http://odeo.com/channels/3343-The-Seanachai no The official podcast of author Patrick E. McLean. The official podcast of author Patrick E. McLean. The official podcast of author Patrick E. McLean. Averaging 5-7 minutes in length, these pieces involves skillful sound design that enhance and move the telling forward. Most episodes are funny, some are moving, but each and every one takes full advantage en 40 Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:50:54 -0700 Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:50:54 -0700 Arts http://odeo.com/episodes/25395491-The-Vampire-in-My-Face-Pt-II The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-27,25395491 Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:50:54 -0700 no The Seanachai Episodes, The Vampire in My Face http://odeo.com/episodes/25399240-The-Vampire-in-My-Face-Pt-II The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. The worst monsters are the one’s who believe they have your best interest at heart. tag:odeo.com,2009-10-27,25399240 Tue, 27 Oct 2009 12:50:54 -0700 no The Seanachai Episodes, The Vampire in My Face http://odeo.com/episodes/24549055-The-Vampire-in-My-Face-Pt-I Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? tag:odeo.com,2009-05-14,24549055 Thu, 14 May 2009 19:49:15 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Funny, Episodes, vampire, The Vampire in My Face http://odeo.com/episodes/24555222-The-Vampire-in-My-Face-Pt-I Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? Everybody knows that Vampires can’t die. So why am I surprised that he’s back? tag:odeo.com,2009-05-14,24555222 Thu, 14 May 2009 19:49:15 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Funny, Episodes, vampire, The Vampire in My Face http://odeo.com/episodes/24549056-The-Vampire-Remastered In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-13,24549056 Wed, 13 May 2009 04:55:20 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24555223-The-Vampire-Remastered In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. In this case, the past genuinely is prologue. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-13,24555223 Wed, 13 May 2009 04:55:20 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24523734-Cinco-De-Harwood It’s my new favorite holiday. It’s my new favorite holiday. It’s my new favorite holiday. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-01,24523734 Fri, 01 May 2009 08:04:32 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, Seth Harwood, Jack Wakes Up, cinco de mayo http://odeo.com/episodes/24524529-Cinco-De-Harwood It’s my new favorite holiday. It’s my new favorite holiday. It’s my new favorite holiday. tag:odeo.com,2009-05-01,24524529 Fri, 01 May 2009 08:04:32 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, Seth Harwood, Jack Wakes Up, cinco de mayo http://odeo.com/episodes/25395498-Azizullah%E2%80%99s-Vault How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nang... How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank – it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank – it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-26,25395498 Thu, 26 Mar 2009 15:42:51 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/25333963-Azizullah%E2%80%99s-Vault How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nang... How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank – it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank – it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-26,25333963 Thu, 26 Mar 2009 15:42:51 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24368649-Azizullah%E2%80%99s-Vault How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nang... How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank - it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank - it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-26,24368649 Thu, 26 Mar 2009 14:42:51 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24367767-Azizullah%E2%80%99s-Vault How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nang... How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank - it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. How do you rob the safest bank in the world? Episode Script Azizulluah’s Vault INTRO: The world is large. And it’s interconnected in ways we can’t even imagine. Ties of technology, community, culture — boggles the mind in this digital age. And if there is one thing that has brought people together since the dawn of time, it’s commerce. trade. business. money. It’s an odd thing to consider, but the Greeks learned geometry from the Egyptians. And they used it to keep track of who owned what land each year after the Nile flooded. We’re connected through the centuries and across the globe in ways we can’t even imagine, and the Seanachai this week is a story about one of those connections. It’s called. Azizullah’s vault. For the Seanachai, I’m Patrick McLean. Somewhere North of Jalabad there is a town called Nangalam. In this town there is a banker. Not, however, the sort of banker you might be familiar with. But then Nangalam is probably not the kind of town you are familiar with. The streets are dirt, raw sewage drains on to the ground, yet this town is a hub of regional commerce. And our banker is a young man named Azizulluah — we’ll call him Ziz. Ziz is not the bank president. Ziz is more like a clerk. A clerk in what might be the most secure bank in the world. You see the bank that Ziz works for has a vault, or more specifically, a cave high in the Hindu Kush. And to rob this vault, not only would you have to find it. You would have to convince every tribesman along the way that you belong there. For, in this region of the world, they are not much enamored or impressed by invaders. In 1219 the Mongols laid waste to the entire region. And when compared to that, the Russians and the Americans, well, they just don’t measure up to the standards of Genghis Khan. And to take and hold the high passes and deep caves of these mountains, one would have to do substantially better than the troops of Genghis Khan. Even they stayed away. (from this part of town) These mountains have always remained closed to strangers. Or perhaps that’s not the right way to say it. They’ll let you in. You’ll just never make it out alive. And that’s thing with robbing a bank. You’ve got to make it back out. Alive and with the money. And with this bank that’s just not going to happen. Another interesting thing about Ziz is that where other clerks spend their time counting money and carefully rechecking the count, Ziz banks by weight. Ziz is simultaneously a clerk and a mule packer. He runs a Mule Train from Nangalam to his vault high in the mountains. At certain times of the year the mountains become impassible, and Ziz takes a vacation of sorts. But most of this young man’s life has been spent walking uphill or walking downhill. Oh yes, and beating mules. He has 12 of them. To make this mundane workaday task more enjoyable he has given his mules special names. There are two mules named Bush, (George and George W) one named Brown, another named Blair, and a few of them have Russian names. Will he name his next mule Obama? Certainly, now that a fresh round of troops have been sent to Afghanistan. Not that it will make a difference. It will never makes a difference. There is simply nothing that Ziz can do to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t even kill George Bush when he had the chance. To understand how this could be so, you must realize that the skill of Mule Packing is in fact a highly refined and technical art. It involves attaching regular parcels to an irregular animal in a balanced way. The better you are, the more you can fit on the mule, in a way that keeps the mule, well not happy, but at least less grumpy, and healthy. But when you’re cold and tired — When a storm is coming in and you are in a hurry to get moving, well, Sometimes you cut corners. Sometimes you make mistakes. So on one trip, when Ziz realized that he was in danger of losing a bundle of money, he made his way back through the train, to adjust lashings. This no easy feat, because it meant he had to squeeze himself between the mules and a sheer rock face — a task made more difficult because on the other side of the mules was a 3,000 foot drop. It was also difficult because the mule with the loose pack was grumpy from carrying an uneven load. And as Ziz tried to fix the problem, the mule tried to stomp on his feet. Ziz cursed and punched the mule. The mule spit and kicked. But eventually, Ziz got his hand on what he thought was the right knot. But when he pulled on this knot. 160 pounds of twenty dollar bills landed on his feet and legs. This hurt Ziz, but it was nothing compared to what happened to the mule. With the sudden unbalancing of load, the mule named George Bush tipped violently to the left and went over the cliff. What goes through George Bush’s mind when he faces certain death tumbling through the sky? To be sure, this has happened before, but below that George Bush there was ocean. Below this George Bush there was nothing sharp rock. And instead of a parachute strapped to his back there is a pack full of money, 1.48 million dollars that batters him each time he rolled and bounced down the 3000 foot rocky slope. On the way down, George Bush brayed out in pain and fear to whatever stubborn God mules complain to. And halfway to the bottom the Mule God had slight mercy. The straps holding the remaining pack let go. And money was released from the mule and thrown into the air to rain down, gracefully, onto the ravine below. Far more gracefully than poor mule. “Surely, George Bush is dead.” Ziz thought to himself. But in the same instant, he also calculated how much money had been lost. — On the return trip, Ziz had collected what dollars he could find. In the course of salvaging nearly a million dollars, he found George Bush, chewing on a bit of scrub grass. He was scratched in a few places, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. As it turns out, George Bush is hard to kill. Ziz packed the salvaged money up the mountain. Leaving some half a million dollars of the great Satan’s filthy money scattered and decomposing in a hidden valley of the Hindu Kush. It was demoralizing trip, but ultimately necessary. You see, as surely as a flame needs fire, terrorism and the international narcotics trade needs ready, untraceable cash. And for the men who use Azizullah’s unique bank - it is always, always cash and carry. — On the other side of the world, wrapped in the concentric circles of bureaucracy known as Washington D.C., there is a wizard. He is not, however, the sort of wizard you might be familiar with. He does not work in a high tower. The air around him does not crackle with eldrich magic. It is, however, cooled or heated as the season requires. And raw sewage is whisked from the building through the marvel of indoor plumbing. But make no mistake, this man is a true Thaumaturge. From his marble sepulcher that squats and broods in a fetid swamp alongside the Potomac (a swamp that has long since been drained and paved over, yes, but still a swamp in spirit) he manipulates his symbols and mystical formulae to affect change in the wider world. And all of his sinister devices are pieces of paper. Now, gentle reader, it may be that you are stout of heart, or thick of thew and the kind of person who is not easily scared by pieces of paper. But let me assure you, fear is the only correct response here. Because the pieces of paper through which this Wizard will work his magic are the pieces of paper that you know as money. You see this Wizard has the power to rob the safest bank in the world. To plunder Azizullah’s vault without ever leaving his office. Without even uttering the magic phrase, “Look Ma, no hands.” All the wizard need do is wave his magic pen, [mutter a few arcane phrases,] and sign a few mystic slips of paper. And when he does this] and dollars will created. And these dollars will go out into the world to as faithfully as the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. And just like the broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, these dollars will multiply. As the banks lend and lend and lend these newborn dollars will increase 10 fold. And when this happens, there will be no spell that can call the pieces of paper back. So if the Wizard works his magic too vigorously and too often, we all be drowning in sea of rapidly devaluing dollars; The unhappy consequence of meddling with forces that no one man, or committee of men should attempt to wield. But what of Azizullah, banker to terrorists and drug dealers, with his his train of mules and his mountain full of ready cash? What will happen to him? What will be the worth of all the steps he has taken, all the mules he has beaten and the storms he has braved? Will they all have been for nothing? Will the dollars become so worthless, that they won’t even be worth the trouble it would take to haul them back down the mountain? Will they, at last, only be fit for use as fuel in sputtering dung fires in the thin air found high in the Hindu Kush? Only time will tell. But for now Azizullah trudges on. Beating George Bush with a stick he tore from an Apricot tree. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-26,24367767 Thu, 26 Mar 2009 14:42:51 -0700 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24242746-How-to-Succeed-in-Evil-Novel-Announcement After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-03,24242746 Tue, 03 Mar 2009 11:57:36 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24246880-How-to-Succeed-in-Evil-Novel-Announcement After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. After a fair amount of ado, How to Succeed in Evil: the Novel goes live on March 16th on succeedinevil.com and podiobooks.com. tag:odeo.com,2009-03-03,24246880 Tue, 03 Mar 2009 11:57:36 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24229669-3-AM-and-writing Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can&#... Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can’t know which night is going to be THE night. The night in which I capture a turn of phrase who’s gossmer wings could never withstand the hot winds of a busy day. But in the middle of the night, a moth may well be drawn to my gleaming white sheet. It may even land on it. And if I’m skillful enough — If I draw a net of black lines around it before it thinks to fly away, and without destroying it [SFX scribbling] Then I can capture some of the magic. That magic buried in the debris of modern ideas. Or the magic that we overlook in our mad rush from one mute, unimaginative task to another. The ancient greeks had a way of describing this mad 3 o’clock in the morning behavior. They would speak of the muse descending upon a person. Or one’s genius taking over. And the word in Greek is a little disturbing to me. Daimon. Overtone of possession there. An idea seizing a person. I don’t believe that this happens — I understand that it happens. Sometimes it inconvenient sometimes frightening, but it a state much to be desired. It’s not like this has to happen at 3 am — muses are far too fickle to keep office hours — but in the dead of the night — when courage flags and the hope of mortals is at it’s ebb tide — a person still struggling with words and ideas must shine forth to the muses like a beacon. The idea that greatness comes easily to some is a myth. The only prescription for success or excellence or greatness that I am aware of, is to chase greatness down, trip it and stomp on it’s guts until it begs for mercy. And it’s not just for writing. And it’s not just for me. It’s for you and everybody else. So the next time you wake up full in the middle of the night Take a moment to plan it. To write it down. To sketch it out or up. Even if it’s just one note on a 3×5 card — make it. Because when you awake in the morning — when you find the talisman you wrested from the night, it will remind you that the limitations of the day are not the limits of life. Place this talisman on the altar of the muses — show them how bad you want it– and they will love you more. Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can’t know which night is going to be THE night. The night in which I capture a turn of phrase who’s gossmer wings could never withstand the hot winds of a busy day. But in the middle of the night, a moth may well be drawn to my gleaming white sheet. It may even land on it. And if I’m skillful enough — If I draw a net of black lines around it before it thinks to fly away, and without destroying it [SFX scribbling] Then I can capture some of the magic. That magic buried in the debris of modern ideas. Or the magic that we overlook in our mad rush from one mute, unimaginative task to another. The ancient greeks had a way of describing this mad 3 o’clock in the morning behavior. They would speak of the muse descending upon a person. Or one’s genius taking over. And the word in Greek is a little disturbing to me. Daimon. Overtone of possession there. An idea seizing a person. I don’t believe that this happens — I understand that it happens. Sometimes it inconvenient sometimes frightening, but it a state much to be desired. It’s not like this has to happen at 3 am — muses are far too fickle to keep office hours — but in the dead of the night — when courage flags and the hope of mortals is at it’s ebb tide — a person still struggling with words and ideas must shine forth to the muses like a beacon. The idea that greatness comes easily to some is a myth. The only prescription for success or excellence or greatness that I am aware of, is to chase greatness down, trip it and stomp on it’s guts until it begs for mercy. And it’s not just for writing. And it’s not just for me. It’s for you and everybody else. So the next time you wake up full in the middle of the night Take a moment to plan it. To write it down. To sketch it out or up. Even if it’s just one note on a 3×5 card — make it. Because when you awake in the morning — when you find the talisman you wrested from the night, it will remind you that the limitations of the day are not the limits of life. Place this talisman on the altar of the muses — show them how bad you want it– and they will love you more. tag:odeo.com,2009-02-27,24229669 Fri, 27 Feb 2009 12:39:28 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Writing, Episodes, Patrick E. McLean, 3 AM http://odeo.com/episodes/24224616-3-AM-and-writing Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can&#... Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can’t know which night is going to be THE night. The night in which I capture a turn of phrase who’s gossmer wings could never withstand the hot winds of a busy day. But in the middle of the night, a moth may well be drawn to my gleaming white sheet. It may even land on it. And if I’m skillful enough — If I draw a net of black lines around it before it thinks to fly away, and without destroying it [SFX scribbling] Then I can capture some of the magic. That magic buried in the debris of modern ideas. Or the magic that we overlook in our mad rush from one mute, unimaginative task to another. The ancient greeks had a way of describing this mad 3 o’clock in the morning behavior. They would speak of the muse descending upon a person. Or one’s genius taking over. And the word in Greek is a little disturbing to me. Daimon. Overtone of possession there. An idea seizing a person. I don’t believe that this happens — I understand that it happens. Sometimes it inconvenient sometimes frightening, but it a state much to be desired. It’s not like this has to happen at 3 am — muses are far too fickle to keep office hours — but in the dead of the night — when courage flags and the hope of mortals is at it’s ebb tide — a person still struggling with words and ideas must shine forth to the muses like a beacon. The idea that greatness comes easily to some is a myth. The only prescription for success or excellence or greatness that I am aware of, is to chase greatness down, trip it and stomp on it’s guts until it begs for mercy. And it’s not just for writing. And it’s not just for me. It’s for you and everybody else. So the next time you wake up full in the middle of the night Take a moment to plan it. To write it down. To sketch it out or up. Even if it’s just one note on a 3×5 card — make it. Because when you awake in the morning — when you find the talisman you wrested from the night, it will remind you that the limitations of the day are not the limits of life. Place this talisman on the altar of the muses — show them how bad you want it– and they will love you more. Working myself up to a frenzy writing many, many Seanachai episodes. EPISODE SCRIPT: It’s 3 AM and I’m writing I am so pregnant with ideas that I can no longer sleep through the night. This is awkward, painful and — given that I have no womb — kind of disgusting. Its also very, very good. Vampire in my Attic was written at 3am. It takes a particular kind of courage (or lunacy) to get up at 3 am. While most sleep in their beds — wrapped in the cloak of safety and the ultra-high calorie diet that only Americans know — I slip from my bed, unsheath a metal pen a rotring 900 fountain point pen with which I do simply awful things to paper. Slash it until it’s blood runs black) It’s not every night this happens. Only a few. And I’d like to say that every night that I get up, I manage to capture a wonderful idea — but the fact is, only a few of them are good. But here’s the thing, and it’s really the only thing, I can’t know which night is going to be THE night. The night in which I capture a turn of phrase who’s gossmer wings could never withstand the hot winds of a busy day. But in the middle of the night, a moth may well be drawn to my gleaming white sheet. It may even land on it. And if I’m skillful enough — If I draw a net of black lines around it before it thinks to fly away, and without destroying it [SFX scribbling] Then I can capture some of the magic. That magic buried in the debris of modern ideas. Or the magic that we overlook in our mad rush from one mute, unimaginative task to another. The ancient greeks had a way of describing this mad 3 o’clock in the morning behavior. They would speak of the muse descending upon a person. Or one’s genius taking over. And the word in Greek is a little disturbing to me. Daimon. Overtone of possession there. An idea seizing a person. I don’t believe that this happens — I understand that it happens. Sometimes it inconvenient sometimes frightening, but it a state much to be desired. It’s not like this has to happen at 3 am — muses are far too fickle to keep office hours — but in the dead of the night — when courage flags and the hope of mortals is at it’s ebb tide — a person still struggling with words and ideas must shine forth to the muses like a beacon. The idea that greatness comes easily to some is a myth. The only prescription for success or excellence or greatness that I am aware of, is to chase greatness down, trip it and stomp on it’s guts until it begs for mercy. And it’s not just for writing. And it’s not just for me. It’s for you and everybody else. So the next time you wake up full in the middle of the night Take a moment to plan it. To write it down. To sketch it out or up. Even if it’s just one note on a 3×5 card — make it. Because when you awake in the morning — when you find the talisman you wrested from the night, it will remind you that the limitations of the day are not the limits of life. Place this talisman on the altar of the muses — show them how bad you want it– and they will love you more. tag:odeo.com,2009-02-27,24224616 Fri, 27 Feb 2009 12:39:28 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Writing, Episodes, Patrick E. McLean, 3 AM http://odeo.com/episodes/24132300-The-HenryMan-List A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beau... A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beautiful. life is full of mystery and wonder, but life is not fair. And when people try to make it fair, it just makes it worse. I took me at least 30 years to understand this, so give it a little time to settle in. Also someone uses the word fair, especially in public discourse, they’re probably just trying to sell you something that is unfair in their favor. Learn how to fix things. You know, they used to say that what separated man from the animals was that man used tools. Which was a little stupid when I first heard it. I mean, a beaver’s teeth might not be tools, but a dam damn sure is. But when scientists discovered that certain kinds of apes used twigs to catch ants, then people fell back on the idea that man was the only creature that uses language. But dolphins and whales seem to but dent in that idea. To say nothing of the fact that somebody went discovered that bees tell other bee’s where the honey is by using a 6 dimensional dance. It’s all very confusing. Can I tell you that an animal that uses tools is not a man. Nope. But I can tell you one thing. A man who doesn’t know how to use tools is animal. Besides, there is a satisfaction that comes from taking something that is broken and restoring it to good working order. It is as sure an antidote to the soul draining parts of our disposable, post modern society as I know. And while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry we couldn’t pass you down a less wacky world. It is perfect in it’s way. And it’s challenges are nothing but tests to make you stronger. I know that’s pretty thin advice when you’re in it. See rule 1. Life ain’t fair. Gamesmanship. To be a man, you’ve got to play games well. Not all games. But you need to know how to clinch a win. Come from behind. Win and lose graciously. It could be football. It could be poker. It could be badminton. It could be chess. Doesn’t matter what the game is. learn to play games well with all the skill you can muster. And remember, in the final analysis, a game is just a game. And so is life. And while we’re talking about gamesmanship and life ñ learn to play hurt. I’m not saying play some stupid football game with a hairline fracture in your neck because a winning season is on the line. That’s just stupid. No, what I’m saying is, play when you don’t feel good. Play through some pain. And learn that it get in the way of you enjoying life. Because most amazing experiences in life generally happen when you’re tired and don’t feel so hot. Don’t let a little discomfort get in the way of bliss. As a side note, watch out for the first time you strain a muscle. Shockingly painful the first time that happens let me tell you. Learn to handle a car in a skid. Not only is this cool. It can save your life. Your dad will show you. He’s good at it. Just don’t tell mom. Learn to cook. You are what you eat. You are also how you eat. Americans have a tough time with this one right now, but it is true. To say nothing of the fact that it’s fun, not that hard and impresses the hell out of people. Especially women. And, although you might not believe it for years yet, there are many fringe benefits to impressing women. And while we’re on the subject of women ñ and this is hard, because men are pretty much idiots about women and women are pretty much idiots about men — There is a difference between men and women. And this difference is one of the greatest things in the world. It’s also a source of a great many evils and frustrations. (see rule number one — it’s just not fair around here.) Appreciate the qualities of both sexes. In more ways than one, this intermingling is what keeps the species going. Men have the ability to not only justify doing something dangerous and stupid, but to revel in it. It is your birthright. Wear it like a badge of honor as you put a bucket on our head ram into a wall. All progress depends upon this inspired lunacy ñ but someday, you know, recognize it for the stupidity it is. Also recognize that not to approach things only as just a man or just a woman is the beginning of something much, much grander. Its called being fully human. I’m still working this one out myself but drop a footnote. It’s worth coming back to again and again. Learn to throw a punch. A good, compact, powerful shot. None of those looping redneck roundhouse punches. With any luck, you’ll go your whole life without having to use this skill. But having it will give you confidence. And strangely enough, the confidence is often more important than the ability. Be polite. There’s never a reason not to be polite. And the hidden lesson of good manners is that it’s one way you demonstrate self-control. And no matter how tough or cool somebody acts, the truth is, there are very few things in this world as scary as someone in complete control of themselves. Now it might seem that learning how to throw a punch and always being polite are contradictory. They are not. On very rare occasions throwing a punch is polite and standing inactive is the rudest thing you can do. but before we get too far down this road, let’s jump to the next one which will make it all clear. Do the right thing. always, everywhere, without exceptions. It seems like a very simple rule, but the tricky part is that the rules ( and if you haven’t encountered the rules don’t worry you will and they suck. ) the tricky part is that the rules aren’t always the right thing. This can be awkward, painful, or downright dangerous. Sometimes the rules are in direct opposition to what is right. But the way I explain it to myself is the rules aren’t what’s right. The rules are what we have to deal with to get the right thing done. This is one of the reasons it helps to be creative. And while we’re on that subject, they’re going to tell you that your uncle is creative — and sure, it’s true — but being creative is like being a piece of yeast. Sure you’re magic, but without flour. (Or mashed corn or potatoes or even apple mash) you’re good for exactly nothing. And the flour is hard work. The harder I work, the more creative I become. In fact, we could pretty much call that the secret to everything. It’s just hard work. Probably not as hard as you think at the start, but anybody who’s good at anything has worked hard at it. The good news is that work sucks way less than the rules. Listen carefully to people, but don’t put much too store in what they say. Watch what they do. Watch what they do when it matters, and then you’ll see what they are made of. Men who sound brave often run. People who seem like cowards often aren’t. And once again those who talk about making things fair are usually cheating. And lastly, be the kind of person who holds doors open for people — even strangers. In a small way it makes the world a better place. And even though it’s a small thing — every little bit helps Welcome to the world little man. That’s about all I know. And some of might be on shaky ground. But welcome to the world. Now it’s yours. A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beautiful. life is full of mystery and wonder, but life is not fair. And when people try to make it fair, it just makes it worse. I took me at least 30 years to understand this, so give it a little time to settle in. Also someone uses the word fair, especially in public discourse, they’re probably just trying to sell you something that is unfair in their favor. Learn how to fix things. You know, they used to say that what separated man from the animals was that man used tools. Which was a little stupid when I first heard it. I mean, a beaver’s teeth might not be tools, but a dam damn sure is. But when scientists discovered that certain kinds of apes used twigs to catch ants, then people fell back on the idea that man was the only creature that uses language. But dolphins and whales seem to but dent in that idea. To say nothing of the fact that somebody went discovered that bees tell other bee’s where the honey is by using a 6 dimensional dance. It’s all very confusing. Can I tell you that an animal that uses tools is not a man. Nope. But I can tell you one thing. A man who doesn’t know how to use tools is animal. Besides, there is a satisfaction that comes from taking something that