Author: RTNM

The Car (A Critical Review of an Album I Haven’t Yet Heard)

I have listened to a few songs and read several reviews of Arctic Monkey’s new CD, The Car.  My most significant worries have been realized.  They are doubling down on the lounge sound from the last release.  I listened to Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino at least 300 times, and I still can’t decide if I like it.  All I know is that it is different.  I can’t tell you if that difference is good or bad or just change for the sake of change.  I will admit that I am disappointed.

I remember the first time I heard them.  The first CD had just been released, and I found them on the internet.  I immediately went to Amazon, where I could sample all the songs.  It took me about 10 seconds to buy and download the CD.  I instantly loved it; the raw energy reminded me of my younger days.  You know, My Sharona screaming from my Karmann Ghia as I struggle down the highway.  Or maybe Ramones yelling about sweaty kids in a tight wind.  You get the idea.  The stars misaligned as we all grew up and settled into the daily struggle for a hopefully meaningful existence.

I was fortunate to see Arctic Monkeys in a small venue long before they blew up.  There were maybe a few hundred in the crowd that night.  I was shocked by the predominantly male crowd.  Very few females bothered to show up, but I remember the two young women standing right in front of me who insisted on making out during the show.  That would be the entire show, including the opening act, a group I can’t begin to remember.

The venue was far enough away from me that I had to get a hotel room.  My buddy Scott met me there, and we prepared for the show like many concertgoers.  We drank some beer and ate some Mexican food.  He hadn’t heard much of their music, but it was a good excuse to get away from the daily grind.

Our cab ride to the show was eventful.  We were picked up by an amiable and substantial black man named Michael.  We learned that Michael had a degree in mathematics but soon learned he preferred driving a cab to wrangling unruly youngsters.  Many of you can guess my reply.  I told him how important it was for him to use his degree.  The world needed him to set an example for all children, especially the minorities he would see in his classroom.  Role models of the mathematical variety are hard to come by, and I strongly suggested to him that we needed him.  By we, of course, I meant all of humanity.  I meant it, too.  He listened politely and was engaged in the conversation.  He gave us his card so he could pick us up after the concert.  If I had to guess, he is not earning his living teaching mathematics.  Too bad…for all of us.

The show was fantastic; sure, I was a bit distracted, but I managed to hear the setlist.  They missed a couple of songs I would have liked to have heard, but that is always part of the bargain, isn’t it?

After the concert ended, they shuffled everyone quickly out the doors.  For whatever reason, they did not want anyone milling around.  Consequently, there were dozens of people peeing in the streets.  They wouldn’t let me back in, so I had to join the chorus.  Eh, what are you going to do?

I will download the new CD in the next day or two.  I will listen to it many, many times.  I will eventually decide if I like it or not.  Or maybe I won’t.  Perhaps it will join the last CD in my mental file of ambiguity.  I hope not; I want to be surprised.  I want to hear something the other reviewers have missed.  If I do, I will not keep it to myself.  I don’t recommend that you hold your breath waiting for that positive review.  My money is on the flip side of that equation.

There you have it, a review of an album I have not listened to by my all-time favorite band.  Stranger things have happened, but I have learned that trajectories, especially those of the creative variety, can be blinding.  There is the thinnest of lines between too clever by half and brilliance.  I have no idea where that line is; it is subtle and elusive.  I hope the boys in the band and I can get back on the same page, but that is doubtful.  They have grown up, and I have grown old.

 

Sitting at the Library

I have an excellent writing room.  I also have an anti-library in my big, old house in the middle of Hillbilly Land.  I decided to return to the library tonight instead of sitting at home.  Why?  I guess my writing spaces aren’t that compelling to make me stay.  Besides, the weather is amiable, and I want to get out before the feet of snow arrive.  Such is life for those trying to survive in the snow belt.  On top of that, I live in one of the few areas that have to deal with lake-effect snow.  The older I get, the more I dislike it.

So, I sit at the library, holding court in the fiction section.  I see no other patrons.  There are three or four employees and me.  Even the homeless are not seeking shelter today; the weather is too nice.

I thought today might be the day something compelling makes its way from my fingertips to the computer screen.  No such luck.  I am tired, way too tired to flint with inspiration.  I am not writing today; I am typing.  I think it was Capote who said that Kerouac was not a writer; he was simply a typist.  Excuse me if I am mistaken; my fact-checker team is on hiatus.  No idea when or if to expect them back.  All for the better; it was time for them to fly, spread their wings, and get their own fact-checkers.

Inspiration has been in short supply in these parts; it has been replaced by involuntary, undramatic grinding.  The kind where every sentence is a struggle, and in the end, it appears not to matter if the effort was worth it or not.  I fear this is becoming a trend.  If my assistants were still here, I would have them look into it.

Is it even possible?  Can an inspired work, maybe a novel, spring from a grind?  I don’t see how that is possible if the struggle is not to achieve greatness but to remain upright.  Is walking the earth out of morbid curiosity a concoction for excelling?

I have long argued that to understand humans, you must learn all you can about hope.  Hope is what politicians and the clergy peddle.  It gets people out of bed when it is clear they are better off staying.  Things can (and will) get better, right?  You and I hope so.

