Guest Blog: F. Radcliffe AKA My Sister

The following is a guest post from my sister. Enjoy!

EWWWWW.*

Having just prepared and eaten a tasty repast, I was ready to settle back down to work. I decided to pop in an episode of The Outer Limits since my work is so boring. But guess who ate right through the video cable even though I got a brand-new entertainment center to stop this kind of shenanigan? That's right: my youngest cat Parker, henceforth to be known (at least for the duration of the afternoon), as The Little Shit.

So I went into my room and got a new cable and came back out to the living room and moved the entertainment center and put in the new cable and put the entertainment center back and turned everything on and sat back down in front of my laptop.

I opened Kensington, my long-suffering laptop, to discover a bug upon his keyboard. Sort of a little grub thing, amber in color and about a centimeter long. I called The Little Shit to come eat it and reached for my Swiss Army knife to lift it onto the floor. When I turned around again, it was to the sight of the bug's wee bottom disappearing under one of the keys.

So I used the knife to lever the keys partway up without snapping them out of the keyboard, to see where the bug had gone. It was under the "P." I snapped the P all the way out of the keyboard and saw that the bug was firmly wedged underneath a little scissor-lift-type mechanism that gives the keys their bounce. And that there was bug goo on said mechanism, because when I had levered the key up from the bottom edge, of course the upper edge went down, right SQUISH! on the bug.

But it wasn't dead. Oh, no. It was alive enough to wriggle itself firmly under the mechanism where no knife edge could reach it.

Now, I should explain that it is very hot in my apartment. Despite the fact that I've had the air conditioner running since yesterday, the thermometer's needle is so far to the right there aren't any more numbers for it to play with. And my thermometer goes to seventy-five, so it's got to be at least eighty and--I'm just guessing here--roughly 9000% humidity.

So I'm getting pretty exasperated at this point at the heat and at The Little Shit and at the fact that my computer has a literal bug in it, and I decide to bring out the big guns. I plug in the vacuum and aim the hose at the keyboard.

This is when my circuit overloads.

Now, I'm afraid that if I leave the bug out of my sight long enough to go down and flip the fuse box, it will burrow under some other key and I will never find it again and it will die an ignoble and sticky death* and then get roasted some day when Kensington has been running for like five hours and is nice and hot and then I will smell dead bug toast.

I do not, on the whole, desire to smell dead bug toast.

So I drag Kensington and the vacuum into the next room and plug it into a socket that still works and try to vacuum the bug out. But it must be bag-changing time, because the hose not only fails to suck up the bug, it actually SPITS OUT A DIFFERENT BUG onto my keyboard. I suck bug #2 back up right quick and put the hose away.

At this point it's pretty clear that bug #1 is d-a-i-d dead. So I give up and accept that I'm a murderer, and go downstairs to flip the switch on the fuse box. On the way I smell that my downstairs neighbors are cooking something delicious and that makes me hate them a little because how come they get to eat delicious-smelling food all the time that makes me feel at once hungry, and bad about my own salami-based lunch, and hot because of that whole convection thing? Bah!

And also, I pause to check my mail, which contains only a very large bill. Apparently it is not chewing gum that hinders my ability to walk, it is trying to open an envelope, because my foot swings out in a wild trajectory, lands on the hem of my BRAND NEW REALLY ADORABLE SKIRT (the purchase of which, incidentally, brings my skirt-owning total to two) and rips a gaping hole in it. Great. See, clearly this is why I shouldn't own skirts. Or vacuums. Or laptops. Or TVs. Or--and this one is important--cats.

So when I come back the air conditioner is back on although there is no discernible drop in temperature. I put the vacuum away and take Kensington into the bathroom, where by a cunning triple deployment of moisturizing stick, tweezers, and Q-tip I am able to scrape maybe a third of the bug out from under the P.

I decide that now that the bug is dead and there is nothing I can do about the dead bug toast, I might as well pop the P key back in place and go ahead and type upon it for all it's worth--surely the bug can't get any more squished, or dead, than it already is.

After I do this, I realize that I don't ever use that P key.

A couple of years ago, The Little Shit fed Kensington some lemonade** and ever since then, I've used a wireless Bluetooth keyboard. So I should have just let that stupid little bug hide under the keys to his little buggy heart's content.