is broken and restoring it to good working order. It is as sure an antidote to the soul draining parts of our disposable, post modern society as I know. And while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry we couldn’t pass you down a less wacky world. It is perfect in it’s way. And it’s challenges are nothing but tests to make you stronger. I know that’s pretty thin advice when you’re in it. See rule 1. Life ain’t fair. Gamesmanship. To be a man, you’ve got to play games well. Not all games. But you need to know how to clinch a win. Come from behind. Win and lose graciously. It could be football. It could be poker. It could be badminton. It could be chess. Doesn’t matter what the game is. learn to play games well with all the skill you can muster. And remember, in the final analysis, a game is just a game. And so is life. And while we’re talking about gamesmanship and life ñ learn to play hurt. I’m not saying play some stupid football game with a hairline fracture in your neck because a winning season is on the line. That’s just stupid. No, what I’m saying is, play when you don’t feel good. Play through some pain. And learn that it get in the way of you enjoying life. Because most amazing experiences in life generally happen when you’re tired and don’t feel so hot. Don’t let a little discomfort get in the way of bliss. As a side note, watch out for the first time you strain a muscle. Shockingly painful the first time that happens let me tell you. Learn to handle a car in a skid. Not only is this cool. It can save your life. Your dad will show you. He’s good at it. Just don’t tell mom. Learn to cook. You are what you eat. You are also how you eat. Americans have a tough time with this one right now, but it is true. To say nothing of the fact that it’s fun, not that hard and impresses the hell out of people. Especially women. And, although you might not believe it for years yet, there are many fringe benefits to impressing women. And while we’re on the subject of women ñ and this is hard, because men are pretty much idiots about women and women are pretty much idiots about men — There is a difference between men and women. And this difference is one of the greatest things in the world. It’s also a source of a great many evils and frustrations. (see rule number one — it’s just not fair around here.) Appreciate the qualities of both sexes. In more ways than one, this intermingling is what keeps the species going. Men have the ability to not only justify doing something dangerous and stupid, but to revel in it. It is your birthright. Wear it like a badge of honor as you put a bucket on our head ram into a wall. All progress depends upon this inspired lunacy ñ but someday, you know, recognize it for the stupidity it is. Also recognize that not to approach things only as just a man or just a woman is the beginning of something much, much grander. Its called being fully human. I’m still working this one out myself but drop a footnote. It’s worth coming back to again and again. Learn to throw a punch. A good, compact, powerful shot. None of those looping redneck roundhouse punches. With any luck, you’ll go your whole life without having to use this skill. But having it will give you confidence. And strangely enough, the confidence is often more important than the ability. Be polite. There’s never a reason not to be polite. And the hidden lesson of good manners is that it’s one way you demonstrate self-control. And no matter how tough or cool somebody acts, the truth is, there are very few things in this world as scary as someone in complete control of themselves. Now it might seem that learning how to throw a punch and always being polite are contradictory. They are not. On very rare occasions throwing a punch is polite and standing inactive is the rudest thing you can do. but before we get too far down this road, let’s jump to the next one which will make it all clear. Do the right thing. always, everywhere, without exceptions. It seems like a very simple rule, but the tricky part is that the rules ( and if you haven’t encountered the rules don’t worry you will and they suck. ) the tricky part is that the rules aren’t always the right thing. This can be awkward, painful, or downright dangerous. Sometimes the rules are in direct opposition to what is right. But the way I explain it to myself is the rules aren’t what’s right. The rules are what we have to deal with to get the right thing done. This is one of the reasons it helps to be creative. And while we’re on that subject, they’re going to tell you that your uncle is creative — and sure, it’s true — but being creative is like being a piece of yeast. Sure you’re magic, but without flour. (Or mashed corn or potatoes or even apple mash) you’re good for exactly nothing. And the flour is hard work. The harder I work, the more creative I become. In fact, we could pretty much call that the secret to everything. It’s just hard work. Probably not as hard as you think at the start, but anybody who’s good at anything has worked hard at it. The good news is that work sucks way less than the rules. Listen carefully to people, but don’t put much too store in what they say. Watch what they do. Watch what they do when it matters, and then you’ll see what they are made of. Men who sound brave often run. People who seem like cowards often aren’t. And once again those who talk about making things fair are usually cheating. And lastly, be the kind of person who holds doors open for people — even strangers. In a small way it makes the world a better place. And even though it’s a small thing — every little bit helps Welcome to the world little man. That’s about all I know. And some of might be on shaky ground. But welcome to the world. Now it’s yours. tag:odeo.com,2009-02-19,24132300 Thu, 19 Feb 2009 08:47:31 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, henry, nephew http://odeo.com/episodes/24133860-The-HenryMan-List A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beau... A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beautiful. life is full of mystery and wonder, but life is not fair. And when people try to make it fair, it just makes it worse. I took me at least 30 years to understand this, so give it a little time to settle in. Also someone uses the word fair, especially in public discourse, they’re probably just trying to sell you something that is unfair in their favor. Learn how to fix things. You know, they used to say that what separated man from the animals was that man used tools. Which was a little stupid when I first heard it. I mean, a beaver’s teeth might not be tools, but a dam damn sure is. But when scientists discovered that certain kinds of apes used twigs to catch ants, then people fell back on the idea that man was the only creature that uses language. But dolphins and whales seem to but dent in that idea. To say nothing of the fact that somebody went discovered that bees tell other bee’s where the honey is by using a 6 dimensional dance. It’s all very confusing. Can I tell you that an animal that uses tools is not a man. Nope. But I can tell you one thing. A man who doesn’t know how to use tools is animal. Besides, there is a satisfaction that comes from taking something that is broken and restoring it to good working order. It is as sure an antidote to the soul draining parts of our disposable, post modern society as I know. And while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry we couldn’t pass you down a less wacky world. It is perfect in it’s way. And it’s challenges are nothing but tests to make you stronger. I know that’s pretty thin advice when you’re in it. See rule 1. Life ain’t fair. Gamesmanship. To be a man, you’ve got to play games well. Not all games. But you need to know how to clinch a win. Come from behind. Win and lose graciously. It could be football. It could be poker. It could be badminton. It could be chess. Doesn’t matter what the game is. learn to play games well with all the skill you can muster. And remember, in the final analysis, a game is just a game. And so is life. And while we’re talking about gamesmanship and life ñ learn to play hurt. I’m not saying play some stupid football game with a hairline fracture in your neck because a winning season is on the line. That’s just stupid. No, what I’m saying is, play when you don’t feel good. Play through some pain. And learn that it get in the way of you enjoying life. Because most amazing experiences in life generally happen when you’re tired and don’t feel so hot. Don’t let a little discomfort get in the way of bliss. As a side note, watch out for the first time you strain a muscle. Shockingly painful the first time that happens let me tell you. Learn to handle a car in a skid. Not only is this cool. It can save your life. Your dad will show you. He’s good at it. Just don’t tell mom. Learn to cook. You are what you eat. You are also how you eat. Americans have a tough time with this one right now, but it is true. To say nothing of the fact that it’s fun, not that hard and impresses the hell out of people. Especially women. And, although you might not believe it for years yet, there are many fringe benefits to impressing women. And while we’re on the subject of women ñ and this is hard, because men are pretty much idiots about women and women are pretty much idiots about men — There is a difference between men and women. And this difference is one of the greatest things in the world. It’s also a source of a great many evils and frustrations. (see rule number one — it’s just not fair around here.) Appreciate the qualities of both sexes. In more ways than one, this intermingling is what keeps the species going. Men have the ability to not only justify doing something dangerous and stupid, but to revel in it. It is your birthright. Wear it like a badge of honor as you put a bucket on our head ram into a wall. All progress depends upon this inspired lunacy ñ but someday, you know, recognize it for the stupidity it is. Also recognize that not to approach things only as just a man or just a woman is the beginning of something much, much grander. Its called being fully human. I’m still working this one out myself but drop a footnote. It’s worth coming back to again and again. Learn to throw a punch. A good, compact, powerful shot. None of those looping redneck roundhouse punches. With any luck, you’ll go your whole life without having to use this skill. But having it will give you confidence. And strangely enough, the confidence is often more important than the ability. Be polite. There’s never a reason not to be polite. And the hidden lesson of good manners is that it’s one way you demonstrate self-control. And no matter how tough or cool somebody acts, the truth is, there are very few things in this world as scary as someone in complete control of themselves. Now it might seem that learning how to throw a punch and always being polite are contradictory. They are not. On very rare occasions throwing a punch is polite and standing inactive is the rudest thing you can do. but before we get too far down this road, let’s jump to the next one which will make it all clear. Do the right thing. always, everywhere, without exceptions. It seems like a very simple rule, but the tricky part is that the rules ( and if you haven’t encountered the rules don’t worry you will and they suck. ) the tricky part is that the rules aren’t always the right thing. This can be awkward, painful, or downright dangerous. Sometimes the rules are in direct opposition to what is right. But the way I explain it to myself is the rules aren’t what’s right. The rules are what we have to deal with to get the right thing done. This is one of the reasons it helps to be creative. And while we’re on that subject, they’re going to tell you that your uncle is creative — and sure, it’s true — but being creative is like being a piece of yeast. Sure you’re magic, but without flour. (Or mashed corn or potatoes or even apple mash) you’re good for exactly nothing. And the flour is hard work. The harder I work, the more creative I become. In fact, we could pretty much call that the secret to everything. It’s just hard work. Probably not as hard as you think at the start, but anybody who’s good at anything has worked hard at it. The good news is that work sucks way less than the rules. Listen carefully to people, but don’t put much too store in what they say. Watch what they do. Watch what they do when it matters, and then you’ll see what they are made of. Men who sound brave often run. People who seem like cowards often aren’t. And once again those who talk about making things fair are usually cheating. And lastly, be the kind of person who holds doors open for people — even strangers. In a small way it makes the world a better place. And even though it’s a small thing — every little bit helps Welcome to the world little man. That’s about all I know. And some of might be on shaky ground. But welcome to the world. Now it’s yours. A little advice for my little nephew. Episode Script So, I have a nephew. And since I did such a wonderful birth announcement for my niece, it seems only fair that I do the same for little Henry. And, as the second child, I know he’s not going to be happy to hear it, but Henry, go and listen to what I wrote for your big sister. It goes double for you. And even though the most important things to say at this time are. you are born, you are welcome and you are loved, I feel that there’s something more to say. You see, you’re a boy. And some day, you will be a man. Which means that you’re playing for my team. And that’s no small thing. And since, despite what the world might have us believe, manhood is not a function of size or age or what kind of car you drive ñ I thought I might share a few things that might help little Henry out on his journey to manhood. Please Henry, go to school on my mistakes. I paid for them in full. First, life is not fair. Life is beautiful. life is full of mystery and wonder, but life is not fair. And when people try to make it fair, it just makes it worse. I took me at least 30 years to understand this, so give it a little time to settle in. Also someone uses the word fair, especially in public discourse, they’re probably just trying to sell you something that is unfair in their favor. Learn how to fix things. You know, they used to say that what separated man from the animals was that man used tools. Which was a little stupid when I first heard it. I mean, a beaver’s teeth might not be tools, but a dam damn sure is. But when scientists discovered that certain kinds of apes used twigs to catch ants, then people fell back on the idea that man was the only creature that uses language. But dolphins and whales seem to but dent in that idea. To say nothing of the fact that somebody went discovered that bees tell other bee’s where the honey is by using a 6 dimensional dance. It’s all very confusing. Can I tell you that an animal that uses tools is not a man. Nope. But I can tell you one thing. A man who doesn’t know how to use tools is animal. Besides, there is a satisfaction that comes from taking something that is broken and restoring it to good working order. It is as sure an antidote to the soul draining parts of our disposable, post modern society as I know. And while we’re on the subject, I’m sorry we couldn’t pass you down a less wacky world. It is perfect in it’s way. And it’s challenges are nothing but tests to make you stronger. I know that’s pretty thin advice when you’re in it. See rule 1. Life ain’t fair. Gamesmanship. To be a man, you’ve got to play games well. Not all games. But you need to know how to clinch a win. Come from behind. Win and lose graciously. It could be football. It could be poker. It could be badminton. It could be chess. Doesn’t matter what the game is. learn to play games well with all the skill you can muster. And remember, in the final analysis, a game is just a game. And so is life. And while we’re talking about gamesmanship and life ñ learn to play hurt. I’m not saying play some stupid football game with a