I am 60.  I do not know how that happened.  I remember being disappointed that my great novel, my life’s work, was not completed when I turned 30.  Sure, I had multiple graduate degrees from Harvard University at that point, but those parchments were only an indication of promise.  A hint of possibilities.

I am reminded of a professor I once knew.  He was granted tenure at a top university at a very young age.  The expectations for this man were very high.  It was just a matter of time until he made a significant contribution to his chosen field and the world.  It never happened.  He grew old and then older.  Ultimately, people stopped expecting anything from him, and he met their expectations.  His death did not resonate throughout his professional community.

The implied question is a good one.  Is it imperative that each of us strive to make a significant contribution to our chosen fields?  If we don’t, have our lives been failures?  I have often written that each individual is the arbiter of their success.  No one else’s opinion matters, not even a little.  Such a question can only be asked and answered on an individual basis.  I know what I think, and no one could convince me otherwise.  I have never been one to settle or make concessions.

I see three library employees; that makes four of us in the building.  The doors close in an hour, and I notice stealthy glances.  Who will approach with the compulsory “Sir, we are closing in five minutes.”  They have nothing to worry about.  I am too tired to stay much longer.  I would push it if the link between my brain and my fingers was more fiber optic than analog.

A good night’s sleep, right?  That is all I need.  Perhaps a dream foreshadowing an onslaught of inspiration.  A Mozart level of insight into the unimagined.  I hope so; I really do.

 

Grammarly

I am a big fan of Grammarly. I mean this when I say it; if I had this program back when I started at Harvard, my life would have turned out much differently. There is a possibility I never would have left. The program is that good, and it has helped me immensely.
I often wonder how much Grammarly is influencing my writing style. I constantly clash with the program when it comes to specific sentence structures. I have a distinct style, and the software isn’t as hyped at the word order as I am. Consequently, I rarely see emptiness on the left side of my screen in the Grammarly panel. Usually, it identifies a dozen or so issues after a second draft. You don’t want to know how many issues there are after my first pass. I often state that my first drafts look like they were written by a junior high student whose first language is not English.
Some readers already know that I am The King of the Comma Splice. I think in comma splices, I really do. The lateral connections my brain makes are in comma splice form. Luckily, the software is excellent at spotting them and reminding me that there is such a thing as a semicolon and that it is OK to use them. Kurt Vonnegut thought that only a showoff would use a semicolon, but I find them very useful. And yes, I do have a basket full of degrees.
Should we be worried about programs like Grammarly? Is their influence going to grow much faster than their usefulness? I know people who are concerned about this. A built-in editor included with Microsoft Word has the power to influence generations of writers. Should a piece of software be that influential and powerful? I don’t know the answer to that, but I am all for anything that helps people write more clearly (especially if I am the one reading).
The main concern is that software is creating many writers who type similarly. Will individual style be stifled if everyone opts to follow Grammarly’s advice? Will every school paper or published essay be cookie-cutter in form? Questions like those are above my pay grade. I’ll leave it to the English professors to sort it all out.
I am glad about one thing, Grammarly does not care that I do not indent my paragraphs. I have always felt that is an unnecessary, and sort of strange, convention. I am not a Gertrude Stein wannabe (she thought question marks were redundant and unnecessary); I think that paragraphs are fine with no indentation. My brain is open if someone wishes to change my mind. I am not too concerned; I can’t believe that anyone out there cares enough to take issue with how I start my paragraphs.
And there it is, a short essay on Grammarly. The program says I am clean and ready to go. It told me to pat myself on the back because I must have been practicing. My only wish is that the next incarnation of the software can remind me to be compelling, engaging, and maybe even brilliant.

 

The Briefcase

I have a problem, not a monumental one; it is merely an aggravating issue.  Simply put, my briefcase smells like an old goat.  Sure, I have a story.

Many years ago, I started searching for a briefcase.  Not that I desperately need one.  I don’t require one; I just wanted one.  I spent some time looking around on Amazon; after all, I wouldn’t know of a place around here that even sells them.  There is not a significant demand for briefcases where I come from.

I did my due diligence, looked at many designs, and read positive and negative reviews.  I  finally settled on the one that I wanted.

{Excuse me for a few minutes.  I am sitting at the library while trying to write this post.  The yelping guy just walked in.  He is heading right for me.  This time he is hurling obscenities at an unknown interlocutor.  I may have to engage him.}

Many reviews noted that my briefcase was made of Morrocan leather, a fancy way of saying goat.  Consequently, the reviewers mentioned that the product smells strongly of an old goat.  The smell, many noted, is overpowering.

{He is back.  Roaming from aisle to aisle, still fighting with his unseen enemy.  He is circling me.  I wish he would go away.}

I researched the issue of goat leather and the problem of the smell that comes about from the curing process.  Most people claimed that the smell would disappear after a few weeks if you exposed the briefcase to sunlight.  Others argued that all you had to do was let it air out, and the smell would dissipate in no time.  No one stated that the briefcase would still reek six months after purchase.  Maybe I will write that review.