The Moral of the Story Is: Well, actually, I don't know what the moral of the story is. Like the fable of the Cop and the Flaming Squirrel, every step seemed right at the time. When one is sitting down to brainstorm ways to get a bug out from under one's keyboard, one is generally too focused on that specific problem to ask whether one really needs to get said bug out of one's keyboard. So I suppose the moral is, Always ask yourself whether you really ought to do that thing you're about to do.


*A phrase I stole from my friend, Kate. She used it to refer to a plum getting squished in the grocery bag.

**And by "lemonade," I might mean "beer."

*This post rated TV-MA for language.

See? That was fun! Anyone else want to give it a shot?

CAPS LOCK JULIE

I've started a new story. Don't think I didn't hear that collective groan. "Why, Julia?" you say, "Why are you telling us about YET ANOTHER story that you will NEVER FINISH?"

"No," you continue, holding up a hand, "I don't want to hear about it. You will only tease me and never let me read it."

I'm sorry, I have to interrupt your protestations to tell you that I am at work and I just looked out the window for a bit of inspiration and I saw a girl walking with her boyfriend across the (very busy) street and she is NOT WEARING SHOES. I hate to use a newfangled expression, but the only thing I can think of to describe how I'm feeling is: WTF. PUT SOME SHOES ON YOU NUTCASE! THIS IS NYC, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT'S DOWN THERE. RATS HAVE PROBABLY POOPED ON THAT PAVEMENT.

Whew. She's gone. I feel better now.

Where was I? Oh right, I was telling you how you feel about my starting a new story. Don't you love when I do that? You have NO CONTROL. MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

Ahem.

The caps key is getting quite a workout today.

Hmm, that reminds me of another post that I have partially finished in the little notebook I carry with me everywhere I go. It was about guest blogs. I wanted to offer my readers a chance to write a post of their own! Now, I know that some of you already have places to ramble incoherently just as I do (actually, you people tend to ramble much more coherently than I...) but for those of you who don't, I offer the use of my blog. Do you have something on your mind that you'd like to get off your chest? (If so, you are probably confused about anatomy. Why not blog about it and let us share in your confusion!) Perhaps Elizabeth would like to share her bookmark story? It would go nicely with my bra strap story. No pressure. I'm just putting it out there.

I am now severely off-topic. That's the problem with not thinking things through before I start writing. YOU NEED A PLAN JULIA!

It's a sci-fi story (surprise!) but humorous. Not at all serious science fiction. It's about a rather cowardly bunch of space-cargo-moving-sometimes-illegal-smugglers-sometimes-legal-shippers-sort-of. Confused? As am I. They're like UPS, but in space. And sometimes on the wrong side of the LAW. "The LAW will judge YEW!" *Snork*

It's from first-person perspective. How do I know this? That's just how it appeared in my head. I 'heard' the main character's voice speaking to me quite clearly. She's a mechanic.

We call him the Alien because, well, he's an alien. Also, no one can pronounce his actual name. If you were to write it it might look something like this: Hurmnrkk. Saying it involves a great deal of teeth grinding and gargling with broken glass. In other words, I wouldn't recommend it. We also call him Granite for his stony appearance and demeanor. And sometimes Chatterbox for the way he never says a word. Seriously, I think I've only heard him speak a handful of times in my whole four years on board. Most of those were "no", "yes", "perhaps", and "please". Generally, he just sort of looks at you and grunts. A lot of the security guys are the same way, but that's because they have more muscles than brains. Somehow, I don't think that's the case with ol' Granite Face. His race is known for their intelligence. How the hell he ended up with this motley crew, I have no idea. I started to ask him once, but he just blinked at me.

That could probably use a bit of editing, but I just wanted to give you a snippet because I'm mean.

Deal with it.

JULIA OUT.

I Coulda Been a Sprinter

I went for a jog the other night ten days ago. (This post is severely delayed because my mother was visiting, and I just don't do things like finish typing up my blog posts while she's here. There are more important things to do, like go shopping, and to the Natural History Museum, and the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and play Bananagrams. I will now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.) Why? It's hard to say.

"Classified?"
"No, just difficult to pronounce."

Sorry for the tangent. That's one of my favorite quotes from Stargate SG1, another nerd show with the word 'star' in the title with which I have been obsessed. Where was I? Jogging, right.

I have, perhaps, mentioned that Saturdays leave me a bit tasted, chewed, swallowed, and vomited-back-up feeling.

That was a little graphic, sorry.

In other words, it is the longest stretch of time in which I have to pretend that I am a nice, normal young woman who likes being around people. This is, of course, a complete sham. Except the 'woman' part. I won't classify myself as 'young' because I'm too cynical.