hairline fracture in your neck because a winning season is on the line. That’s just stupid. No, what I’m saying is, play when you don’t feel good. Play through some pain. And learn that it get in the way of you enjoying life. Because most amazing experiences in life generally happen when you’re tired and don’t feel so hot. Don’t let a little discomfort get in the way of bliss. As a side note, watch out for the first time you strain a muscle. Shockingly painful the first time that happens let me tell you. Learn to handle a car in a skid. Not only is this cool. It can save your life. Your dad will show you. He’s good at it. Just don’t tell mom. Learn to cook. You are what you eat. You are also how you eat. Americans have a tough time with this one right now, but it is true. To say nothing of the fact that it’s fun, not that hard and impresses the hell out of people. Especially women. And, although you might not believe it for years yet, there are many fringe benefits to impressing women. And while we’re on the subject of women ñ and this is hard, because men are pretty much idiots about women and women are pretty much idiots about men — There is a difference between men and women. And this difference is one of the greatest things in the world. It’s also a source of a great many evils and frustrations. (see rule number one — it’s just not fair around here.) Appreciate the qualities of both sexes. In more ways than one, this intermingling is what keeps the species going. Men have the ability to not only justify doing something dangerous and stupid, but to revel in it. It is your birthright. Wear it like a badge of honor as you put a bucket on our head ram into a wall. All progress depends upon this inspired lunacy ñ but someday, you know, recognize it for the stupidity it is. Also recognize that not to approach things only as just a man or just a woman is the beginning of something much, much grander. Its called being fully human. I’m still working this one out myself but drop a footnote. It’s worth coming back to again and again. Learn to throw a punch. A good, compact, powerful shot. None of those looping redneck roundhouse punches. With any luck, you’ll go your whole life without having to use this skill. But having it will give you confidence. And strangely enough, the confidence is often more important than the ability. Be polite. There’s never a reason not to be polite. And the hidden lesson of good manners is that it’s one way you demonstrate self-control. And no matter how tough or cool somebody acts, the truth is, there are very few things in this world as scary as someone in complete control of themselves. Now it might seem that learning how to throw a punch and always being polite are contradictory. They are not. On very rare occasions throwing a punch is polite and standing inactive is the rudest thing you can do. but before we get too far down this road, let’s jump to the next one which will make it all clear. Do the right thing. always, everywhere, without exceptions. It seems like a very simple rule, but the tricky part is that the rules ( and if you haven’t encountered the rules don’t worry you will and they suck. ) the tricky part is that the rules aren’t always the right thing. This can be awkward, painful, or downright dangerous. Sometimes the rules are in direct opposition to what is right. But the way I explain it to myself is the rules aren’t what’s right. The rules are what we have to deal with to get the right thing done. This is one of the reasons it helps to be creative. And while we’re on that subject, they’re going to tell you that your uncle is creative — and sure, it’s true — but being creative is like being a piece of yeast. Sure you’re magic, but without flour. (Or mashed corn or potatoes or even apple mash) you’re good for exactly nothing. And the flour is hard work. The harder I work, the more creative I become. In fact, we could pretty much call that the secret to everything. It’s just hard work. Probably not as hard as you think at the start, but anybody who’s good at anything has worked hard at it. The good news is that work sucks way less than the rules. Listen carefully to people, but don’t put much too store in what they say. Watch what they do. Watch what they do when it matters, and then you’ll see what they are made of. Men who sound brave often run. People who seem like cowards often aren’t. And once again those who talk about making things fair are usually cheating. And lastly, be the kind of person who holds doors open for people — even strangers. In a small way it makes the world a better place. And even though it’s a small thing — every little bit helps Welcome to the world little man. That’s about all I know. And some of might be on shaky ground. But welcome to the world. Now it’s yours. tag:odeo.com,2009-02-19,24133860 Thu, 19 Feb 2009 08:47:31 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, henry, nephew http://odeo.com/episodes/24058811-Sabotage Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For examp... Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For example, I put a tremendous amount of effort into the podcast, yet I put almost no effort into promoting the podcast. I haven’t done a new promo in 2 years. This has to be self-sabotaging. To say nothing of pretty stupid. Perhaps I will never fathom my inner workings. And I’m not sure I want to,  But I can fix this promo problem. And I can do it right now. I’ve done a new promo and reworked the old ones. And here they are. Please spread them far and wide by any means at your disposal. Please Sabotage my self-sabotaging tendencies. PROMOS: Rusty Bender I Died Zombie Spelling Brains Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For example, I put a tremendous amount of effort into the podcast, yet I put almost no effort into promoting the podcast. I haven’t done a new promo in 2 years. This has to be self-sabotaging. To say nothing of pretty stupid. Perhaps I will never fathom my inner workings. And I’m not sure I want to,  But I can fix this promo problem. And I can do it right now. I’ve done a new promo and reworked the old ones. And here they are. Please spread them far and wide by any means at your disposal. Please Sabotage my self-sabotaging tendencies. PROMOS: Rusty Bender I Died Zombie Spelling Brains tag:odeo.com,2009-02-06,24058811 Fri, 06 Feb 2009 13:08:57 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, promos, Episodes, Sabotage http://odeo.com/episodes/24064476-Sabotage Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For examp... Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For example, I put a tremendous amount of effort into the podcast, yet I put almost no effort into promoting the podcast. I haven’t done a new promo in 2 years. This has to be self-sabotaging. To say nothing of pretty stupid. Perhaps I will never fathom my inner workings. And I’m not sure I want to,  But I can fix this promo problem. And I can do it right now. I’ve done a new promo and reworked the old ones. And here they are. Please spread them far and wide by any means at your disposal. Please Sabotage my self-sabotaging tendencies. PROMOS: Rusty Bender I Died Zombie Spelling Brains Am I throwing a wooden shoe in my own works? Episode Script sabotage |?sab??tä zh | verb [ trans. ] to deliberately destroy, damage, or obstruct There is a story about this word, that it came to be used in conjunction with labor disputes. It seems the striking workers would damage machinery by throwing old shoes into it. And, as sabot is a 13th word for wooden shoe, the story seems to fit. But I am most fascinated with self-sabotage. Those times at which we deliberately destroy, damage or obstruct our own progress. Sometimes one goal gets in the way of another. At one time in my life I played quite a bit of cards. But as I grew older and little more stable,  my goal of getting a good night’s sleep and being coherent the next day sabotaged my world-series of poker dreams. But there is another form of self-sabotage. Much more subtle and insidious. It’s the strange subconscious kind. Where you set out to do something, but realize that you are actually getting in your own way. For example, I put a tremendous amount of effort into the podcast, yet I put almost no effort into promoting the podcast. I haven’t done a new promo in 2 years. This has to be self-sabotaging. To say nothing of pretty stupid. Perhaps I will never fathom my inner workings. And I’m not sure I want to,  But I can fix this promo problem. And I can do it right now. I’ve done a new promo and reworked the old ones. And here they are. Please spread them far and wide by any means at your disposal. Please Sabotage my self-sabotaging tendencies. PROMOS: Rusty Bender I Died Zombie Spelling Brains tag:odeo.com,2009-02-06,24064476 Fri, 06 Feb 2009 13:08:57 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, promos, Episodes, Sabotage http://odeo.com/episodes/23993796-Shooting-an-Elephant The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were se... The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-30,23993796 Fri, 30 Jan 2009 13:00:03 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, elephant, George Orwell http://odeo.com/episodes/24064477-Shooting-an-Elephant The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were se... The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-30,24064477 Fri, 30 Jan 2009 13:00:03 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, elephant, George Orwell http://odeo.com/episodes/23994611-Shooting-an-Elephant The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were se... The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. The classic essay by George Orwell   EPISODE SCRIPT Shooting an Elephant In Moulmein, in lower Burma, I was hated by large numbers of people ñ the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me. I was sub-divisional police officer of the town, and in an aimless, petty kind of way anti-European feeling was very bitter. No one had the guts to raise a riot, but if a European woman went through the bazaars alone somebody would probably spit betel juice over her dress. As a police officer I was an obvious target and was baited whenever it seemed safe to do so. When a nimble Burman tripped me up on the football field and the referee (another Burman) looked the other way, the crowd yelled with hideous laughter. This happened more than once. In the end the sneering yellow faces of young men that met me everywhere, the insults hooted after me when I was at a safe distance, got badly on my nerves. The young Buddhist priests were the worst of all. There were several thousands of them in the town and none of them seemed to have anything to do except stand on street corners and jeer at Europeans.   All this was perplexing and upsetting. For at that time I had already made up my mind that imperialism was an evil thing and the sooner I chucked up my job and got out of it the better. Theoretically ñ and secretly, of course ñ I was all for the Burmese and all against their oppressors, the British. As for the job I was doing, I hated it more bitterly than I can perhaps make clear. In a job like that you see the dirty work of Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos ñ all these oppressed me with an intolerable sense of guilt. But I could get nothing into perspective. I was young and ill-educated and I had had to think out my problems in the utter silence that is imposed on every Englishman in the East. I did not even know that the British Empire is dying, still less did I know that it is a great deal better than the younger empires that are going to supplant it. All I knew was that I was stuck between my hatred of the empire I served and my rage against the evil-spirited little beasts who tried to make my job impossible. With one part of my mind I thought of the British Raj as an unbreakable tyranny, as something clamped down, in saecula saeculorum, upon the will of prostrate peoples; with another part I thought that the greatest joy in the world would be to drive a bayonet into a Buddhist priest’s guts. Feelings like these are the normal by-products of imperialism; ask any Anglo-Indian official, if you can catch him off duty.   One day something happened which in a roundabout way was enlightening. It was a tiny incident in itself, but it gave me a better glimpse than I had had before of the real nature of imperialism ñ the real motives for which despotic governments act. Early one morning the sub-inspector at a police station the other end of the town rang me up on the phone and said that an elephant was ravaging the bazaar. Would I please come and do something about it? I did not know what I could do, but I wanted to see what was happening and I got on to a pony and started out. I took my rifle, an old 44 Winchester and much too small to kill an elephant, but I thought the noise might be useful in terrorem. Various Burmans stopped me on the way and told me about the elephant’s doings. It was not, of course, a wild elephant, but a tame one which had gone “must.” It had been chained up, as tame elephants always are when their attack of “must” is due, but on the previous night it had broken its chain and escaped. Its mahout, the only person who could manage it when it was in that state, had set out in pursuit, but had taken the wrong direction and was now twelve hours’ journey away, and in the morning the elephant had suddenly reappeared in the town. The Burmese population had no weapons and were quite helpless against it. It had already destroyed somebody’s bamboo hut, killed a cow and raided some fruit-stalls and devoured the stock; also it had met the municipal rubbish van and, when the driver jumped out and took to his heels, had turned the van over and inflicted violences upon it.   The Burmese sub-inspector and some Indian constables were waiting for me in the quarter where the elephant had been seen. It was a very poor quarter, a labyrinth of squalid bamboo huts, thatched with palmleaf, winding all over a steep hillside. I remember that it was a cloudy, stuffy morning at the beginning of the rains. We began questioning the people as to where the elephant had gone and, as usual, failed to get any definite information. That is invariably the case in the East; a story always sounds clear enough at a distance, but the nearer you get to the scene of events the vaguer it becomes. Some of the people said that the elephant had gone in one direction, some said that he had gone in another, some professed not even to have heard of any elephant. I had almost made up my mind that the whole story was a pack of lies, when we heard yells a little distance away. There was a loud, scandalized cry of “Go away, child! Go away this instant!” and an old woman with a switch in her hand came round the corner of a hut, violently shooing away a crowd of naked children. Some more women followed, clicking their tongues and exclaiming; evidently there was something that the children ought not to have seen. I rounded the hut and saw a man’s dead body sprawling in the mud. He was an Indian, a black Dravidian coolie, almost naked, and he could not have been dead many minutes. The people said that the elephant had come suddenly upon him round the corner of the hut, caught him with its trunk, put its foot on his back and ground him into the earth. This was the rainy season and the ground was soft, and his face had scored a trench a foot deep and a couple of yards long. He was lying on his belly with arms crucified and head sharply twisted to one side. His face was coated with mud, the eyes wide open, the teeth bared and grinning with an expression of unendurable agony. (Never tell me, by the way, that the dead look peaceful. Most of the corpses I have seen looked devilish.) The friction of the great beast’s foot had stripped the skin from his back as neatly as one skins a rabbit. As soon as I saw the dead man I sent an orderly to a friend’s house nearby to borrow an elephant rifle. I had already sent back the pony, not wanting it to go mad with fright and throw me if it smelt the elephant.   