{He somehow grabbed a cup of coffee.  He is walking toward me.  He is grinning like a man who knows something I do not.  I am not overly concerned, but I am a little on edge.  The library is mostly empty.  There was a police car outside when I came in, but I do not see any security inside now.}

My briefcase still smells after six months of sunlight and air.  I do not know what an old goat smells like, but I do know what my briefcase smells like.  The odor is of a robust chemical variety.  I do not think it is going away.  I am the owner of a stinky briefcase.  I really like it, I use it, but it sure does stink.

{A woman, an older woman, probably in her 50s, just approached the yelper.  Is she in league with him?  What is her story?  Is she a social worker sent out to get this man some help?  Is she an undercover police officer?  I am not sure.  He is walking away from her, and she is following.  He is calling her every profane name he can think of.  He is not being clever with his insults, but he is loud.}

Some anonymous person, a helpful one, suggested that I dunk my briefcase in baking soda.  That will do the trick, they said.  I tried it and failed.  If I look closely, I can still see a few particles on the leather.  Another suggested I shoot it with Febreeze.  That’s the ticket, they said.  Sigh.  I can smell the case from my seat as I sit here typing.

{Two women just walked past me.  They are weathered.  My guess is they are here to charge their phones.  It is a gorgeous day, so they are not seeking refuge from a storm.  At least not one that is apparent.  The yelper has disappeared into the stacks.  He is unseen and unheard.  That is a happy combination.}

Is the stench from my briefcase overpowering?  It is pretty bad, but I can live with it.  Do I want to get rid of the smell?  Absolutely, but that appears to be a wistful dream.

{The yelper just approached the two women charging their phones.  I would say he seems troubled, but that goes without saying.  The women ignore him.  He mulls around for a bit and then walks away.  He is not walking toward my table, and that lets me let out a sigh.  He is in desperate need of help.}

The list of things I need to get done today is long.  I don’t need these distractions.  There was a time decades ago when I would seek out loud and angry places to test my powers of concentration.  Those days are long gone; my mind has a mind of its own.  It generally wanders where it wants, not where I tell it to go.  Then I smell it, the strong chemical odor coming from my briefcase.  Only the smell keeps grounding me, bringing me back to the reality of the library and the characters surrounding me.  I suppose it is time to go home.  At least for today, there is nothing for me here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Ask

“Don’t ask,” she forcefully said as she stared him down.

He sheepishly scratched his forehead as he twirled his pen between his fingers. He was skilled, a pen twirler from way back. She wasn’t impressed.

She let out a deep breath and looked around the library. Typical day, more workers than patrons. The only people there were looking through the DVDs. By her calculations, over 90% of the library’s business was DVDs. Few people bothered to approach the counter with a single book. No big surprise.

Two men walked through the door. She immediately guessed where they were going. Most people who came through the door were looking for the bathroom. That is all they wanted. Another set of people needed to use the computers for a bit. The rest were homeless, trying to get out of the weather. Along with the warmth, they needed to charge their phones if they were lucky enough to have one.

A young mother with two kids, the oldest might be four, walked in next. They headed straight for the children’s section. The older one ran for the toy train with his little sister close behind. Mom breathed a sigh of relief; for a few minutes, she could relax, if only for a little.

The librarian at the Information Desk was watching cat videos supplied by her computer. Her headphones looked official, letting the library customers think she was researching some problem posed by one of the literate people from the community. Most people realized the chances of that were low; anyone literate in this community would know better than to ask a local librarian for help with anything.

She leaned back and looked slightly to her left. Was she there? Was she on the schedule for today? She was young and pretty with the body of a college cheerleader. Just her type. Sure, the odds they could go out and do anything were low, but hope was all she had. No matter how outlandish or impossible, hope got her up in the morning, or afternoon, or whenever she decided to get out of bed.

“If you would just…”

“Don’t talk to me. Why don’t you move to another table? You’re bothering me.”

The young man picked up his large backpack and made his way to the exit. He knew the drill; if she called out for help, he would have to spend hours dealing with the police. His attitude would have been different if he thought they might bring him in and feed him. He might have gotten aggressive and made sure that security called the police.

As he walked through the doors, another man entered. Loudly mumbling to himself, he made his way straight to the restroom. She imagined that if she were any closer, she would smell him before she saw him. He yelped as he turned the corner to the restroom. She shook her head.

She checked her phone, 80%. The charge might get her through the night if she could stay a little longer. It wasn’t raining; there was none in the forecast, even though it was going to get close to freezing. She would probably need to find someplace to stay. Never one to depend on the kindness of strangers, she thought of the possibilities.

Decades ago, this would have been easy. She had more attention than she wanted. Never had a problem staying where she wanted for as long as she wished. Youthful complexions and athletic bodies are treated that way. No one told her that the party would be over one day and that her looks would fade to a point where people would instead look away than be forced to make eye contact.

She looked down at the book she had grabbed randomly from a shelf. It made it easier for people to ignore her if they thought she was busy reading. As she turned a page, the yelping man came out of the restroom. He was cursing up a storm. She sighed as she looked down at her book. Don’t do it. Don’t walk my way. You better stop.

