, the employee comments revealed that the day's lesson had truly been informative.

"We had it working until the analysts started buggging us."

"Did the visionaries even do anything?"

"Why didn't they just hand the developers the instructions? Most of us can read."

"So basically, the lesson is that the visionaries hoard the plans, the analysts get in the way, the engineers do all of the work, and the CEO screws everything up?"

"I don't care, I got paid. Salary, baby!"

And that, my young friends, is how it works in the real world. FYI, Square Wheel, Inc. still exists to this day, but as far as I know they continue to have no product. If I understood how that worked, I'd be a visionary, not a lowly developer!

Tom donates a membership! Sort of. And game-theory!

Fri, 29 Jul 2005 02:26:16 GMT

This evening, I drove to the bank to deposit the latest BYOND Membership checks. The last two weeks had produced a grand total of five $15 deposits, a fairly paltry sum barely worth the drive, but I wasn't doing anything better.

As I was sitting in the parking lot contemplating how we would spend today's massive bounty, a well-groomed guy in his 20s or 30s approached me. He gave me this sob story about how he had lost his wallet and was stranded in my lovely city. His wife/girlfriend was standing next to him so I asked about her, and she apparantly didn't have any money either. It was all pretty shady-- my dominant cynical side suspected he just needed a few bucks to score more fine OC marijuana-- but I respected this desperate plea in front of his woman (who seemed embarrassed). So I asked him how much he needed and he said $14 "for gas" (unusually specific amount, no?) I gave him $15 and told him that, whether his story was true or not, he couldn't be in a good place having to ask a stranger for money, so I just hoped he would return the favor should the tables be turned one day. He and his wife/girlfriend thanked me profusely and I drove on my merry way.

It didn't occur to me until later that the $15 was the exact price of a membership. If I were writing a contrived M. Night Shyamalan script, the plot twist would be that the stranger was really just begging for $15 so that he could go home and subscribe to his favorite gaming system! That would be unusual in the face of destitution and gaslessness, but everyone has their own priorities in this life. And damnit, BYOND being #1 never hurt anyone.

As I was driving home, I thought about how my hero, game-theorist Johnny Von Neumann, would have handled the situation. Let's play another round of WWVND ("What Would Von Neumann Do?" duh!)

VN: How much money do you need, my son?
Stranger: I need...
VN: Wait!
Stranger: ?
VN: I shall write a dollar figure on this piece of paper. If you guess this amount or less, I shall give you however much you guessed. If you guess over, you get nothing!
Stranger: But I really need this money...
VN: Quiet! Guess!

I don't know if Von Neumann was really that belligerent, but I do think he could appreciate this situation, as it is a classic game-theory issue. Suppose you really need, say, $14, but think the generous fellow in front of you is willing to give $1000, or $10000? How do you measure risk vs. reward, when the reward is an unknown?

Speaking of game-theory, if you're a fan of this kind of problem you'll undoubtedly enjoy Gughunter's classic game, "Conflict". I give it "thumbs up". You'll also initially like the brutal casino game of Texas Hold'em, which on the surface appears to have the game-theory elements of pot odds, risk vs. reward, and so forth, but ultimately is really just luck and smack talk. That gets a "thumbs down, waaaaay down" from me. I still curse you, drunken master!

Lycra, Tsunamis, and Beavers-- Oh My!

Sat, 02 Jul 2005 04:30:58 GMT

Last month, I rode my bicycle from Canada to Mexico. I was accompanied by a friend who had been on a number of similar tours and knew a thing or two about bikes. This turned out to be useful when my chain snapped in half in the middle of a thunderstorm in WhereTheHeckAreWe, OR. Without his expert repair skills, I would have been forced to camp out in the rainy backwoods somewhere, where I likely would have been eaten alive by a beaver. How embarrassing!


Canada	Mexico (sort of)

We took the Pacific Coast route, which is basically HW 101 (later HW 1) from Vancouver, BC to San Ysidro, CA. Note that San Ysidro is not actually IN Mexico, which ended up becoming a sore subject between my traveling buddy and me. Seeing as we had biked 1800 miles to get to this border, I figured we should do 1801 to actually cross it. He didn't want to go through the hassle of customs. So we ended the journey in a McDonalds at the border. They didn't even have any McTacos I could use to pretend we made it.

Rather than present a full account of the trip, I will provide some observations and minutiae. If you want the excrutiating details, I recommend undertaking the venture for yourself. You'll get some exercise, see lots of beautiful scenery, and get away from the computer for a month. Your boss will understand!

Bike shorts: not just a fashion statement
Before this trip, I never understood the fascination bikers had with their attire. Take the bike out in California on a Saturday afternoon and you are bound to see a number of riders dressed like they are in the Tour de France, with skintight jerseys and those oh-so-annoying "nuthugger" shorts. It just seems like overkill for a casual rider. I've always ridden with the standard t-shirt and (regular) shorts, and fortunately my friend is the same way. So when we prepared for this trip, he just told me to buy some stuff that was lightweight and would dry quickly-- not to bother with any expensive bicycle clothing technology.