The orderly came back in a few minutes with a rifle and five cartridges, and meanwhile some Burmans had arrived and told us that the elephant was in the paddy fields below, only a few hundred yards away. As I started forward practically the whole population of the quarter flocked out of the houses and followed me. They had seen the rifle and were all shouting excitedly that I was going to shoot the elephant. They had not shown much interest in the elephant when he was merely ravaging their homes, but it was different now that he was going to be shot. It was a bit of fun to them, as it would be to an English crowd; besides they wanted the meat. It made me vaguely uneasy. I had no intention of shooting the elephant ñ I had merely sent for the rifle to defend myself if necessary ñ and it is always unnerving to have a crowd following you. I marched down the hill, looking and feeling a fool, with the rifle over my shoulder and an ever-growing army of people jostling at my heels. At the bottom, when you got away from the huts, there was a metalled road and beyond that a miry waste of paddy fields a thousand yards across, not yet ploughed but soggy from the first rains and dotted with coarse grass. The elephant was standing eight yards from the road, his left side towards us. He took not the slightest notice of the crowd’s approach. He was tearing up bunches of grass, beating them against his knees to clean them and stuffing them into his mouth.   I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant ñ it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery ñ and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.   But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd ñ seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing ñ no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.   But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal.) Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him.   It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behavior. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. But even then I was not thinking particularly of my own skin, only of the watchful yellow faces behind. For at that moment, with the crowd watching me, I was not afraid in the ordinary sense, as I would have been if I had been alone. A white man mustn’t be frightened in front of “natives”; and so, in general, he isn’t frightened. The sole thought in my mind was that if anything went wrong those two thousand Burmans would see me pursued, caught, trampled on and reduced to a grinning corpse like that Indian up the hill. And if that happened it was quite probable that some of them would laugh. That would never do.   There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole, actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward.   When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick ñ one never does when a shot goes home ñ but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time ñ it might have been five seconds, I dare say ñ he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay.   I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open ñ I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast Lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock.   In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away. I heard later that it took him half an hour to die. Burmans were bringing dash and baskets even before I left, and I was told they had stripped his body almost to the bones by the afternoon.   Afterwards, of course, there were endless discussions about the shooting of the elephant. The owner was furious, but he was only an Indian and could do nothing. Besides, legally I had done the right thing, for a mad elephant has to be killed, like a mad dog, if its owner fails to control it. Among the Europeans opinion was divided. The older men said I was right, the younger men said it was a damn shame to shoot an elephant for killing a coolie, because an elephant was worth more than any damn Coringhee coolie. And afterwards I was very glad that the coolie had been killed; it put me legally in the right and it gave me a sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-30,23994611 Fri, 30 Jan 2009 13:00:03 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, elephant, George Orwell http://odeo.com/episodes/23983057-Floor-Piranha In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought ... In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?” NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History. PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.” NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.” PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?” NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.” P– Pile whosit? N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself. P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal? N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory P — Mallstropicus? N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America. P — so you’ve caught one. N — well, not yet. P — So you have pictures. N — sadly, no. P — then how do you know… N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures. P — Stories, eyewitness reports? N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials. P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class. N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him. P — Which Sabbath record? N — Master of reality I think it was. P — that was released in 1971? N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview. P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.” N — Yes, quite. You have questions. P — How goes the search? N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left. P — Not quite what I meant. N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience. P — but no evidence. N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews. P — Sure, this should be good. N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks. REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good. MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.” NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing. P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that. N — Stupendous isn’t it. P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere. N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search. P — knock yourself out. N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us. P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please. N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?” NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History. PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.” NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.” PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?” NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.” P– Pile whosit? N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself. P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal? N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory P — Mallstropicus? N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America. P — so you’ve caught one. N — well, not yet. P — So you have pictures. N — sadly, no. P — then how do you know… N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures. P — Stories, eyewitness reports? N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials. P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class. N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him. P — Which Sabbath record? N — Master of reality I think it was. P — that was released in 1971? N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview. P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.” N — Yes, quite. You have questions. P — How goes the search? N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left. P — Not quite what I meant. N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience. P — but no evidence. N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews. P — Sure, this should be good. N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks. REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good. MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.” NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing. P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that. N — Stupendous isn’t it. P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere. N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search. P — knock yourself out. N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us. P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please. N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-29,23983057 Thu, 29 Jan 2009 12:16:12 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24064478-Floor-Piranha In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought ... In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?” NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History. PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.” NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.” PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?” NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.” P– Pile whosit? N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself. P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal? N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory P — Mallstropicus? N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America. P — so you’ve caught one. N — well, not yet. P — So you have pictures. N — sadly, no. P — then how do you know… N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures. P — Stories, eyewitness reports? N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials. P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class. N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him. P — Which Sabbath record? N — Master of reality I think it was. P — that was released in 1971? N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview. P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.” N — Yes, quite. You have questions. P — How goes the search? N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left. P — Not quite what I meant. N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience. P — but no evidence. N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews. P — Sure, this should be good. N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks. REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good. MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.” NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing. P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that. N — Stupendous isn’t it. P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere. N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search. P — knock yourself out. N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us. P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please. N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous. Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra. But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra. But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark. And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?” NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History. PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.” NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.” PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?” NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.” P– Pile whosit? N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself. P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal? N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory P — Mallstropicus? N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America. P — so you’ve caught one. N — well, not yet. P — So you have pictures. N — sadly, no. P — then how do you know… N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures. P — Stories, eyewitness reports? N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials. P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class. N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him. P — Which Sabbath record? N — Master of reality I think it was. P — that was released in 1971? N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview. P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.” N — Yes, quite. You have questions. P — How goes the search? N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left. P — Not quite what I meant. N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience. P — but no evidence. N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews. P — Sure, this should be good. N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks. REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good. MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.” NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing. P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that. N — Stupendous isn’t it. P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere. N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search. P — knock yourself out. N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us. P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please. N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-29,24064478 Thu, 29 Jan 2009 12:16:12 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/23982584-Floor-Piranha In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous.   Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra.    But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra.    But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark.    And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character,... In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous.   Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra.    But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra.    But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark.    And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?”   NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History.     PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.”   NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.”   PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?”   NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.”   P– Pile whosit?   N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself.    P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal?   N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory   P — Mallstropicus?    N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America.    P — so you’ve caught one.   N — well, not yet.   P — So you have pictures.   N — sadly, no.   P — then how do you know…   N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures.   P — Stories, eyewitness reports?   N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials.    P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class.    N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him.    P — Which Sabbath record?   N — Master of reality I think it was.   P — that was released in 1971?   N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview.    P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.”   N — Yes, quite. You have questions.    P — How goes the search?   N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left.    P — Not quite what I meant.    N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience.    P — but no evidence.   N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews.    P — Sure, this should be good.    N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks.    REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good.    MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.”   NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing.    P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that.   N — Stupendous isn’t it.    P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere.    N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search.   