A security guard intercepted and guided him toward the exit as he approached her table. Only after the man swung at him did the security guard motion for the desk staff to call the police.

She turned another page as she scanned the room for other threats. Seeing none, she picked up her phone to check the charge. 85%, still not good enough. She needed a little more to be sure she could get through the night.

She felt someone coming up behind her. She quickly turned to find one of the library employees on her shoulder.

“You alright? Do you need anything? Social Services has a van outside. They have a nurse and some food.”

She nodded without looking the woman in the eyes. She was too embarrassed to say that she was desperate and needed more help than people in a van could give. Most of us can’t survive on good intentions. She wanted to tell the woman that all the homeless in the library needed more help. They needed to believe that they were worth something, that they were something more than a burden on society.

She glanced at her phone, still 85%. She wiggled the cable. It appeared to stop charging. She pulled off the electrical tape and then retaped the end of the cable. Still nothing.

As she looked up, another man carrying a large pack walked through the library doors. He was another yelper. Yelp, two steps yelp, two steps. Same today as every other day. Same tomorrow, too. She knew him; the entire community knew each other. She collected her backpack, quickly put the phone and cord into a compartment, and headed toward the disturbed man. She caught him just before he reached the restrooms. She flew into him as fast as she could. After he fell, she jumped on top of him and started beating him as quickly and as hard as possible. The man didn’t fight back; he just kept yelping at the same rate.  A metronome, I am beating a metronome.

The security guard seemed to take his time getting to her. He and the police were still dealing with the first man. When the police caught a glimpse of the altercation, they rushed toward them. One of the officers grabbed her by the backpack and quickly pulled her off the yelping man. They dragged her toward a wall and cuffed her. Only then did they turn their attention to the man on the ground.

A librarian, shaking her head in disgust, walked toward her and sighed.

“You and I know he is harmless. Why on earth did you do that?”

She looked up and tried her best to catch her breath. All she could think to say was, “Don’t ask.”

We’re Going Back to State!

My niece, Haley, did it again.  She qualified for the state tennis tournament for the second consecutive year.  Big news in these parts.

When she qualified as a freshman, I posted some thoughts.  I put her accomplishment in a historical perspective.  This essay will frame her latest exploits on the tennis court from a different point of view.

I mention Harvard University in many of my essays.  Why?  Is that just a flex?  I am wearing a Harvard hoodie right now; do I walk around with that to show off?  Not at all.  I have no interest in impressing anyone.  For as long as I can remember, I have been out only to impress myself.  No other opinions have ever mattered much to me.

I arrived on campus in 1986 and received my second degree in 1993.  I left in 1992 and wrote my thesis back in Ohio.  While in Cambridge, I told anyone who would listen that we were living in what we would eventually refer to as “the good old days.” I knew that was true for me, and I spent every day taking in my surroundings.  I really did appreciate how special every moment was.  I miss that campus every day.

A month ago, I was talking to Haley.  I told her about a question I heard come up quite often at Harvard.  In my experience, it is a question specific to that campus.  I am sure other people discuss it, but it was always in the air at Harvard.  If not expressed explicitly, it was always implied.  I asked Haley if she could guess the topic of the mysterious query.  Her initial guess was the meaning of life.  Good guess but wrong.  I am sure many people think along those lines and ask the appropriate questions.  This question, the one on the minds of many people in Cambridge on that campus, is different.

In other posts, I have mentioned that Haley’s grandfather, PaPops, was the first high school graduate on her dad’s side of the family.  Not only that, he was the first to even attend high school.  Trust me that is a lot of inertia to overcome.  I recently read Tara Westover’s Educated and am happy for her.  She managed to escape the cycle of ignorance.  That is not the easiest thing to do.  An unseen tug pulls people back to the past; that is just how it is.

I remember my mom calling down to West Virginia to tell her relatives that I was studying at Harvard.  None of them had ever heard of Harvard University.  One asked if the school had a good football team.  And on and on it goes…

That inertia caused by family history will not impact Haley at all.  She has good role models.  Unlike me, she does not have a bunch of uneducated uncles on missions to drink themselves to death in their 40s.  Trust me that makes a difference.  She is in a great private school surrounded by high achievers.  Listen when I say that also makes a difference.  Back in the day, my cohorts exhibited no such potential.

So, finally, we get to the question.  What is that question that I asked Haley to guess?  It is something that she and she alone will decide on.  Is it relevant to her?  She is the only arbiter of that decision, no one else.  She will determine if it is her responsibility to make a contribution to humanity or not.  Only she will decide if she is required, due to her abilities, to leave the world a better place than she found it.

It plays out in the following manner.  “All right, Bubba, what equation will be carved on your gravestone?” I heard that question in varying forms throughout my Cambridge years.  “What contribution to humanity are you going to make?” Indeed, that was another form of the same question.  “Will The New York Times even care that you passed?  Will you get an obituary, or will you die anonymously?” The people at Harvard, in general, arrived on campus asking themselves those questions which are, in essence, the same question.  And if they weren’t asking it when they arrived, they were asking it when they left.