Wow, the tangents are zooming left, right, front, and back. Watch out, they travel at high velocity and could be dangerous if you get too cose.

Right, back on track.

For some reason, I was feeling less masticated than usual. As I was walking home, plugged into my iPod as usual (it cuts down on people-interaction, and makes me feel like my life has a soundtrack,) when a particularly groove-worthy song came on. Suddenly I thought, "I feel like going for a run."

Then, "But I should really run in the morning because they say that's better for your metabolism."

"Who is this 'they' of which you speak? And why would 'they' want to squash my running urge?"

"True, I most likely will not feel like running tomorrow morning. I should just do it now, while I'm in the mood."

"Right. Now, the trick is to stay in the mood long enough for it to happen. That means no getting comfortable, just drop off your stuff, change as quickly as possible and head back out before you can convince yourself that you'd really rather have a bit of dinner and Star Trek.'

By this time, I was at my door. I dropped everything, changed at Warp 7, and was back out before my Laziness could catch up to me.

I didn't want to go around the whole park because it was evening, and that would take too long. So, instead, I ran next to the park for a ways, then dived into it and wound up following another girl who had apparently had the same conversation in her head.

The great thing about running where other people can see you is that they act as a motivator. For some reason, my pride gets all bent out of shape if I have to walk for a while to catch my breath when other people are around. This keeps me running for longer stretches of time and forces me to recognize that no, I'm not going to die if I keep it up for another block. And another. And another.

Some people get more and more motivated as they exercise, but for me there always comes a point at which I've really had enough. I struggled home, stripped down, showered, then sat myself down and relaxed for the rest of the evening. About 2 hours later I felt really good, the endorphins doing their job I guess. Where were you when I was running? I asked them ruefully. They just shrugged and smiled and said, "See, exercise does make you feel good!"

Grumble.

Yeah, until the following day when I rolled out of bed and made a sound like "HyGAAAAYAHooooooh". And for several days after that, too.

Sigh.

This is the problem with sporadic running. Oh well. Better than nothing, I guess. But I actually really like the sensation of running. I love going really fast down a hill and feeling like I might just lift into the air before I reach the bottom. It's the endurance I don't do so well with. I should have been a sprinter. Another missed calling in life.

Angry Babble

I had a post in mind, but I'm too angry now to focus on it. How can I be having a perfectly nice day one moment, only to have it bombed into oblivion by a rude customer the next? And I am certain that this girl will not give it another moment's thought, while her comments will ring in my ears for at least another hour. It's not fair!

I'd tell you about it, but I won't do it justice.

OK, I'll tell you a little of it.

She was rude from the moment she walked in, but let's skip that and move right to the part where she's breezing through our sale items and then has the gall to ask "So, when are these going to be cheap? I mean, this t-shirt is still $40, I could get something cheaper at American Apparel."

I think I have talked about 3 dot t-shirts on this blog before. Specifically, about how they are made entirely in the USA with USA materials. American Apparel (despite the name) is made in China, for $2, which is why they can mark them down to $5 and still be making a profit. Once we mark things down past 50%, we are taking a loss.

I wanted to say, "Then why don't you go shop at American Apparel?" but all I could do was stutter, and say, "Uh, I'm not sure."

"OK," she said, "I'll come back when they're less," and walked out.

"OK, thank you," I called after her in my sweetest voice. I like to take the high road whenever I can.

Why? Why does she think that sort of behavior is acceptable? Why can't she just say 'thank you' and walk out? That's what I do when I go into a store that I cannot afford. A few weeks ago, I went into a new second-hand shop that had opened near Otto. Everything was vintage, and there was a whole wall of shoes. I said 'hello' and smiled at the salesgirl, then picked up a pair of cute shoes. They were $400. I put them down very carefully, took one last eye-sweep of the store, said 'thank you' and walked out. They were Manola Blahnicks or whatever (you know, that famous shoe thingy, I'm not great with brand names...) and so I knew they must have been expensive, still, I thought $400 was a little much for used shoes. But did I say that to the salesgirl? No.

We often have people ask when things will go on sale, and, while I would never ask that question, I don't mind other people asking, so long as they do so politely. And I will answer them honestly.