This must be an early pic. Note the single-ply shorts!

Well, that was fine for about two days of riding. Then something unexpected happened-- my ass got sore! My solution: double up the shorts. So on day three, I wore two pairs of my finest. No luck! On day four, I wore all three pairs, but my behind still complained. On day five I found a sporting goods store and bought two pairs of "support" underwear and a big bottle of Gold Bond powder. My attire for the following day was then:
1 t-shirt
2 underwears (laced with Gold Bond)
3 shorts
It looked pretty silly, but surely it would do the trick, no? No. At this point I had to ride with my ass askew on the seat, which made for some challenging situations. I accepted this for a couple of days until we found a bike shop. There I swallowed my pride and purchased two pairs of lycra nuthugger shorts. And damn if they didn't do the trick.

So funny-dressed bicycle-guy, I salute you!
It really does rain in Washington
I've always been enamored with the Pacific Northwest, but everytime I've mentioned relocating to Seattle or Portland friends and family have responded with, "but doesn't it rain 300 days a year there?" And, indeed, talking with people from that area has confirmed this: "Nah, you don't want to move here .. it rains too much!" However, every time I've visited those areas the weather has been quite pleasant. I was in Seattle for a week in February one year and I think it only rained once. I was in Portland on three occassions and it never rained. So I began to suspect a conspiracy meant to keep Californians like myself out of these fine areas. "It's all propoganda!" I claimed. Survey says? ...

Bzzzt! As fate would have it, it rained EVERY DAY we were in Washington and Oregon. I know this because I was on a bike, which offers very little protection against the elements (on a side note, I'd also like to write a strongly-worded letter to Adidas regarding the effectiveness of their "waterproof" jacket). On most days, the rain was accompanied by strong headwinds which converted the droplets into daggers of pain aimed at our faces. But that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? I should be fricken' Superman then.

Son of a...!
Tsunami!
I suppose I ought to mention something about the trip itself. Some of you may recall that there was an earthquake off the coast of Eureka in the middle of June. It so happens that we were on the coast of Eureka on that day, actually in Crescent City, which is maybe 50 miles north, just south of the OR/CA border. Two tired bikers versus one natural disaster makes for a rather amusing story.

We arrived in Crescent City after a long day of biking, around 75 miles through rainy Oregon. We had eaten almost nothing the whole day and were looking forward to a decent meal in one of the local restaurants. Ever since the first week, my friend had been searching for a place where he could get a large piece of fresh halibut. We found a seafood diner that looked like it might appease him. The prices were reasonable and the waitress witty. When my friend asked how big the halibut was, the watress responded with "oh, 'bout 18 ounces". His eyes lit up! I ordered the crab . Oh yeah, we were living the good life.

Just then, a short, portly, middle-aged guy burst into the restaurant. "Tsunami!" he screamed. Then, noticing that we were the only patrons in the place, he approached us. "That means tidal wave."

My friend and I just looked at each other. Would this affect our food situation? I asked the guy, "What do we do?"

"Get out!" he responded emphatically. "Drive to high ground!"

"Uh, we don't have cars" I said. The prospect of biking to high ground at this hour didn't appeal to me. Actually biking to high ground at any hour kind of sucked.

"Then come with me!" He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the seat. My friend was reluctant. It was clear he would rather risk death than give up his elusive halibut meal, but apparantly that wasn't even an option.

The chubby guy (whose name was Jack) rushed us into his pickup truck, which seemed to be on fire and in the wrong gear. Talking a mile a minute, he informed us that the earthquake was causing a tidal wave that was due to hit the coast in ten minutes. The last time this happened was in 1964-- it wiped out half the city. Jack was there for that too.

Before we could get to high ground, though, he had to rush around town to tell everyone he could find. That was his sworn duty as the head of the harbor security patrol. "But we should have a few minutes to get out of here." Encouraging!

So for the next eight minutes or so, I had the unique experience of yelling "Tsunami!" at the top of my lungs to all of the passerbys. Meanwhile, Jack drove like a maniac and my friend lamented his lost fish. Once he was confident that all was well, Jack gunned the engine and led us on a scenic tour through the redwood forest ("the best place we can be"). There we waited for an hour.

Predictably, the tsunami never actually occurred. When all was cleared by the coast guard, Jack drove us back to town. We were staying in a dumpy motel right on the harbor. Should any aftershocks spark a real wave, we'd be the first to feel it! Worse, we were still hungry! So we dined on beef jerky and soda pop from the vending machine. And, despite hunger and fear, we both slept soundly that night. Biking all day is tiring!

In the interest of keeping this blog entry from turning into a novella (and if you've gotten this far, kudos to you!), I'll end my tale here. What I haven't conveyed is the sense of exhiliration that a trip like this provides. One could describe with words or pictures the feeling of riding along the coast in the early morning sun, but the experience of it is needed to do it justice.


Describing with pictures the feeling of riding along the coast in the early morning sun

Now, the experience of riding through the wind and rain with a sore ass, THAT I could do without.