It comes down to apparent responsibility.  Does a talented individual have an obligation to substantially contribute to humanity?  I don’t know.  Harvard University made it explicit that any graduate was tasked with conjuring up a contribution to society.  That part of the implied mission statement was made clear.  For others, the answer to that question is left to every individual; outside opinions do not matter.  I know profound impacts can be made with ballet slippers, computer keyboards, guitars, and (of course) tennis racquets.  I think everything will be fine if we maximize our abilities, whatever they may be.  The specifics seem to me to be irrelevant.

If you think such a question is designed to put undue pressure on people, you approach the issue incorrectly.  The question is more of a guiding principle, a way to clarify motivations.  If you can ask if your actions are making the world a better place, then you are taking a well-considered, thoughtful path, not the route of selfishness or greed.

There it is, the question Haley may or may not ask herself.  It is up to her to decide.  For now, she just needs to work hard, learn as much as possible, and enjoy those “sprinkles on the cupcake” at the state tennis tournament.  For the rest of her life, there will be no tugs of inertia.  That I can guarantee.  All she will feel is the wind beneath her wings.  She has lots of people in her corner making sure of that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 7

A man, I believe it was the same one I saw at the parking deck, came to my door a few days ago.  He greeted me with a smile and then shoved a pistol into my ribs.  He pushed himself inside and then threw me onto the carpet.

“Fine job getting those questions answered.  Now we need more from you.”

“What is this?  Why did you push me down?  I am injured.  You have hurt my back and hip.”

“Just get up.  We need to talk.”

I struggled to get to one knee.  At that point, I fell back to the floor.  It was clear I was seriously injured.  I needed a doctor.

“Just get up; you are fine.  You fell onto the carpet, for crying out loud.  Get up.”

“I am an old man.  I don’t bounce like I used to.  I am hurt…bad.  I need to go to the hospital.”

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

The man took out another slip of paper and tossed it on the ground near my feet.  I watched him slam the door behind him.  After I was sure he was gone, I called a neighbor, a guy named Tibor, and he drove me to the hospital.  I am writing this post from my hospital bed.  I am in a lot of pain, but if I turn just so, I can breathe without much trouble.  I told the doctors that I had slipped and fallen.  They bought it.

I haven’t told Warren what happened, and I probably won’t.  He has other things to worry about.  I know he has other pen names; I think lots of others.  He certainly could replace me if he was so inclined.

I finally got around to looking at the slip of paper the criminal left at my house.  There was just one question.  In bold capital letters, it stated, “IS GOD A MATHEMATICIAN?  In lower case was written, “ask him.”

So, that is where I am at.  I am supposed to ask Warren the question.  Why would this man and the gang he represents want to ask such a question?  I don’t know.  Warren is not a theologian and holds no influence over the public.  I am quite certain that no one cares what he thinks about anything.  He would be the first to tell you that no one listens to him, just as no one reads his books or clicks on his blog.

And yet here we are…

Below is the text of our short exchange.  As always, it was lightly edited for clarity.

RTNM:  I have just one question.  It is a big one, so you can answer it however you see fit.

WAS:  Wait, you are now comfortable telling me how I should or should not answer questions posed by you, a humorless baboon with the cranial capacity of a juvenile Australopithecus.  Really?  You are in need of serious revision.

RTNM:  Fine.  You are going to do exactly what you want anyway.  I can’t imagine a scenario where I can influence or counsel you.  All I will say is that this person, the criminal who keeps accosting me and demanding that I ask you these questions, is a serious and dangerous individual.

WAS:  I’m not so sure about that.  Maybe he is just misunderstood.  Also, you might be delusional.

RTNM:  Fine.  Here is your question, IS GOD A MATHEMATICIAN?

WAS:  Yes.  Is that all?

RTNM:  That is all that was written on the paper.  Elaborate if you want.  Leave if you wish.  I am beyond the point of caring.

WAS:  Very good.  I’ll leave.

RTNM:  Are you sure?  I don’t know what will happen if you refuse to answer this question.

WAS:  I did answer it.

RTNM:  Why won’t you elaborate?

WAS:  I have limited time.  By that, I mean limited time alive.  Turning sixty puts that into an even sharper focus for me.  There are things I need to get done, and interacting with you isn’t helping me.  You are nothing more than a bizarre distraction.

RTNM:  There is more I am not telling you.  I think I know who the person is, the one who attacked me.

WAS:  Fascinating.

RTNM:  You don’t want to know?

WAS:  No.  I could not care less.  What did I just tell you about time?  I have to focus if I want to get some important things completed.  At least, they are important to me.

RTNM:  Certainly, I understand, but…

WAS:  No buts.  I have to go.

With that, Warren got up and left.  We were at a library.  We were able to get a rather large study room for the interview.  That was just by chance; we didn’t reserve it because I had no idea when or if he would agree to meet me.

I watched him close the door to the room.  He was headed toward the exit when he was approached by a beautiful young woman, much younger than him.  I saw him furrow his brow as the conversation became more animated.  She kept pointing at his shoes, red checkerboard Vans, as he stood stupefied.  I have no idea what the conversation was about.