P — knock yourself out.    N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us.     P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please.    N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. In which we learn of the elusive pilemongrulous chompficampherous.   Episode Script PATRICK– Cryptozoologist. If you’re like me, that sounds like somebody who uses animals to transmit coded messages. The kind of a guy who hides the UPC code for the atomic bomb in a herd of zebra.    But as cool as that may be - it’s not actually what a cryptozooligst does. A cryptozoologist specializes in the study and discovery of hidden animals. This includes a lot of animals that probably don’t exist. Like Bigfoot and the Chupacabra.    But in spite of all those crappy Discovery Channel specials with cheesy recreations and blurry footage looped over and over again — there turns out to be a real field of study here. A number of animals thought to be extinct or mythical have been discovered. Like the Coelacanth (see - lo - can-th) the Hoan kiem turtle and the megamouth shark.    And I recently met a Cryptozoologist and he was such a wonderful and interesting character, I thought I would interview him for the show. Not only is Nigel highly qualified (I think even the dust on his elbow patches comes from the British Museum) but he is a lot of fun to talk to. So Nigel, would you care to introduce yourself to the listeners?”   NIGEL — I am Nigel Carruthers, PhD, adjuncunt curator of the British Musem of Natural History, temporarily seconded to the Colonial Museum of — that is to say, the American Museum of Natural History.     PATRICK — Okay, first off, do you teach Pileated woodpeckers to tap out messages in morse code.”   NIGEL — Oh Good Lord no.(laughter) Although one imagines that that would be quite a skill. No, I am a cryptozoologist. And I have come to these United States in search of the hitherto undocumented North American Floor Pirhana.”   PATRICK — “Floor pirhana?”   NIGEL — Oh yes, quite. Pilemongrulus Chompifcamprerius.”   P– Pile whosit?   N– Pilemongrulus Chompifcampferus — I named the phlyum myself.    P — So how come I’ve never heard of this animal?   N — Well it is well hidden and highly dangerous. In fact a small school of these creatures say no more than a score, can bring down a a full-flesh-ed American Female in under 10 seconds. And I am not talking about the rapidly vanishing, average weight American, oh no. I mean the big ones. Mallstropicus Americanus in all it’s glory   P — Mallstropicus?    N — For a long time the floor pirhana was thought to be only inhabit the realm of myth and nightmare. Something your nanny might scare you with. But recent developments have been quite exciting. We know now that the savage and dangerous floor piranha can indeed be found throughout the living rooms, the sitting rooms, even the bedrooms of North America.    P — so you’ve caught one.   N — well, not yet.   P — So you have pictures.   N — sadly, no.   P — then how do you know…   N — That they exist at all? I’m glad you asked my boy. Strikes right to the heart of the exciting field of Cryptozoology. You we have scads of ancedotal evidence of these creatures.   P — Stories, eyewitness reports?   N — Yes, exactly. You see these speedy, sharp toothed creatures have a long and storied history. The u-ma-pahai tribe of upstate Ohio worshiped them as Gods. While we have records of the British colonists using them to intimidate the French during the French and Indian war — and in one remarkable case, there is record of floor pirhanas being used to induce confession during your Salem Witch trials.    P — I’m not sure I remember that from my American history class.    N — Well, the church records are quite clear. They record that these beasts were loosed on a loosed on a Goody Smith who then confessed to meeting with a dark man of the wood and listening to scratchy Black Sabbath records with him.    P — Which Sabbath record?   N — Master of reality I think it was.   P — that was released in 1971?   N — Ah, a hah hah hah. YOu see my droll British wit has played merry hod with your interview.    P — Yeah, uh, obviously. So the “Floor Pirhana.”   N — Yes, quite. You have questions.    P — How goes the search?   N — Very well I think. Still plenty of grant money left.    P — Not quite what I meant.    N — Of course, well I thought I caught a glimpse of one last week. Terrifying experience.    P — but no evidence.   N — A bit of hair, some inconclusive bite castings, But I have gathered some wonderful ancedotal evidence. Would you like to hear a few of my interviews.    P — Sure, this should be good.    N — Here’s are a few of the juicier bits from a collection of interviews, in which I discussed folk remedies for floor pirhana attacks.    REDNECK — “Yeah” I seen one. Had one in my house. Thought to make it a pet — it were real cute like — then one day it turned on me, sank them little teeth right in my calf. YEEEEEowch. Grandma told me the best way to get one of them little suckers to unlock is to beat at ‘em with a deflated football that’s been soaked in garlic. It works good.    MIDWEST GUY — “well everybody knows you hide in bathtubs — they hate the water.”   NORTHEAST GUY — you know, ya just take one of them uh, them, them dem dere and a just shoot ‘em. Shoot ‘em right in the neck. O course the jaws stay clamped on after death. So’s you still got to deal with that. But at least they stop gnawing.    P — I’m not sure I know what to say to any of that.   N — Stupendous isn’t it.    P — Well, there certainly must be some kind of adjective to describe it lying around here somewhere.    N — Can I make an appeal to your listeners? To aid me in my search.   P — knock yourself out.    N — Good subjects - ahem, Citizens I implore you, if you have any knowlege of these furry and elusive creatures, if you or someone that you love has felt the prick of their tiny teeth upon your flesh, please, please contact us.     P — Yeah, if anybody has any idea at all, what this clown is talking about, throw up a comment or send an email, please.    N — Clown, I say, did you call me a clown. I will have you know that I  am a charter member of the royal society for the advancement of scientific largess, and further more, sargent at arms of my local….. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-29,23982584 Thu, 29 Jan 2009 12:16:12 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/23921500-A-Defense-of-Writing-Longhand Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not pri... Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-22,23921500 Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:16:02 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Technology, Writing, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/23920293-A-Defense-of-Writing-Longhand Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not pri... Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-22,23920293 Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:16:02 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Technology, Writing, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/24064479-A-Defense-of-Writing-Longhand Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not pri... Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. Is technology really my friend? Or is it just pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister.  EPISODE SCRIPT:  A defense (defence) of writing longhand   I like technology. A lot. But I’m not too sure how technology feels about me. It may be my faithful friend and boon companion — then again, it may just be pretending to be my friend so it can date my sister. Especially when it comes to writing.    I’m writing a book. And for all the romance and immensity that phrase can contain, writing a book is also, simply a production process. I am in the process of assembling 75,000 to 100,000 words. And, after writing 50,000 of them, I’ve become convinced that the first draft is the hardest part. Hemingway famously said that the first draft of everything is shit. For what it’s worth, I agree. So, my question, becomes, what’s the easiest way to get through the hardest part.   And to my surprise, the easiest way, turns out to be writing longhand. Not printing mind you, but composing with a long, flowing, and delightfully irregular script that fills the page like a river of words. I sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and a thousand words roll out in a flash. And not only does it often take less time than typing, I think I write better longhand.   Now realize, I am not a hunt and peck typist. I type very fast. And when I type on one of those thin little laptop keyboards that have about 3 millimeters of travel, my typing speed approaches the absurd. Like Glenn Gould, the wonderfully talented and eccentric pianist, who remanufactured his piano, shortening the action on his keys  so that he could play Bach faster. Beautiful, yet a little insane.    But there is obviously more to writing than typing. What I’m really doing is composing.  Composition requires focus. It is, like most acts of creation monotasking. And as much as I love technology, it drives us to distraction.    A pen and paper has but one functionality. It captures the marks I make so that they can be referred to at a later time. It doesn’t ring, it doesn’t bother me with an incoming chat or IM. It never asks me to plug it in so it can get more power. It doesn’t crash, it never needs an upgrade and it is unlikely that someone will snatch my pad and bolt from a coffee shop with it when I turn my back.    Sure paper is perishable. But it is predictably perishable. Data turns to noise in all kinds of unpredictable ways. Like hard drive crashes. And if an IT person tells you that there is a way to archive a file, not touch it for 500 years, and guarantee that it will be useable - they are lying to you. If you think I’m wrong, I’ll email you some WordStar and AppleWorks documents just as soon as I can figure out how to get them off my five and a quarter inch floppies.    But I can go the national archives right now and read a copy of the Magna Carta that was handwritten 793 years ago. No format or version issues here. It is fitting for this essay that, Magna Carta literally means “Great Paper”    But, to paraphrase Emerson, all of this is small account compared to what lies within us. And that is the struggle to organize and communicate our thoughts clearly with the beautiful, yet horribly imprecise instrument of language. And it is in this struggle, I believe that the beauty and power of writing longhand is discovered.    In a way, the problem with writing is, the same problem of hitting a golf ball. Both the page and the ball just sit there. And when you write you have (theoretically) a lifetime to rewrite it until you get it right.   But all that time is simply a field day for the critical part of your brain. Just the time it needs to jump in and muck everything up. This part of the brain needs something to critize. After all, that’s it’s job. But the critical function is not creative. You be critical about anything. And no matter how absurd you are being, you will find ammo to support you. Try running Hamlet through a Microsoft Grammar check.Try running Hamlet and leaving all the scenes in.      But the point is, there’s no possible way to get it right, if you don’t first get it down. And as much as I know this — I mean know it in my bones, as carpenter knows his measuring tape — it still doesn’t help.   The critical part of my brain is telling me, right now, that this sentence is horrible. That the entire device of anthropormophizing the critcal side of my nature in this essay is a bad idea. And that I just mispelled critical. And I shouldn’t have started two sentences in a row with “and”.   But when I write longhand, the experience is different. I think it is because that critical part of my brain is busy picking apart my handwriting (which truly is horrible) instead of my prose. It tells me that my handwriting is atrocious. And it gets the satisfaction of being right. But who cares? While it’s busy the words are just rushing out. And they’re not henpecked or second-guessed before they’ve had time to cool. They exist in a flawed, but pure state. This kind of prose has a feral power that seems to be lacking from the things I type. Maybe that’s not it, maybe it’s just harder to get my head in that effortless writing space when I use a keyboard. But whatever the case is, writing longhand makes it easier for me to reach a writer’s high.     And if you’re still not sold on the idea that writing longhand might help you write better, consider this. Until the 20th century, books were written by hand. I would argue that the best writing in history was composed by hand. The entire process is much easier now. But, would you like to argue that the increase in the power of our technology has led to a corresponding increase in the quality of our writing?    Not me. I’m too busy scribing away. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-22,24064479 Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:16:02 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Technology, Writing, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/23876913-Pinflation In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheat... In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? tag:odeo.com,2009-01-14,23876913 Wed, 14 Jan 2009 14:17:16 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, pinball, inflation, Chris Martenson http://odeo.com/episodes/23877981-Pinflation In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheat... In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? tag:odeo.com,2009-01-14,23877981 Wed, 14 Jan 2009 14:17:16 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, pinball, inflation, Chris Martenson http://odeo.com/episodes/24064480-Pinflation In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheat... In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? In which, pinball might help us get a handle on a complicated subject. The Crash Course by Chris Martenson http://www.chrismartenson.com/crashcourse     EPISODE SCRIPT:   Pinball is a great game. There’s something about playing a game where the operating system is the same as the visible universe. Dress it up as much as you like, add all the animatronic figures, blinky lights ramps and rabbit holes, but at the heart of it, pinball remains the ultimate physics-based game engine.    Because when you get down to it, it’s just a ball bearing and gravity. From there you get acceleration, momentum, spin — a percussive and ballistic drama trapped safely under glass for your amusement.    Which makes pinball seem like a very honest game. It’s easier to suspect that the complicated mechanism of a computer could tip things one way or another. And, if you’ve played a first person shooter online, then you’ve yelled at the screen because you know you got cheated.    Pinball can’t do this. We know the game can’t change the laws of physics for it’s convenience.    So it seems honest, until you start looking at the score. Or, more precisely, the way pinball is scored over time.    1964 - Majorettes, produced by Gottlieb — capitalized on a new feature. (add a ball) if you scored 2000 points, you got an extra ball. You got another one at 5000. The score only went up to 9999, so if you managed to roll it, I’m sure the free balls would kick in again.    1976’s Disturbingly named Capt’n fantastic and the Dirt Brown Cowboy ( which was featured in the episode “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” )  also had a top score of 9,999.   In 1983 Gottlieb Amazon Hunt, which marketing copy cleverly described as a Jungle of Fun - had a top score of 999 million points. What the hell call it a billion And to be sure, Amazon’s are big game. But you have to admit that’s quite a jump in points. 20 years, 100,000 % inflation.    