Bradezone

I didn’t think I had it in me. Somehow over my extended Christmas break I managed to read seven books. During the last year or so, I had taken a somewhat involuntary hiatus from reading as I’ve become increasingly demanding of the material I take on. If a book can’t grab me within, say, the first 50 pages, why continue? Fortunately my short attention span, which I happen to regard with esteem, was rewarded by many useful tomes during the last couple of weeks. Allow me to share and recommend.

Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie — This short novel was suggested to me and my classmates in Dr. McNeely’s Modern World Literature class as one of his favorites. Since I greatly enjoyed the class, it was only a matter of time before I finally gave this a read. It is a whimsical tale of a boy whose father is a revered storyteller, one who loses his talent the day his wife leaves him. Whereupon Haroun meets a water genie who transports him to a fantasy land covered by an ocean that happens to be the origin of all stories. The ocean is under attack, so of course it’s up to Haroun and his wacky friends to fix things. The more I read of this adventure (and this may sound self-promoting), the more it reminded me of the book Ed and I wrote so many years ago—the next book on this list, in fact. Clearly Rushdie threw caution to the wind and probably had loads of fun writing this novel. The giveaway is the motley crew of characters: a telepathic robot bird, an ugly and tone-deaf yet beloved princess, a couple of talking fish, and a water-walking tree with flowers for eyes. Thus my prevailing impression of the novel is one of weirdness, but the author also makes an admirable point or two about family and creativity. In these aspects he accomplishes precisely what Ed and I set out to do with our story.

“That’s the trouble with you sad city types: you think a place has to be miserable and dull as ditchwater before you believe it’s real.”

The Trials of Kelvin and Isaac Reynolds by N. Brad Garrett and J. Ed Long III — Rushdie’s book inspired me to do what I had put off for a long time: critically reread my own novel and make the necessary edits to enhance its readability. The story that Ed and I created in a flurry of absurdist passion was initially completed back in 1995. I finally self-published the novel in 2006, but I knew that minor changes were needed here and there to provide clarity—as much clarity as we intended, at any rate. So this is what I did with pencil in hand a few weeks ago, and I admit I enjoyed taking the bizarre trek with the Reynolds brothers once more after so long a time. The shiny new version is now available in a smaller-sized paperback with improved text layout at Lulu.com, so please do your old pal Brade a favor and nab a copy.

As they descended down a long winding staircase, he noticed that the wall was finely crafted of exotic red meat. Its intoxicating smell reminded him much of the fine trinkets of Converse. As he continued to descend, ingenuity struck Kelvin. He opened his mouth, placed it on the wall, and continued to walk, all the while getting mouthfuls of delicious tenders.

The Language of God by Francis S. Collins — I had started this one a while ago and finally finished it over my break. This is an absolutely fascinating read by one of the world’s foremost scientists—Dr. Collins heads the Human Genome Project, which successfully interpreted the map of our DNA. The author is a Christian who also believes in the theory of evolution and demonstrates that the two are not mutually exclusive. Now if you’re like me, you’ve heard evolution defended by no one except arrogant blowhards such as Richard Dawkins and everyone who posts on Digg. Rising above this fray, Collins does a very respectable job of presenting the pros of evolution in a sane manner—his points on the second human chromosome and the concept of gene duplication are especially compelling. But though he is a master biologist who shares a trust in evolution with the majority of his peers, I personally am still not fully convinced. The author openly admits on several occasions that our data is incomplete and inferences must be made, but he feels that evolution provides the best framework for understanding life on earth when compared to other theories. I for one can’t shake the thought that scientists and theologists alike are missing some key details that will make the story of our existence more palatable. The sharp contrasts between species (and dearth of transition fossils) still puzzle me, and I wonder how gene duplication could really accomplish all of these changes to such a miraculous extent.

I think we’re missing something. My mind is completely open to truth—if evolution is true I will accept it as such. But I need a lot more study. Dr. Collins cites such Christian stalwarts as Augustine and C. S. Lewis who were unafraid to plead ignorance on the issue of our origins. From my own extensive reading of Lewis, he seems to have been a Christian evolutionist as well. And really, is it any less noble for man to have emerged from a primate than from dust? But for me the jury is still out. The main idea I took from the book is that science does not threaten God and that I should continue to embrace the study of it. I’ve always had an intense interest in “how things work” but have sat on my heels for too long. To that end I have put in my subscription to Scientific American and look forward to finding out more about the amazing world God has created and given us considerable ability to understand.

