dreadcrumbs

Captain Power and The Tungsten Kid

As a side effect of reading comic books from a very early age, I have always wanted to be a superhero. I wanted abilities beyond that of normal men, and a spiffy costume that I looked good in. I wanted to save people from certain death or dismemberment, defeat the plots of evil cabals, and generally leave bystanders in dumbstruck awe whenever I flew/ran/leaped by.

That hasn't happened, of course. And since we pretty much know that superheroes are all between the ages of 17 and 35, I'm fast running out of time to strike fear into the heart of evil. I doubt I would ever look good in skintight colors, no matter how much exercise I do. I could maybe do some kind of next-generation superhero costume with combat boots and a trenchcoat, I guess. I've got the abilities beyond that of normal men taken care of, and I save people from death and dismemberment every day by being a safe driver. I think I'm defeating the plots of evil cabals, but there are always more plots. And nobody tells me about the really evil ones.

The real problem is that I'm not leaving people in dumbstruck awe, I guess. At least not the good "what a magnificent specimen of heroism" dumbstruck awe. I occasionally get the "what is that thing and what is it doing" dumbstruck awe, but that isn't really what I'm looking for.

So, alas, like many fathers, my current plan live vicariously through my son as he embarks on the metahuman adventures I herd him toward. Now if I can just figure out how get radioactive spiders into his crib without my wife knowing...

Microstory Monday

Bright Lights, Big Trouble
I woke to lights. It was three in the morning, and all of the lights in the house were on.
As I moved to get up, a voice outside my window shouted, "I turned them on so you could see the viscera when Kevin opens you. It's a sight you really shouldn't miss."
And then someone was in the bedroom doorway. I think it was Kevin.

The Abdominal Snowman

At some point in the last, say 15 years, I have developed an intense aversion to snow. Waking up in the morning to see a carpet of snow on the ground should remind me of Christmas, or winter vacation or something. Instead, it fills me with dread. Particularly of driving.

I wasn't always like this. I remember having a '78 Ford Fiesta that I tooled around in my Senior year of High School. I remember it snowed particularly heavy that winter, but I don't remember having any problem with it. Now, though, snowfall creates a haven for razor-bladed butterflies in my stomach.

I wish I could say it was because I once lost control of my car in a snowstorm and plowed into a highly populated bunny hutch, crushing all the adorable rabbits under the unforgiving weight of my tires, but I can't. I mean, maybe I've blocked it out, but I can recall no snow-related trauma. (fog trauma, sure, but who hasn't lost a friend or two from poison fog?)

My current operating theory is that my psychic prowess has steadily increased over the years, and I am only now feeling either:

• the terrified telepathic cries of snowflakes falling to certain death, or 
• channeling the wandering spirits of those pioneers who slowly froze to death in the western wastelands of yore

Either way, it's bad news. I'm either going to have to live with the anxiety that a constant pervasive sense of suffering provides, or learn to savor the pain of others like a cool lemonade on a hot day.

Frank vs. Ted

I found a dime on the floor of my cubicle about a month ago. I put it on my desk phone, nestled between the "Spkr" and "Mute" buttons. I think I was in the middle of something at the time, I'm not sure. I just didn't put it in my pocket, and now it has become part of my rather spartan decorating scheme.

The funny thing is, there is a guy at work who I think is bugged by it. For the first few weeks whenever he would come by my desk to ask something, I would see his eyes dart to the dime and back, repeatedly. Eventually, about a week ago, he finally asked, a little annoyed, why there was dime on my phone, was there something special about it or something. I said, "No, I just like the idea of having Roosevelt watching over me as I work." He sort of smiled, not sure whether I was joking or not, and told me I might have to move it if I ever want to use the "Mute" button.

I had since forgotten the encounter. So today, when the gentleman in question sidled up to my desk and asked, "So, uh, you like teddy bears?" I was understandably disturbed.

But I came to understand, after a lengthy recounting of that old chestnut about how stuffed bears came to be named "teddy," that he was referring to Roosevelt (the one not on the dime), and assumed I was a big fan. Because, you know, only an obsessive Roosevelt freak would openly display dimes.

I didn't disabuse him of the idea, though. He inadvertently gave me a way to justify my enormous collection of Care Bears paraphernalia. Perhaps now I can display my rare "Bashful Heart Bear" openly. I may even bring it to work. You know, to show my Roosevelt pride.

Smelling as Sweet

I had to do a couple of "virtual" meetings for work yesterday. It was basically watching a powerpoint presentation over the web and listening to the people in the physical meeting over conference call.

And yes, as you suspect, the meeting was entirely excitement-free. To deal with the mounting monotony, whenever things became unbearably bland, I would log off of the online presentation, and then log back in again with a different name.

There was no need to truly identify myself, so I started out as Howard Gruber. About 15 minutes into it, I became Hamilton Smee. Then I was Rob Clamato for about ten minutes, at which point I logged in as Gordy "The Cat" Anderson. As things were wrapping up, Gordy logged off and MC WeaselFuzz joined the show.

I didn't think it was that big of a deal, assuming that no one except the presenter would ever see my names. However, it turns out that in the main, "live" meeting, the presenter's computer happened to be connected to a projector. So everytime someone new logged on, a little message popped up for everyone to see.