Now, part of the explanation is that pinball games moved from electro-mechanical ( that is, dials in the scoring mechanisms that physically rolled over like an odometer ) to Solid State. Which meant that pinball companies could inexpensively add another decimal place to the score. Or as many as they wanted.    Which brings us to 2003 and the Lord of the Rings pinball game. Which features the highest ever score multiplier of any pinball game. Through an interlocking complexity of modes and objectives that defy comprehension, a player can get whopping 84x score multiplyer. Which helps, because the maximum score is theoretically infinite.    At the time of this article, the current high score reported for Lord of the Rings on Pinballhighscores.com was 4.2 billion. But don’t expect it to last. I have it on good authority that underfunded colleges in India are starting to use refurbished Lord of the Rings Machines to help them in their search for large prime numbers.      So my question is. What happened? Why did the scores of pinball games inflate to the point where you get a couple million points just for successfully finding and pressing the start button. And also closely linked question: why has this phenomenon not attracted more attention? Sure it’s not AIDS or the unrest in the Middle East, crushing sub-saharan poverty, but isn’t it a little odd how normal, how matter of course this tremendous inflation has been?   I mean, basketball hasn’t gone from 2 points a basket to 200? It’s not like touchdowns are somehow cheapened by only being 6 points. And one point, one simple point in soccer is enough to incite riots.    I think that part of the answer is that it’s difficult for people to comprehend inflation of any kind. But with pinball, it’s easy to see that the bumper hit that got you 5 points in Majorette, is physically the same action as the Balrog hit in Lord of the Rings that awards you more points than the gross domestic product of Micronesia.   Points are cheap in Lord of the Rings. And points have become worth less and less over the history of pinball.   And this is point inflation.     So what about currency inflation?     It’s a terribly important question. And as I have spent more time reading and thinking about our current financial troubles, I have come to believe that they are fundamentally and inexorably linked to systematic currency inflation.    That is to say, the appearence of higher prices, when in fact, the dollar is just worth less. It’s how the 5 and dime store becomes the dollar store. How a game of pinball goes from costing a nickel to costing a dollar.     One of the reasons I’m interested in this is that I come from a family of economists. And if you think being a writer in family of jocks would be difficult, consider what it would be like to be an artist among the utlitarians. It’s kind of like being a boy being raised by wolves.    But it’s okay. They are very loving according to their savage customs and I would not trade my family for anything. And it has given me an insight into things economic that most writers just don’t have. On long nights when the moon is full, I know what causes packs of economists to howl, and what their strange music means. And, every once and a while, I can translate their savage language into English. I can read the signs that the econ tribe leaves in the wild.   And if I were to pick a subject to write about that had the highest degree of difficulty, it would be economics. History, mathematics, physics, almost every other subject  has had great popularists. People who have written interestingly and intelligibly about their subject matter. Not so with economcs.    Don’t get me wrong. Freakonomics is a plesant diversion. I’m sure there are few other works out there that I’m missing. But Economics has no Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawkings.      Which, in and of itself is fascinating to me. Black holes are interesting. No two ways about it. Where the universe came from and how it was formed, there’s some deep magic there. But a black hole isn’t going to eat your house. And an economic downturn just might.    So I thought I would write a little bit about things economic.    And right now I’m fascinated, or terrified, by inflation.    And the entire point of this wandering little essay is to point out that number of points in a pinball game and the number of dollars in a economy are set by the same rules. They only go up. And when released, the game designer pretty much loses control over them.    You see dollars can’t be exchanged for a fixed amount of gold at Fort Knox, or anywhere else. The only reason dollars have value to you or me or anybody else is that  people will take them in exchange for, well, a game of pinball or a cup of coffee.   Now difference between pinball inflation and money inflation is that money inflation has some pretty serious and unpleasant consequences for all of us. And, in the last three months, the federal reserve has practically doubled the monetary base. That’s kind of like the pre-multiplier points in Lord of the Rings. You can find a link in the show notes to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis website that will show one hell of a hockey stick curve.   Now to attempt to explain the full ramifications of this monetary expansion would take a lot. Pictures would help. So would a PhD. And I have neither. But I know a guy who has both.      In the three years this podcast has been running, I don’t think I’ve recommended another podcast or blog or bit of online media. And not because they’re not out there and not because they’re not good. But because plugs and promos just didn’t seem to fit into the format. And, quite honestly, I was living in my own frantic little world.   But I’m going to recommend one now. It’s a series of short videos by a man named Chris Martensen. It’s called the “Crash Course”.  And he does a brilliant job of explaining all the stuff that every citizen should know about the economy, in terms that every citizen can understand. My admiration for the job he has done cannot be understated.    You can find the course at http://www.chrismartenson.com/crash-course   These are scary times we live in. The kind of times that no one has ever seen before. And, if you’re like me, ignorance of a subject makes it 10 times scarier. I don’t know why it is so, but if I were being by a pack of lions, I would find some comfort in being able to identify the different kinds of cat teeth.      What I’m suggesting to you with the pinball analogy is the very tip of a nuanced argument about the nature of money, currency manipulation and the business cycle. But my point is very simple.   (pinball sound effects)    When the way we manage our currency like our economy is a game of pinball, should anyone really be surprised if one day it goes on tilt? tag:odeo.com,2009-01-14,24064480 Wed, 14 Jan 2009 14:17:16 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, pinball, inflation, Chris Martenson http://odeo.com/episodes/23840573-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-IV In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reach... In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-07,23840573 Wed, 07 Jan 2009 12:32:44 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, democracy, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocalypse http://odeo.com/episodes/23846252-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-IV In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reach... In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-07,23846252 Wed, 07 Jan 2009 12:32:44 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, democracy, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocalypse http://odeo.com/episodes/24064481-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-IV In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reach... In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. In which Democracy is vindicated and our story concludes. with PG Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT   So we were trapped inside a Mexican restaurant, held captive by a vengeful Mayan God of Truck (truck horn playing La Cucaracha) or Thunder (booming thunder) depending on how you care to look at it.  PG — And you’ve sure got a lot of those. [NOTE: ? what does that mean?]  Me, I’m a simple man. I tried to call the cops.  Not very sporting.  PG — Nope. But it is easy. Or at least I thought it was. Cellphones didn’t work. No bars. And the restaurant line. (this phone has been disconnected message)  So we planned and plotted and generally put up with Finchy. Who was an idiot.  FINCHY — Maybe we could light the restaurant on fire! Then the fire department could come and rescue us.”  The bartender, up to this point our firmest friend and staunchest ally. “Miguel, mas por favor. Mas”(Blender noise) Gave Finchy a hard look and reached under the bar for something. I quickly reassured Miguel that Finchy was an idiot and we would allow no harm to come to the restaurant — or more importantly, the bar.  Finchy — “Well we can’t just wait here until the end of time.” PG — Why not? It’s only 2012? I spent longer than that in college.  Patrick — Shut up Finchy, we’ve got to think. And then the fates forced our hand. Miguel came over, and very politely told us that it was last call. Ultimo and that he must close in 20 minutes. PG and I locked eyes. We knew what had to be done. There was no other way. We were outmatched by bloodthirsty mystic forces beyond our control. Maybe there was no honor here. After all, only survivors can wear medals. PG — Yeah, and I never liked the guy. He cheated at golf.  But that’s not a sin is it? PG — Yes. Yes it is.  Finchy, Finchy I said, we’ve taken a vote. And we’ve decided it’s time for you to go out there.  FINCHY - But, but that’s not fair, there’s two of you and only one of me! Patrick — Well, it’s not a perfect system, but I think we’ve got a pretty good democracy. PG — Works for me.  Patrick — so bottoms up, brave Finchy and out the door.  I’d like to say he agreed and faced his end like a hero.  (Sounds of us beating Finchy. Him sobbing and screaming like a little girl.)  But eventually, we dragged his unconscious body out into the parking lot.  PG — It was such a struggle, we didn’t notice that the Truck was no longer there.  Patrick — How stupid did we look? Standing in the middle of an empty Mexican Restaurant parking lot, with our friend bound in duct tape and gagged with a bar towel.  PG — I was beginning to think that we had made a mistake.  (Finchy wakes up and starts screaming through the gag.) (Thunder)  Patrick — And then the lightning flashed. And we saw the truck at the far end of the parking lot.  (Truck starts up. Shrieking of tires.) PG — I ran. Patrick — I fled in mortal terror. I was so afraid, I’m still not sure why I didn’t soil myself. In fact, I was so scared I’m not sure why my entrails weren’t trailing behind me like weather balloons.  PG — I just ran.  Patrick — but when we made it to the front door of the restaurant, it was locked. The bartender had turned on us.  PG — I usually takes until the morning after to realize the bartender isn’t your friend.  Patrick — In terror I turned back to the the truck. It accelerated towards Finchy without even a thought of slowing. I winced in anticipation of the crunching noise as the truck drove over him. But instead there was silence. PG — Even though we didn’t hear it, the truck stopped.  Against our better judgment we walked over to see what had happened to Finchy.  PG — Flinchy Flinchy. [realizes he has been fooled] What?  PG — Gotcha. Finchy wasn’t on the ground any longer. PG — But then we saw him. PG — We see Finchy being carried up the steps of the temple.  Patrick — the airbrushed temple on the side of the truck. He was in the mural. What a brush with eldrich magic.  PG — Eldrich? This had nothing to do with Fey magic. It was a metaphor.  PG — it was weird.  Patrick — and then the truck was gone.  PG — The one in the mural? Both.  PG — Yeah.  And the thunderstorm had vanished.  PG — It was over. We got in the car and went home.  Patrick — We thought it was over. But the guilt of what we had done was just starting to take root in the bitter place of our souls.  PG — Not really. Patrick — You don’t feel bad.  PG — Nope. Patrick — Well, I don’t feel that bad. I mean, it was us or him right? Forces beyond our control and everything, right?  PG — Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t like him.  Patrick — And that’s the story.  PG — yup. All true.  Patrick — And the truck is still out there somewhere. The Mexican Show truck of doom. Haunting the highways of the night.  PG — whatever.  ( Theme music ) (Truck rumbling) End. tag:odeo.com,2009-01-07,24064481 Wed, 07 Jan 2009 12:32:44 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, democracy, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocalypse http://odeo.com/episodes/23829064-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-3 In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Wh... In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC tag:odeo.com,2009-01-01,23829064 Thu, 01 Jan 2009 15:01:39 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, Golf, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocolypse http://odeo.com/episodes/23820924-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-3 In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Wh... In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC tag:odeo.com,2009-01-01,23820924 Thu, 01 Jan 2009 15:01:39 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, Golf, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocolypse http://odeo.com/episodes/24064483-Flinchy-and-the-Mexican-Show-Truck-Part-3 In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Wh... In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC In which the plot thickens, the story continues and the margaritas blend. Featuring P.G. Holyfield and Tee Morris EPISODE SCRIPT:    SFX: Truck circling, deGuello playing.  So we were in a bad spot. We were trapped in Mexican restuarant. Outside, forces, sinister and unknown. With bloodthirsty taste in music. Forces ancient and mystical, as we were soon to find out.  PG — So I convinced my wife, Liza, to go.  I think she thought it was a joke.  PG — Yeah, well, when she hears the rest of this story, she’s not going to think it was so funny. I was a little surprised at how quickly she left.  PG — Well you ruined our night out so she wanted to save money on a sitter.    I ruined your night out? PG — That’s what she’s going to think when she hears this story. Hey man, it’s not my fault.  PG — Who invited the guy to play golf?  Hey, I didn’t hit the ball into the truck, okay. PG — I’m just telling it like it is.  Whatever. So, we did what men do in difficult and dangerous times. We drank. Patrick — Dos Margaritas por favor. PG — Two. Patrick — That’s what I said, dos. PG — I know and I said two.  Patrick — No, two means Dos.  PG — I know. I want two Margaritas.  SFX: Truck revving PG — And you want Dos.  Patrick — Yes I do. Make that Quatro, por favor.  Finchy — What about me? Patrick — buy your own drinks. PG — See, that’s not sarcasm. Because he’s serious.  We moved to the bar, and watched the truck circle endlessly.  Bartender — Another round senor? Patrick — Keep ‘em coming. It’s a shame you know. I always thought I’d die drinking Guiness.  PG — did you think you’d die a coward? Patrick — nope, I never thought that either. And come to think of it, I don’t think I will. What do you want to do. PG — Do? I’m going to sit right here until that truck goes away.  Finchy — I’m going to the bathroom.  Patrick — (to finchy) good luck with that — (to PG) what do you mean, you can’t just sit here.  PG — Look I’ve got a wife. I’ve got a family. And, and this is the important part, I’ve got a clue.  Patrick — Well I don’t. Have a family that is. I’m going to go out there and see what they want.  PG — If you don’t come back, I’m finishing your margarita.  