The God of the Bible is also the God of the genome. He can be worshiped in the cathedral or in the laboratory. His creation is majestic, awesome, intricate, and beautiful—and it cannot be at war with itself. Only we imperfect humans can start such battles. And only we can end them.

The Magician’s Nephew and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis — Professor Lewis is my favorite writer. What he does with prose is a gift the likes of which I cannot fathom. I have read much of his Christian apologetics and some of his fiction, yet I never cracked open The Chronicles of Narnia until just recently. I swiftly made my way through the first two installments (according to the Narnia time line), and my opinion of the author is only strengthened. Everything is so perfectly depicted and paced, the characters earn our immediate sympathy, and the story is told with such jubilation and wonder that I simply get swept up in the current. Reading Lewis always reminds me that I have not in fact become uncultured or ignorant when I find myself utterly bored by lesser writers. Just when I’m ready (even as a writer myself) to proclaim film the primarily effective storytelling medium of the present and future, Lewis reminds me of the unequivocal power of the written word.

The Magician’s Nephew shows us how Narnia came to be, through the eyes and experiences of young Digory and Polly, whose curiosity of Uncle Andrew’s dark magic eventually sets them on a whirlwind adventure, introducing us to such enduring characters as Aslan and the White Witch. The second book has of course been adapted to film, and as it turns out a pretty faithful one. Lewis has a special talent for creating truly distinct characters, as each of the four kids elicits different feelings from the reader. Yet we root for them all to triumph, even troubled Edmund, for we all know someone remotely like him. The final chapter is so poignant, so wonderful—a remarkable celebration of imagination and the memories we hold dear.

And Digory could say nothing, for tears choked him and he gave up all hopes of saving his Mother’s life; but at the same time he knew that the Lion knew what would have happened, and that there might be things more terrible even than losing someone you love by death. But now Aslan was speaking again, almost in a whisper:

“That is what would have happened, child, with a stolen apple. It is not what will happen now. What I give you now will bring joy. It will not, in your world, give endless life, but it will heal. Go. Pluck her an apple from the Tree.”

The Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi — This ancient samurai text, written by a master of sword combat, is a cornerstone of the study of martial arts in Japan and throughout the world. In it the author details his Way of Strategy, a philosophy of combat that requires intense practice, thought, and dedication. The book was a gift from my sister and her husband, and I read the whole thing almost immediately after opening it. Practical truths and keen insight flow freely from its pages, yet these pontifications are framed within the wanton violence of medieval Japan, when shogun warlords ruled with the power of their blades. Musashi goes on to explain the actual sword-fighting techniques of his school, along with their accompanying stances and approaches. I was instantly transported to this alien yet authentic era of brutal combat and artistic refinement, and I came away with a renewed sense of awe for those who are willing to devote their lives to the art of war. As much as some may want to deny it, this art is alive and well and probably will be for some time to come. We should hope that for our own security America continues to be the side whose soldiers practice their art with the mastery they have demonstrated throughout our history.

In general, the Way of the warrior is the brave acceptance of death. Of course, this is true not only for warriors, as even priests, women, farmers, and all sorts of people have sometimes died because of a commitment, or out of shame, but for the warrior it is different.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick — Blade Runner, which is based on this novel, is possibly my favorite film of all time. It is dramatically different from the source material, yet it is a credit to Philip Dick that both are amazing and unforgettable experiences. Sure, the main character of both is a bounty hunter named Rick Deckard who specializes in hunting androids, robotic creations that are much like humans except for a very limited lifespan and a troubling lack of empathy. But the similarities don’t extend much farther than that. For one thing, Rick is married in the book, and one of the main plot threads concerns a new age religion known as Mercerism that is practiced by the few remaining citizens of Earth and promotes empathy towards humankind and animals alike. The author’s vision of a future Earth is one of ruin and decay, a place where one’s status is measured by the pet animal he keeps—animals are now alarmingly scarce, after all. Deckard stays because he is the best at what he does, but what happens once he develops a seemingly unnatural affinity for a mere android named Rachael Rosen? There are many fascinating aspects to Philip Dick’s story, and I dare not spoil any of them for prospective readers. The novel that inspired Ridley Scott’s science fiction masterpiece is a masterpiece of its own—they coexist wonderfully, each possessing the greatest strengths of its medium.