A few weeks ago, a girl was buying a bathing suit, and she asked, "Now, are these going to be on sale in a week?" Annette admitted that they were planning on putting them on sale the very next week, and offered to give her a discount. The girl was happy with her discount, and went on her merry way. See what being nice will get you? (It should be noted that she was a very sweet girl, who would have bought the suit anyway. But this way, everyone leaves happy.) And believe me, I love making a customer happy. Especially one who is nice to me.

On Monday, a woman who is a regular customer came in. She was distraught because her dog had just passed away, and she was trying to take her mind off it. She asked to see a bag that she had been looking at for a while. It was one of our more expensive bags, and she said she had been hesitating because of the price. I happened to be alone, but I felt confident that Annette and Deirdre would approve the next words to come out of my mouth. "You could have it for 20% off," I told her. The week previous, we had made all handbags 20% off for a special neighborhood event. This woman had missed the event, but I knew her well enough to know her first name, so I figured we could let it slide. Besides, her dog just died. She was grateful, and asked if we could hold it, and let her pay it off a little at a time. I told her we would be happy to, and that she could take as long as she wanted, still certain that A and D would agree with me.

And when Deirdre returned the next day? "Oh sure, that's not a problem. Of course she can have it for 20% off!"

"I knew that's what you would say," I replied with a smile.

Tears will also get you pretty far in my book. Rudeness, however, will get you nowhere. It won't even get you past the cover.

I understand not being able to afford certain things, which is why I believe in peppering my wardrobe with a few nice, expensive items, while the majority is made up of less expensive stuff from places like Target. It is a necessary balance for those of us who have to look professional, but don't have a lot of income.

OK, I've ranted myself into silence. I need to go eat dinner now before I faint (all that righteous anger burns calories).

Sorry, I'll try for a more upbeat post next time. Something more in the amusing-anecdote vein than the angry-babble.

Young Geek Philosopher (No, that's not a typo...)

OK, I will attempt to be eloquent on very little sleep.

I recently watched an episode from Star Trek: The Next Generation entitled The Measure of a Man. It revolved around my favorite character, Data, who I believe I have mentioned before as being an android. What I may not have mentioned is that he is an android who greatly admires and wishes to emulate human beings. He is not programmed to feel emotions, and yet there have been several instances which might be cited to show that he is capable of feeling something.

So far I have seen him attempt to learn the basics of humor, become obsessed with the stories of Sherlock Holmes, and grieve for the loss of a friend. In that last instance, he made a rather astute observation regarding funerals. He told Captain Picard that he thought a funeral was supposed to be about the person who had died, and yet he found his thoughts preoccupied with himself, and how empty his life would be without her. He asked if he had missed the point, but Picard assured him that he hadn't missed it at all.

In The Measure of a Man, a Starfleet scientist named Maddox (an expert in cybernetics, and someone who has studied Data in particular) wishes to dismantle Data in an attempt to understand and replicate the means by which he was created. Backstory: Data was found on an abandoned planet by a team of Starfleet officers. He knows that he was created by Dr. Soong, a man who theorized and created the positronic brain (which was first conceived of by Isaac Asimov). (Hmm, should I assume you know who he is? I do, but then I'm a sci-fi nut. Suffice it to say, Asimov wrote science fiction.) He chose to enter Starfleet academy and become an officer in honor of those who found and rescued him.

This does have a point, I promise.

Anyway, Data decides he doesn't really want to be dismantled because he doesn't have faith that they will be able to correctly re-mantle him. (I know it's not a word, deal with it.) Maddox obtains transfer papers which require Data to leave the Enterprise and work directly under his command. Data decides to resign. And here's where things get sticky. Maddox proposes that Data is not able to resign because he is not an individual, he is property.

I think he put it like this: "Would you allow the Enterprise computer to resign?"

Picard appeals to the woman who is judging the case, but she rules that "Data is a toaster," and must therefore do as he's told. I, at this point, began throwing things at the screen and calling her some not-very-nice names. A toaster indeed! What nerve!

Picard agreed with me, and began putting together a formal trial to determine Data's rights.

And in it, he must prove that Data is a sentient being.

He asks Maddox "What are the characteristics of a sentient being?" and Maddox replies they are "intelligence, self-awareness, and consciousness". He then asks Maddox to prove that he, Picard, is a sentient being.

Can you prove that you are a sentient being? I'm not sure there are words. We are sentient because we know that we are. But that is not proof. Try proving to someone that you have your own individual thoughts. I think, therefore I am, right?