After a minute or so, she left him and disappeared up a flight of stairs.  Warren watched her go.  He then turned toward the exit.  I knew it was going to be some time before he talked to me again.  After all, he is a busy man with a limited timetable, and I am just a figment with all the time in the world.

POSTSCRIPT

I did a little sleuthing, and I found out who the young woman was talking to Warren after he left the study room.  She is a Worthington Fellow; she recently graduated from Harvard and was brought to Iroquois County to work on the local paper.  The Worthington Fund is sponsoring her stay, paying her salary at the paper, and providing accommodations at The Worthington Compound.  Apparently, she was talking to Warren about the announcement from Harvard University that they are discontinuing all alumni email accounts.  Any graduate used to get a Harvard email address that they could use however they saw fit.  The emails would come to Harvard and then get forwarded off to wherever the person wanted.  They will all be inactive by the end of the year.  The argument is that it is getting harder to forward emails through the spam detectors of the big email services.  This has become a problem not only for Harvard but for all email forwarding services.  The university decided it would be too expensive to give each alumnus (some 400,000) their own dedicated Harvard email account.  The university argues that they would have to hire a bunch of customer service people and that there are several legal hurdles they would rather not attempt to jump through.

Interesting, isn’t it?  I thought they were angry with each other when I watched the two of them talking.  I made up all kinds of stories about why that might be.  You know how imaginations work, right?  An animated discussion about an email forwarding service was not among the possibilities.  I stand corrected.

Is there anything to be learned from my mistake?  Any great lesson?  I would think not.  Had I known there was a Harvard-related email issue in the wind, I might not have jumped to conclusions as I did.  Nothing to see here; let’s all move along and get on with our days.  If we try, maybe at least some of us can be productive.

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 6

Last week I was trying to navigate through an oversized parking garage in downtown Cleveland.  It doesn’t matter why I was there; I don’t feel like telling you anyway.  There is nothing wrong with a little mystery, is there?  As I circled my way down to the exit, I noticed a figure off to my right.  The person seemed to be waving to me.  That’s when the fun began.

I pulled over into a subcompact-only spot, and the figure approached.  I could see that under the trench coat and the fedora that it was a man.  He puffed his cigar as he lowered his head to speak through my window.

“Hey, you are the guy who has access to Warren Andrew Slay, right?”

He looked around nervously to see if anyone was watching us as I nodded my head.

“OK, listen.  I need you to ask him a few questions for me.”

“Why?  What is this about?”

“All you need to know is that I represent a group of interested people.  You don’t need to know any more than that.”

“Well, this is all very strange.”

“Brother, you got that right.  You don’t want any details.  Trust me.”

“I couldn’t be any more confused than I am at this moment.  I guess my first question to you is, “Why not ask him yourself?”  I don’t believe he is hiding.  I don’t think you would have trouble gaining access to him.”

“So you would think.”

“Look, I am in a hurry…”

“Ah, I recommend you listen to me.  Certain people would be seriously disappointed if you tried to drive away right now.  “

“OK, is that supposed to be some thinly veiled threat?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

At that point, the mysterious man in the fedora stood tall and flashed a pistol he had holstered about his waist.  It was small, bigger than a Derringer, but certainly big enough to make any point he wanted.

“Sigh.  All right, what exactly is it that you want?”

“As I said, I represent a consortium of individuals, a gang, if you will.  They have tasked me with getting your cooperation in this rather serious matter.  Trust me, you don’t need to do much.”

“Is this all legal?  I mean, I am not keen on breaking the law.  I enjoy my freedom.”

“Oh sir, you have nothing to worry about.  Everything is 100% above board.”

“All right then, what do you want?”

The man reached into a pocket, took out a yellow piece of paper, the kind you find in a legal pad, and passed it to me.

“All you have to do is ask him these questions and then post the answers in your blog.”

“That’s all?”

“Simple, right?”

“All right, I’ll look this over and see if he will talk to me.  He seems to be losing patience with me.”

“Make sure you get through to him.  The consequences are dire if you fail.”

“Another threat?”

“Absolutely.”

With that, the man backed up into the shadows of the concrete.  I didn’t bother looking at the piece of paper he handed me; I just wanted to get out of there.  When I got home, I talked to Warren Andrew Slay.  The transcript appears below.  It was, of course, lightly edited for clarity.

 

 

RTNM:  Thank you for agreeing to this.  I know the circumstances are strange, but I don’t feel the need to apologize.  I am the victim here.

WAS:  Good grief.  Poor you.  Do you need need a drink?  Perhaps I could call in a masseuse to give you a relaxing rub down.  I am apprehensive about you.  You look a little more pale than usual.  Do you have a primary care physician?

RTNM:  I see someone, yes.  Can we just get on with this?  I will be much happier when I have asked you these questions, and you have tried your best to answer them.

WAS: OK, shoot.

RTNM:  The note I received stated that I must read these questions verbatim and in a specific order.  So, here we go.  Question The First.  Are you a Platonist?

WAS:  You have got to be kidding me.  Do you even know what that question means?  I can’t believe this nonsense.