So, holding a cocktail napkin as an improvised flag of truce, I went outside to parley with the truck. Really. This was all some kind of misunderstanding. Had to be. After all,  It was just a windshield. And as the truck turned to face me, I could see that it had already been repaired.  The truck pulled up alongside me. I expected it to stop at the driver’s window. But it kept going until the airbrushed mural was beside me. I thought it was some kind of mistake. Until I realized, the mural was moving.  A slight breeze blew through the trees of the rainforest. Was that a monkey? And I could see figures descending the steps of the Mayan temple.  As they drew closer, they appeared to be priests. They spoke in unison echoing across space and time.  PRIESTS — bbbrrring usss. Patrick — what? PRIESTS — Bring usssss the short one. Patrick — Can you be more specific, we’re all kind of short in there.  PRIESTS — Appease Ah Peku. Patrick — Right, the windshield. Look, Finchy’s happy to pay for that. Hell, I’ll even pay for it. We’ll both pay for it. How much do you want? PREISTS — Bloood. Patrick — Okay, is this one of those things where you say Blood and I say 100 bucks and we wind up meeting in the middle at like, what call it 500? PRIESTS — Bloood. Patrick — Guess not.   PRIESTS — Sacrifice. Patrick — Right. So how long are you prepared to wait anyway?    PRIESTS — End time.  When I got back inside PG was frantically working his Blackberry.  Patrick — Tell me you saw that? PG — Yeah, I saw it.  Patrick — What the hell was that? PG — Just a minute.  Patrick — What are you doing. Are you twittering this? PG — No, Google. Patrick — What’s it say? PG — Well I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.  Patrick — Give me the bad news. PG — The good news is Ah Peku isn’t a curse. Patrick — Oh, that means the bad news is really bad. When people don’t tell you the bad news, that means it’s really bad. What’s the bad news.  PG — Mayan god of thunder.  Patrick — What’s the Mayan God of Thunder doing on the side of a Chevvy? PG — Well, it’s not that cut and dried. You see the Mayan gods all sort of blend together. They’re just different names for different faces of God. Patrick — So, Ah Peku is. PG — the God of Thunder and  Patrick — Mexican Show Trucks PG — Yup   Patrick — That’s just great. So what you’re saying is, Finchy has pissed off an ancient Mayan thunder god so bad that the Thunder God wants his still beating heart ripped from his body as part of bizzare and cruel Mayan ritual designed to bring about the end of days or something like that?  PG — Nah, I think he’s just pissed about his windshield. Patrick — Sounds a bit materialistic for an ancient Mayan god. PG — Angry and vengeful.  Patrick — Oh yeah, that will work. Still, I like it better the way I said it.   PG — But the Mayans didn’t believe that the end of the world that was brought about. They had a fixed calendar. Says here that they believed that the world is going to end in 2012. Patrick — 2012, that’s when all my credit cards expire. That’s kind of creepy.  Just then Finchy came back from the bathroom. (crashing thunder)  Finchy — what, what happened? what is it?  (crashing thunder)  Patrick — Uh, there’s a couple of gentlemen outside, wearing feathers and bronze. They’d like a word with you. MUSIC tag:odeo.com,2009-01-01,24064483 Thu, 01 Jan 2009 15:01:39 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes, Golf, Tee Morris, PG Holyfield, Flinchy and the Mexican Show Truck, Mayan Apocolypse http://odeo.com/episodes/23787098-A-Podcast-for-the-Winter-Solstice The darkest day of the year. EPISODE SCRIPT: Today is the winter solstice. That means, in this hemisphere, it’s the day we get the fewest hours of sunlight. It’s the darkest day of the year. It’s an observation that fits the times doesn’t it? Every day since September 22nd, the days have been getting shorter. Or darker, depending on how you want to look at it. This is an interesting astronomical phenomenon and you can find all kinds of descriptions and diagrams of about the equinoxes and the solsti. Precise, geometric things they are. Explaining how the axial tilt of the earth gives rise to the seasons themselves as we complete a year-long orbit around the firey ball of hydrogen we call the sun. But I don’t really care about any of that. You see that’s the easy stuff to know. What’s out there. What I’m interested in is what’s in us. And how what’s out there makes us who we are. Every culture in the Northern Hemisphere celeb... The darkest day of the year. EPISODE SCRIPT: Today is the winter solstice. That means, in this hemisphere, it’s the day we get the fewest hours of sunlight. It’s the darkest day of the year. It’s an observation that fits the times doesn’t it? Every day since September 22nd, the days have been getting shorter. Or darker, depending on how you want to look at it. This is an interesting astronomical phenomenon and you can find all kinds of descriptions and diagrams of about the equinoxes and the solsti. Precise, geometric things they are. Explaining how the axial tilt of the earth gives rise to the seasons themselves as we complete a year-long orbit around the firey ball of hydrogen we call the sun. But I don’t really care about any of that. You see that’s the easy stuff to know. What’s out there. What I’m interested in is what’s in us. And how what’s out there makes us who we are. Every culture in the Northern Hemisphere celebrates this time of year. Yule comes from Pagan Scandinavians. The early church paved over the Roman festival of a God called Mithras and the Saturnalia, to provide the foundation of the celebration we know as Christmas. Temple geometry of every kind, From the pyramids, to Stonehenge to chichen izta to St. Peter’s to the Washington memorial indicates the passage of the seasons. It allows us to tell one day from the next and mark the passage of time with precision So when you get right down to it, stonehenge is a very, very, very heavy device for determining, among other things, the solstice. Why? Well, agriculture depends on knowing the best time to plant. It’s a crapshoot anyway, what with freak cold snaps, Indian summers, floods, fires, locusts — nature can fake you out and break your heart at every turn. But your best shot comes around the same time every year. And regardless of how good or bad a particular year might be, the earth keeps spinning and things keeping growing. So fine, wake me when spring gets here. But why mark the darkest day of the year? You see, from a natural perspective, most everything around us has been dying since September 22nd. A tree loses it’s leaves in the fall. A tree also loses it’s leaves when it dies. So if you’re very primitive, and you don’t have a stonehenge. And you don’t have any other way of recording and transmitting knowledge except through the elders of the tribe — The madmen and the mystics, who are cool and everything — fun at parties, but not the most accurate or meticulous source of information. Well, then this time of year looks like the end of the world. Fenray the wolf eats the sun. It’s all Ragnarock and roll from here on in. And we know it’s not because we have science and history and writing and numbers to keep track of it all. Hell, we’ve got spreadsheet’s and pivot tables. We’re far too smart to be fooled by nature. I mean, it’s not like we rush around frantically to be with loved ones, huddle around fires, light candles and displaying the few plants that remain green as a symbol of growth and hope and things eternal. It’s not like we make phone calls and send out messages to distant friends and relatives letting everybody know that we’re okay — and seeking that same message in return. It not like it’s a time of year that we lay out a feast, and throw parties to try and convince ourselves and others how good we’ve got it, and how everything’s going to be okay. It’s not like it’s a time of the year when people turn to religion. How scared and frantic we all act around the solstice. How frightened. It’s the darkest day of the year. And, for all our intelligence and achievements and self-congratulations, on some animal level, we still freak out about it. Even though we know better. But there’s another thing I’ve noticed. Christmas doesn’t fall on the solstice. Neither does New Year’s. So if you were watching the sun, and you didn’t have a Stonehenge, how long would it take you to confirm that the days were indeed getting longer. That things were getting brighter. That the darkest day of the year was behind you. 4 days? 12 days? Something like that. It’s the darkest day of the year. But it’s not the end. Tomorrow will be brighter. And the day after that, and the day after that — all the way until June. It’s an inarguable physical fact. But, as I said, I’m not all that interested in facts. I’m interested in a higher order of ideas. What we do with the facts. How we use the facts to tell ourselves stories that create meaning. So you know what I make of this fact? I think this is how nature teaches us hope. Because sometimes the days are dark and then they get darker. But that’s okay. It goes the other way too. As sure as the turning of the earth. The darkest day of the year. EPISODE SCRIPT: Today is the winter solstice. That means, in this hemisphere, it’s the day we get the fewest hours of sunlight. It’s the darkest day of the year. It’s an observation that fits the times doesn’t it? Every day since September 22nd, the days have been getting shorter. Or darker, depending on how you want to look at it. This is an interesting astronomical phenomenon and you can find all kinds of descriptions and diagrams of about the equinoxes and the solsti. Precise, geometric things they are. Explaining how the axial tilt of the earth gives rise to the seasons themselves as we complete a year-long orbit around the firey ball of hydrogen we call the sun. But I don’t really care about any of that. You see that’s the easy stuff to know. What’s out there. What I’m interested in is what’s in us. And how what’s out there makes us who we are. Every culture in the Northern Hemisphere celebrates this time of year. Yule comes from Pagan Scandinavians. The early church paved over the Roman festival of a God called Mithras and the Saturnalia, to provide the foundation of the celebration we know as Christmas. Temple geometry of every kind, From the pyramids, to Stonehenge to chichen izta to St. Peter’s to the Washington memorial indicates the passage of the seasons. It allows us to tell one day from the next and mark the passage of time with precision So when you get right down to it, stonehenge is a very, very, very heavy device for determining, among other things, the solstice. Why? Well, agriculture depends on knowing the best time to plant. It’s a crapshoot anyway, what with freak cold snaps, Indian summers, floods, fires, locusts — nature can fake you out and break your heart at every turn. But your best shot comes around the same time every year. And regardless of how good or bad a particular year might be, the earth keeps spinning and things keeping growing. So fine, wake me when spring gets here. But why mark the darkest day of the year? You see, from a natural perspective, most everything around us has been dying since September 22nd. A tree loses it’s leaves in the fall. A tree also loses it’s leaves when it dies. So if you’re very primitive, and you don’t have a stonehenge. And you don’t have any other way of recording and transmitting knowledge except through the elders of the tribe — The madmen and the mystics, who are cool and everything — fun at parties, but not the most accurate or meticulous source of information. Well, then this time of year looks like the end of the world. Fenray the wolf eats the sun. It’s all Ragnarock and roll from here on in. And we know it’s not because we have science and history and writing and numbers to keep track of it all. Hell, we’ve got spreadsheet’s and pivot tables. We’re far too smart to be fooled by nature. I mean, it’s not like we rush around frantically to be with loved ones, huddle around fires, light candles and displaying the few plants that remain green as a symbol of growth and hope and things eternal. It’s not like we make phone calls and send out messages to distant friends and relatives letting everybody know that we’re okay — and seeking that same message in return. It not like it’s a time of year that we lay out a feast, and throw parties to try and convince ourselves and others how good we’ve got it, and how everything’s going to be okay. It’s not like it’s a time of the year when people turn to religion. How scared and frantic we all act around the solstice. How frightened. It’s the darkest day of the year. And, for all our intelligence and achievements and self-congratulations, on some animal level, we still freak out about it. Even though we know better. But there’s another thing I’ve noticed. Christmas doesn’t fall on the solstice. Neither does New Year’s. So if you were watching the sun, and you didn’t have a Stonehenge, how long would it take you to confirm that the days were indeed getting longer. That things were getting brighter. That the darkest day of the year was behind you. 4 days? 12 days? Something like that. It’s the darkest day of the year. But it’s not the end. Tomorrow will be brighter. And the day after that, and the day after that — all the way until June. It’s an inarguable physical fact. But, as I said, I’m not all that interested in facts. I’m interested in a higher order of ideas. What we do with the facts. How we use the facts to tell ourselves stories that create meaning. So you know what I make of this fact? I think this is how nature teaches us hope. Because sometimes the days are dark and then they get darker. But that’s okay. It goes the other way too. As sure as the turning of the earth. tag:odeo.com,2008-12-20,23787098 Sat, 20 Dec 2008 20:55:10 -0800 no The Seanachai podcast, Episodes http://odeo.com/episodes/23786660-A-Podcast-for-the-Winter-Solstice The darkest day of the year. EPISODE SCRIPT: Today is the winter solstice. That means, in this hemisphere, it’s the day we get the fewest hours of sunlight. It’s the darkest day of the year. It’s an observation that fits the times doesn’t it? Every day since September 22nd, the days have been getting shorter. Or darker, depending on how you want to look at it. This is an interesting astronomical phenomenon and you can find all kinds of descriptions and diagrams of about the equinoxes and the solsti. Precise, geometric things they are. Explaining how the axial tilt of the earth gives rise to the seasons themselves as we complete a year-long orbit around the firey ball of hydrogen we call the sun. But I don’t really care about any of that. You see that’s the easy stuff to know. What’s out there. What I’m interested in is what’s in us. And how what’s out there makes us who we are. Every culture in the Northern Hemisphere celeb... The darkest day of the year. EPISODE SCRIPT: Today is the winter solstice. That means, in this hemisphere, it’s the day we get the fewest hours of sunlight. It’s the darkest day of the year. It’s an observation that fits the times doesn’t it? Every day since September 22nd, the days have been getting shorter. Or darker, depending on how you want to look at it. This is an interesting astronomical phenomenon and you can find all kinds of descriptions and diagrams of about the equinoxes and the solsti. Precise, geometric things they are. Explaining how the axial tilt of the earth gives rise to the seasons themselves as we complete a year-long orbit around the firey ball of hydrogen we call the sun. But I don’t really care about any of that. You see that’s the easy stuff to know. What’s out there. What I’m interested in is what’s in us. And how what’s out there makes us who we are. Every culture in the Northern Hemisphere celebrates this time of year. Yule comes from Pagan Scandinavians. The early church paved over the Roman festival of a God called Mithras and the Saturnalia, to provide the foundation of the celebration we know as Christmas. Temple geometry of every kind, From the pyramids, to Stonehenge to chichen izta to St. Peter’s to the Washington memorial indicates the passage of the seaso