In the end, the judge relents. She says that the real issue they have been 'dancing around' is: does Data have a soul. "I don't know that he has. I don't know that I have. But I'm not going to stand in the way of him finding out for himself." (Keep in mind that I'm doing this from memory, so it's paraphrased.)

Prove that you have a soul.

If you can, then show me how. I don't think the importance of who we are can be explained in words such as 'soul' or 'consciousness'. It is felt, deep down in our bones. We just know that we exist. That we are.

This is the very heart of what I love about science fiction. It's not about the aliens or the explosions or the cool technology (although, it's all of this, as well) it's what the stories reveal about the human condition. What are we? What is our future? What are our limits? Our possibilities? These are the questions that all science fiction attempts to answer. It is philosophy and fantasy all wrapped up in one adventure-filled package.

Some science fiction plot lines explore ethical concerns analogous to the concerns of advocates of animal rights. In an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, "The Measure of a Man," Data, a sentient android, takes legal action to prove that he has the same rights as a human being. In the Star Trek: Voyager episode "Author, Author" the Doctor, a holographic program by nature, fights for his rights as a sentient lifeform. The film Artificial Intelligence: A.I. considers a machine in the form of a small boy which has been given the ability to feel human emotions, including the capacity to suffer. In these examples, sentience plays the same role as it does in the philosophy of animal rights.

Another thing I like about science fiction: the stories can also serve as analogies to issues we face in the here and now.

In the episode, Picard has a conversation with Guinan (the bartender in the ship's lounge, played by Whoopi Goldberg as a semi-regular character) about how the trial is going. At that moment, he feels that he is about to lose, and Guinan begins talking to him about Maddox's proposal to replicate Data, and the issue of 'disposable people' came up. And with that, comes the issue of slavery. I found the clip on youtube, so you can watch it instead of me trying to explain.

Skip to about 4 minutes in. It's short, I promise. Whoops, I just saw it can't be embedded, so you'll have to go to youtube. Watch it here.

Once you stop laughing at Guinan's ridiculous hat, you have to admit, it's interesting. Erm, the scene, not her hat. (Although I find that very interesting as well, just in a different way.)

And as computers become more and more advanced, this is perhaps not too far from issues we'll face in the future. Heck there are already debates on when life becomes Life. Is this all that different?

Science Fiction: not just for Geeks, it's also for Philosophers.

I like to think I'm both.

Patchwork Red-neckery

This was supposed to be a post composed of all those little things that I think of during the day which, by themselves, don't really make up a full post, but which I have been collecting in hopes of making a sort of patchwork post. That is, of course, assuming that ANY of my posts (or sentences, for that matter) are at all coherent.

There's just one itsy-bitsy problem with that plan: I don't normally write these random witticisms down, and therefore do not remember any of them. I realized this today after having thought one of my random thoughts, which prompted me to also think, 'Hey, I should add that to my Random Post (working title)," and then forgetting it later in the day. How was the tense in that sentence? All over the place? Yeah, I thought so. Sigh. It's a Saturday, and I always feel a bit run over on Saturdays.

One might wonder why I am always so concerned about my grammar and spelling. Perhaps it is because so many of my generation are NOT AT ALL concerned about such things, and go around sounding like complete idiots or insufferable twits.

It should be noted, that this concern only spreads as far as I allow it. I have a very specific 'voice,' and I try to write the way I speak. This can result in fragmented sentences as well as very long, rambling ones (for examples, read this blog). I feel that I can get away with this in a blog because it is very much like a diary. Except public. In a way, it's like reality tv...weird. I attempt to represent myself honestly. This is also why I utilize the full range of my vocabulary. Or try to anyway. Erudite. Discombobulated. Quixotic.

My goodness. Did you know that there is a website called Urban Dictionary where people post their own made up words? I just searched recombobulate (because surely if you can dis, you ought to be able to re, and also I think I've heard my sister use it in a sentence...) and it came up on this website. There's also recurt, red-neckery, and redonkculous. And that's just the R's.

Hmm, this post is turning into a patchwork anyway. Yay! Mission accomplished!

Bored now. I'm going to go watch Star Trek. Which reminds me of the other post I wanted to - erm - post. Yes, it's about Star Trek, but only as a means of expressing my reasons for loving sci-fi in general. It's a very serious post though, and I'm not sure I'm up to it because, believe it or not (but do, because I'm not lying), it actually requires a bit of research.

Ooooooh! How wet is your whistle now?

Facepalm.

Sometimes I just shouldn't let my fingers near a keyboard.