RTNM:  I didn’t have time to research these questions.  The note strongly suggested I needed to ask you these questions as soon as possible.

WAS:  Have you thought about retirement?  Perhaps your cognitive decline is accelerating.  No harm in that; it is just part of being human.

RTNM:  Would you please answer the question.

WAS:  When I woke up this morning, I tried to figure out a scenario that would allow me to stay there.  My intuition told me that getting out of bed today was a bad idea.  Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it.  I couldn’t think of a good reason to get up, but I thought of many reasons not to stay.  And here we are.

RTNM:  Fascinating.  Would you please answer the question?  The man at the parking garage flashed a gun while talking to me.  Trust me, I am more confused than you are.

WAS:  I am not confused at all.  Thank you for insulting me.  I would have thought that you would have learned to think before speaking at this point in your life.  You do want something from me, right?  It is pretty much standard practice that insulting a person whose help you need is bad form.  That’s some real hillbilly nonsense.  And I know what I am talking about, my mom was a coal miner’s daughter.  That hillbilly blood runs deep through my veins.

RTNM:  Sorry, I truly am.  Could you get to the question, please?

WAS:  Sure, I would be happy to answer if I knew precisely what you mean by a Platonist.

RTNM:  All I have is what is on the paper.  No other information was offered.

WAS:  All right then.  Against my better judgment, I will answer the question exactly how I want to.  If you mean to ask me if I am a Mathematical Platonist, your answer is an unqualified yes.  I most certainly identify with that camp.

RTNM:  Question The Second.  Can you elaborate on your answer?

WAS:  It comes down to a simple question:  Are mathematical truths invented or discovered?  The Mathematical Platonists, of which I am proud to claim membership, believe that mathematical truths exist outside the mind of human beings.  The Pythagorean Theorem was as valid before it was discovered as it is after it was revealed.  If humans never evolved into existence, the Mathematical Truth of The Pythagorean Theorem would still hold for a plane surface.

RTNM:  So, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, it still makes a sound?

WAS:  Is that one of the questions on the paper?

RTNM:  No.  That was just me being clever.

WAS:  Try harder.  Please.

RTNM”  Question The Third.  Please tell us more about your position.

WAS:  As for objects, the five platonic solids have always existed.  Just because the Neanderthals never contemplated them, at least as far as we know, doesn’t mean that the idea of them wasn’t written in the fabric of the universe, or universes if you are so inclined.

RTNM: Didn’t you once tell me something about Neanderthals and material culture?

WAS:  Is that on the list?

RTNM: Sigh…

WAS:  I had a professor once claim that the Neanderthals might have been great singers.  They might have done things with harmony that present-day humans can’t even dream of.  Of course, they wouldn’t have left behind any evidence of this, so we have no way of knowing.  He liked to remind me that this was not probable but certainly was possible.

RTNM:  Fascinating.  So harmonic utterances aside, you believe that all math is discovered, not invented?

WAS:  Good grief, you need to be precise.  We have been talking about math that leads to Mathematical Truths.  Mathematical Truth is discovered.  Nonsense math is invented every day.  There are all sorts of yahoos out there creating flawed ways to trisect an angle or…

RTNM: Or what?

WAS:  String Theory appears to be the most enormous waste of brain power in the history of the universe.  Perhaps it will one day prove fruitful, but I don’t believe those people have yet contributed anything substantive.  They go on and on about the beauty of the mathematics and how the equations are so elegant that they have to point toward Mathematical Truth.  I guess I would say that beauty, that elegance, do not equal Truth.  Beautiful, yet powerless, equations do not lead us down the path to Truth.

RTNM:  You have never been a fan of strings, have you?

WAS:  To me, the entire enterprise isn’t even wrong.  Peter Woit wrote a fantastic book called “Not Even Wrong.”  He also has a blog where he writes about String Theory.  I will leave it to him and other like-minded individuals to fight for Truth over beauty.  Trust me, no one cares what I think, anyway.

RTNM:  Question the Fourth.  Where are we on the Mathematical Yardstick?

WAS:  Impossible to know.  My guess is that we are only a fraction of an inch from zero.  Why do you say yardstick?  Why not meter stick?

RTNM:  Because that is what the paper says.

WAS:  Interesting.  You are most likely dealing with a band of U.S.-trained hooligans.

RTNM:  I hate to bring this up, but what is a Mathematical Yardstick?  As I explained earlier, I didn’t have time to prepare.  I have no idea what such a thing is.

WAS:  Imagine that all the mathematical knowledge there is to know is represented on a yardstick.  As we learn more, we move along the line.  When we reach the end of the stick, math is essentially solved because there are no more truths to uncover; there is no more math to learn.  So, my guess is that we have only a tiny fraction of that total at this point in time.

RTNM:  …and some of that math will be invented.

WAS:  Yes, some will, but the important stuff will be discovered.  It was always there even before we were around to contemplate it.

RTNM:  Question The Fifth.  Is there anything more fundamental than quarks?