Mercer smiled. “It was true. They did a good job and from their standpoint Buster Friendly’s disclosure was convincing. They will have trouble understanding why nothing has changed. Because you’re still here and I’m still here.” Mercer indicated with a sweep of his hand the barren, rising hillside, the familiar place. “I lifted you from the tomb world just now and I will continue to lift you until you lose interest and want to quit. But you will have to stop searching for me because I will never stop searching for you.”

Dear friends and visitors,

I hope that you will each do me the favor of reading my latest essay, entitled The Nine. I believe that I was in the right place, at the right time, and in the right state of mind to allow my soul to be poured out into this work. I would also value your comments, if indeed you are compelled to leave any, on this page.

Regards,

Brad G.

First things first: I should like to apologize to Mozilla and my literally dozen(s) of readers for lambasting Firefox, the browser we have come to know and love for its speed and reliability. It turns out Firefox is actually just as capable as alleged, but my previous system configuration was apparently not up to the task. I use the term “previous” because with the recent release of the superlative Ubuntu 7.10, I have decided to expunge Microsoft Windows entirely from my system. And not only that, I chose to create a new installation of Ubuntu rather than just upgrading the prior version. During this process, which required the creation of four DVDs with my backed-up files, I must have thought it would be hilarious not to copy onto one of these discs the folder entitled LINUX_STUFF, which contained the entirety of my Ubuntu-specific personal files, such as Firefox bookmarks and add-ons, as well as every line of code I have written since becoming an employee at BigBlueHat. (Cue dramatic music indicating irrevocable tragedy.)

Oh, did I mention we back up all of our code via Subversion, and therefore I didn’t really “lose” anything? I suppose that’s an important detail, although it severely hampers the dramatic impact of my anecdote. And I really did lose my Firefox particulars. But this ended up being a blessing in disguise, as once I had my current system up and running I was forced to commence the bookmarking/adding-on process anew, and uncovered some possible reasons for my aforementioned browser troubles—namely, another session manager extension competing with Firefox’s built-in one, and having Firebug and HTML Validator enabled for all websites and not just localhost. My current Firefox experience is alarmingly fast and stable—after a couple of tweaks, natch—and once again all is right with the world of open source software.

Another significant change—and one that affects you, the steadfast visitor—is my decision to host this site with my employer and dump the deplorable Dreamhost, who should seriously consider changing their name to Nightmarehost after perpetrating an extended era of ineptitude on their customers, myself included. I certainly notice a dramatic increase in the speed of Bradezone, and hopefully you can too.

It has major problems resulting in frequent crashes and hangs. And it is making me cranky.

UPDATE: My anger was misguided.

The camera followed the pitcher, one Mike Bacsik, during pre-game warm-ups. As he executed a rather goofy-looking drill that involved swinging his arms out from his sides and rotating his hips while running sideways, I knew that tonight would be the night. Bacsik looked eminently the part of someone who later that evening would serve up one of the most historic home runs in baseball history, number 756 in the intriguing career of Barry Bonds. Because of the scrutiny and borderline hysteria surrounding this accomplishment, and because of my many years as a devoted fan of baseball, I feel inclined to comment on the event. My first suggestion is that 99% of what you hear from me or anyone else right about now will be rendered pointless in due course. Most are speaking from overriding emotion or a lack of information. I will at least admit to doing this up front. And as I watched the game between the Giants and Nationals last night on ESPN2, my thoughts ran the gamut.

My favorite player of all time is Dale Murphy, the former Atlanta Braves star. Dale was my hero in the late 80’s, toiling for a then-wretched team that happened to have most of its struggles televised every other night on TBS. Dale is quite revered in baseball circles for being a man of unrivaled class and dignity, not to mention his fantastic ability when he was a player. He has removed himself from the limelight since his retirement over a decade ago, so it was a major surprise that during the Giants game the announcers relayed an extended quote attributed to Murphy in the Salt Lake Tribune, wherein he provided his thoughts about Bonds. Simply put, Murphy was quite harsh, calling Bonds out as a bad teammate and a cheater who used steroids to assist him in breaking the most hallowed record in sports—the career home run record once held by Hank Aaron. Of course this accusation is the one that Bonds has faced regularly since he broke the single-season home run record in 2001 and continued to pile up bomb after bomb thereafter, all the while looking quite a bit bulkier than we remembered him in the early 90’s. Murphy’s comments gave me pause, since I greatly admire him as a player and a person, and thus respect his opinions highly when he chooses to offer them. But ultimately I do see things a bit differently.