No biggie though. With some discreet questioning, I discovered that people didn't think anything of it. They thought the new attendees were actual employees. I guess people are much more accepting of difference than I imagined.

I guess I can go ahead and change my legal name to "Ambassador Biscuit." That's a relief.

Managerial Bionics & Business Strategy

So I'm in a meeting at work, and they're talking about actors. But by actors they mean the different people that use our products, not folk like the Clints Eastwood and Howard. The conversation went like this:

Suit #1: Are we talking here about human actors or machine actors?
Suit #2: Either. Both. We're talking about human and machine actors.
Me: As well as those unfortunate souls who are an unholy fusion of both.
Suit #2: Right. So we're going to have to deal with all actors in the spec documents.
Suit #1: Fine, just as long as we acknowledge that from the beginning.

They didn't miss a beat. So it begs the question: Do they even listen to me at all in these meetings?

Or, perhaps more disturbing: Do we have a cyborg user base that I was unaware of?

Because if we do, I want to get in on those customer meetings as soon as possible.

Not Exactly A Microstory Monday

Overheard
"Which would you be more disturbed to hear on your answering machine, a gagged person screaming or a gagging person screaming?"
"Hard to say. Is the gagging person vomiting?"
"I think so."
"I'll go with that, then."

The Truth About Light

Mr. Roy G. Biv has been lying to us. Like all good post-industrial members of Leviathan, you probably have a fairly concrete idea of what colors make up the light spectrum. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet. In that order.

Absolute hogwash.

Well, okay, not all of it. Just the "indigo" part. I mean, seriously. Let's use the "Fruit Proof" to determine the reality of a thing. Apples are Red. Check. Oranges are orange. Check. We've got lemons, grapes, blueberries, and, well, grapes again. Notice anything? No indigo. It doesn't exist.

Now don't get all fitsy because you've seen something that was dark blue before. The shade exists, certainly. It's prominence in the spectrum is the insidious thing. It's like somebody just randomly created a word, let's say "Spet," and declared it was the number between five and six. So counting to ten suddenly really became counting to eleven, because someone stuck a fake number in there. "Spet" is really equal to 5.5, but because it gets its own name, it screws everything up.

Now before you shake your head and mutter "Gee, Dean. Obsessive much?" let me explain why They stuck indigo in there. Light (think fiber optics) is actually communication. For years, alien benefactors have been beaming the specifications for plasma emitters, teleportation suits, and Very Comfortable Hats to us, hidden in the light of the sun. Our overlords don't want us to have this information, so they messed up our whole concept of the light spectrum so we'd never be able to translate the messages.

You can think I'm crazy if you want, but in a couple years when you see me teleport into the U.N. assembly in my magnificent hat, you'll know I'm about the lay the smack down. That's right. Step off, Indigo. You don't know me.

The Truth About Free Will

Have you ever done something that later you realized made absolutely no sense? I once wrote "Beware of Goat" on a post-it note and stuck it under a cabinet in one of my apartments in college. No one would ever see it, not unless they were lying on the countertop for some reason. And even if they did, it's not really that funny. Who knows, it may still be there, depending on the strength of post-it glue. But why did I do it? Unknown. Also, I was really into the Smurfs as a kid. Yeah. I don't know either.

Probably more common, though, is seeing other people do or say things that are completely baffling. I mean, people do and say things all the time that I wouldn't do, but you can often puzzle out their motivations, and the universe can still make some sort of sense.

But sometimes, you can't make those motivations out. Or if you can, they don't really make sense. Like seeing someone drink their own urine, cut lines into their arms (unless they're keeping a tally of how many people they've knocked off), or be mean. Really, there isn't any reason to be mean unless you have a legitimate shot at being a regional dictator.

I bring all this up, though, to call your attention to the reason why people do such unintelligible things.

Orbital Mind Control Lasers.

People that do have a shot at being regional (or world) dictators are using terrible technology to make you do things you wouldn't otherwise do. It's the only plausible explanation (I have other, less plausible ones). I mean, if there weren't such things, that would mean the entire world was insane. Or stupid. Or both. That's ridiculous, so put on your tinfoil hats. It blocks the lasers.

The Truth About Birth

There are things that they don't tell you until you have a child. They make you promise not to tell anyone, but I'm going to tell you anyway. If you have a child already, then you know what I'm going to say.

There is a terrible cost associated with having a child. Not only must you pay the exorbitant insurance fees, but you must pay the hospital's patron. If I understand the dark secret correctly, each facility where children are born (and each midwife) has someone or something that acts as gatekeeper to the energies of life and health. I don't want to get too metaphysical here, but you didn't think that normal, everyday people could create life, did you? Without the patron lending its support, children are either stillborn, or, more commonly, born without souls. You all know people like that.

Anyway, that's all well and good, and I'm sure you don't see a problem with it, as surprising as it is, but what you have to pay the patron isn't money. It's baby meat. They eat it. Yes, yes, I know. Shocking. Unbelievable. But true. A lot more twins are born that anyone lets on. One of them just gets fed to the patron, and everyone forgets about it.

My wife and I were lucky enough to be at a clever hospital that just feeds the patron the afterbirth. Apparently it can't really tell the difference, as it tastes the same. Not that I'd know, since I couldn't possibly have any idea what afterbirth or baby meat tastes like. I mean, how could I? That's crazy talk.