The Dantom Menace

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 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!

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.

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!

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!