When I saw Bonds connect for the record-breaker last night, I felt a considerable sense of excitement. Bonds has been the greatest player of my generation, and I have thoroughly enjoyed watching him play the game of baseball at a level beyond elite. I will also admit to a fascination with his personality and his willingness to alienate himself from the media, who often are far too self-righteous and judgmental for their own good. I do not endorse everything Bonds says or does, but I could say this about everyone, even my hero Dale Murphy (although that might require serious effort). I do appreciate players—and people in general—who show a genuine passion about things that are important to them, and over the years I have seen that passion from Bonds. His wife and three kids clearly adore him, and that fact ranks foremost on my list of his admirable qualities. Whatever we find out later about his steroid use (for at present we do not truly know anything), we need to respect his love and commitment towards his family. I have seen several interviews where Bonds becomes emotional when speaking about his family, his teammates, or the fans in San Fransisco who have supported him for years. That resonates with me.

So what do I make of the steroid allegations? Frankly on my list of evils that men perpetrate against society, using steroids probably wouldn’t crack the top 100. While I would never use them or condone their use, I cannot say that my opinion of Bonds would drastically decrease if I found out that he took them. Instead I would probably wonder why he risked his long-term health, because the issue of steroids eventually boils down to one thing: side effects. If steroids were free of side effects and thus legal, they would be sold at every GNC by now, and probably most athletes would be using them. Then the only debate to consider would be the extent to which modern players have an advantage over the players of yesteryear for whom steroids were unavailable, and the impact of that perceived advantage on the record books. I have never been fully convinced by the argument that players are “cheating the game” by using steroids. Players do not—indeed they cannot—change the rules of the game simply by becoming stronger. Becoming stronger is a goal of any athlete. But they still need to go out and display the abilities relevant to their chosen sport. Using steroids without a prescription is illegal solely because of their extreme health risks, and steps were taken to outlaw them only as recently as the late 80’s, after which sports leagues proceeded to ban their use, Major League Baseball doing so much later than others.

Two factors need to be minded in this debate. The first is that steroid use in baseball is just the latest form of “cheating” that has riled sports writers across the country. Each generation has had its share of problems, and I would argue that steroid use is one of the lesser assaults on the actual integrity of the sport. More serious offenses that have plagued the game include gambling and bribery, mainly in the early 1900’s but here and there since. Baseball has also enjoyed a long and storied tradition of players’ attempts at gaining a competitive edge via the use of sandpaper, pine tar, stealing signs, and phantom tags, among others. MLB was also segregated until 1947, so who’s to say whether a black player could not have given Babe Ruth a run for his money on several of his records, or whether Ruth would have had quite as much success if he had had to face the best black pitchers of that day? Personally I feel the Babe might still have been regarded as history’s best player, but my point is that if you want to slap asterisks on Barry’s records, you may as well dole some out to Ruth’s as well.

The second factor we need to remember is that a few decades from now, we will probably view this situation quite differently. I would not be surprised if by that time a “safe steroid” exists that professional athletes will be allowed to use freely to become as strong as they can. Then will we be able to accuse them of cheating? Might we then look back with less chagrin at the accomplishments of Bonds, McGwire, Sosa, and others who have been accused of using strength-enhancing drugs? Did they really disrespect the game of baseball, or did they simply want to become more effective players? Did we as fans enjoy the show? Heck yeah, we did. The celebrations of 1998’s single-season home run chase have now turned into holier-than-thou indignation, and I have a hard time stomaching that. We should not allow the fervor of zeitgeist to sway our emotions so easily. Bonds seems more like a scapegoat right now than a true criminal—many have had a longstanding dislike of him simply because of his aforementioned bouts of impoliteness with the media, so they are merely using the steroid accusations as another excuse to pile on someone they regard as the proverbial spoiled athlete. But as I said before, Bonds has shown an emotional side of himself—the human side that we can all identify with—on a number of occasions, and when I assess his overall worth as a fellow human being, I choose to stand with him, not against him. With all due respect to the living legend himself, Dale Murphy, while you will always be my favorite player, I have to believe that time will bring more clarity to the career of Barry Bonds, and someday we will be able to say that he did much less harm than good.

The fish died today.

E Pluribus Unum, or E. Plurb for short, was snuffed out overnight. Yesterday he had been as giddy as ever, shotputting himself throughout his waterlogged homestead with characteristic gusto. Today he was positioned sideways near the bottom of his refuge, frozen in a majestic pose as if he had thrusted himself to “the other side” readily. My sister had given him to me before she and her husband began their long trek to Toledo. Gleaning that the fish (whom she had named Franco) seemed ill-equipped for such a voyage, she allowed me to assume ownership. Soon afterwards, with the assistance of Ben and Ben, he received his new name in honor of his characteristic eyeballs, which reminded us of the pyramid eyeball on a dollar bill.

For several months thereafter E. Plurb lived life vigorously, chomping his goldfish pellets with a sense of purpose and only rarely pausing in quiet contemplation near the top corner of his abode. So today we see him off. I know not the cause of his expiration—my personal feeling is that either he choked on his food or suffered a heart attack due to hyperactivity—but I do know that BigBlueHat’s mascot will not soon be forgotten.

Look, I’ve got no beef with Greenville, generally speaking. But what in the wide world of sports is the deal with our electrical infrastructure in this town? Every stinking time a rain cloud comes through, not only do massive wads of the city lose power, but the traffic lights on MAJOR ROADS routinely malfunction. When is the last time I have cruised down East North Street during rainy weather with the traffic signals operating normally? WRONG! It was a trick question, the answer is NEVER. And once you hear the crack of thunder, you can forget it, brother. Cars piloted by oblivious ne’er-do-wells will be flying through intersections as if they are avoiding roadside missile launchers.

The situation has become a complete joke. Greenville desperately needs to get its act together and improve our ability to sustain the mildest of summer storms without becoming the prototype for post-apocalyptic turmoil. All we need is ominous blue light throughout the city to complete the effect, but unfortunately that would require electricity, something we’re not great at producing in adverse conditions (if you define “adverse” as “not perfect”).

Perhaps one problem is the overabundance of traffic lights that need power. Witness the fact that 80% of the signals on East North are blatantly unnecessary and may actually include several private driveways (this data is currently unconfirmed). I advise getting rid of these lights and instituting a more sane solution that involves posting STOP signs at insignificant side streets. Seriously, what have some of these roads done to merit their own traffic signals, and why do they so often generate red lights for the main traffic on East North? I realize that 90% of the residents in this town prefer a driving pace somewhere between “leisurely” and “clinically dead,” but some of us tend to prefer a more efficient approach to travel.

I have said my piece. Now I challenge you, Greater Greenville Area, to step up to the plate and generate a solution. HINT: see previous paragraph for tips on a possible solution.

In the mid-80’s a cartoon series was broadcast that shaped a generation of dudes who needed the occasional break from people to watch a bunch of big honkin’ robots fight each other and transform into cool crap in the process. I am one such dude from that generation, and the cartoon I speak of is none other than The Transformers. Many years later a live action flick is now on the way, and as a lifelong fan of Autobots and even some Decepticons, my opinion on the matter is needed.

Wired magazine’s newest issue features an article about the new movie and its director, Michael Bay, who has put out various unimpressive tripe over the years. In response to the article, I wrote the following letter:

I suspect that the final question posed in your Michael Bay article best captures what Transformers fans such as myself are wondering: will we even recognize Optimus Prime (or anyone else) when we see him in Bay’s live action experiment gone awry? I have tried to remain open-minded about the new movie, hoping that it will deliver something for me to get excited about, but it’s starting to look like Megan Fox might be the only surefire reason to check it out. I don’t demand much from the story. I just want the characters I grew up with to look like themselves. Bay’s supreme arrogance and disregard for fans’ memories came through strongly in your article, and that type of attitude could spell disaster for the film, which really only needed to portray the original character designs faithfully to ensure success. These new bots look no better than those cheap knockoffs that used to be foisted upon us by Family Dollar and the like. Even as a kid, I knew they weren’t good enough. Why should things be any different now?

That sums up my feelings at present. I will watch the movie, and I will try to latch on to the entertaining aspects of it, as some are apparently able to do. But I have little doubt that it will fail mightily to live up to the 1986 animated movie that my fellow Transformers fans and I remember so fondly.