WAS:  Why on earth would anyone want my thoughts on such a question?  I am not a physicist.  The last I checked, I am an archaeologist.  In fact, I don’t understand why anyone would want to know what I think about any of this.  The questions you are asking me are bizarre.

RTNM:  Please, I am simply reading from the paper.

WAS:  All right, I think that if we ever discover anything more fundamental than quarks, it will be the pure equations themselves.  I believe that the basic fabric of existence is represented by the equations that created the universe and govern all behavior, even ours.  Especially ours.

RTNM:  You don’t believe we are living in a simulation, do you?

WAS:  Well, isn’t that an interesting question.  There are lots of smart folks out there that take that scenario seriously.  Are we living in a computer simulation?  I have no idea, and I don’t see how it changes my life one way or the other.  I will say that I love The Matrix.  It is one of my favorite movies.

RTNM:  That is all for now.  I have completed the questions on the list.  I would like to ask if you have anything more to say.

WAS:  Only that mathematics has been and will continue to be unreasonably effective.  Eugene Wigner’s essay on that topic is sublime.  The only people who disagree with that viewpoint are those who cannot comprehend the specifics of the math used to solve the problem in question.  We all know such people.  That is just the way it is.  One more thing, let me see that paper…

 

 

 

Dusk

“Hurry, the sun is setting.”

She glanced back at him and frowned.  Her bandaged hand waved dismissively as he shook his head in disgust.

“Look, you have to hurry.  We need to get on the road.  You know better than this.”

She reached down and grabbed the gun from her holster.  The shot was quick.  He tried to speak, but the bullet was quicker.

“Fast enough for you, jerk?”

She looked down at the bag she was packing, quickly thinking about the new travel arrangements.  As she zipped the bag, she looked at the corpse on the floor.  “The bag is lighter with food for only one.  Idiot.”

She stepped over the dead man and made her way to the large, heavily bolted steel door.  She worked on the locks, starting from top to bottom.  They had to be unlocked in a specific order to free the mechanism.

Her concentration was focused as she worked on the last lock.  She needed more than the combination to open it.  The hinge had to be worked just so, or it would not come loose.  She remembered her training.  Don’t force it.  Do not pull hard; let the lock mechanism do the work.  If correctly placed, the hinge will pop open.

“There.”

She removed the large bolt and started to open the door.  The wind knocked her back.  Why so much wind?  The force was much stronger than she had anticipated.

She pulled the bandana over her mouth and nose, lowered her head, and headed toward the only working vehicle left, a rusty Ford truck with a shaky transmission.

The wind was standing her up; she used all her energy to keep from falling back.  She felt the wind suck the air out of her lungs.  She struggled to remove the gas mask from her vest as the wind caught it and ripped it out of her hand.

She quickly turned, and the wind shot her back through the door, back to the body on the floor.  She quickly tried to shut the door, but the wind was too strong.  She moved to the side, stepping on the body, to get out of the wind stream.  She waited patiently for the wind to die down so she could close the door.  Her life would become complicated if the door did not close.

Ring.  Knock, knock.  Ring, ring.  “Notification.  You have movement at your front door.”

Sigh.  The Writer looked up and over at the computer monitor.  He saw a figure covered in dark clothes and a mask standing at his door.

“Back door view and notification.”  At the command, the camera switched to the back door.  He saw three men with sawed-off shotguns standing at the ready, their communication devices creating an asymmetrical pattern around their heads.

“Call the police, code 9.”

“Notification.  Police called.”

“Prepare gas canisters, front, and back.”

“Notification.  Gas canisters enabled.”

“Put me through to the police.”

“Notification.  Police on the line.”

“Hello, I have a problem at 137, Section 1.  Armed men at the front and back doors.  I am asking permission to gas them.”

“Permission to gas granted.  I assume you are using the cocktail “Easy Money.”

“Yes, they are all wearing masks.”

“Good luck to them.”

“Yes.  Please send a clean-up team.  I am in the middle of something.”

“Certainly.  Release the cocktail, and we will be by in 30 minutes to claim the bodies.”

“Thank you.”  As soon as the call ended, he hesitated for only a second.   “Disconnect and release Easy Money.”

“Notification.  Easy Money released.”

He watched the monitor.  The A.I. knew the perspectives he wanted.  He watched the men fall, struggle, and then go quiet.

“Notification.  Extraction teams will be here shortly.”

The Writer looked at the screen with indifference, not even morbid curiosity.

“Notification.  All clear.  You may continue the manipulation of subject 5863.”

He glanced down at the keyboard he still used to seal the fate of nameless people, some deserving, others not.  Everyone else in his department had moved on long ago to the spoken word or direct brain interfaces.  He refused.  He felt that the keyboard gave him a better feel for creating fate.  The microseconds it took to type allowed him to think just a little about what he was doing.  It made the process slightly less impersonal.  Not that he cared about the people “out there,” he just wanted to feel a little better about himself.

He leaned back and thought for a moment of the woman in the room with the corpse.  What was to become of her?  His training taught him to never ask such questions.  All it did was waste time, the only commodity people with his job had.  Quick, decisive, impartial.  There was no place for passion and certainly no sympathy.  He got up.

“Notification.  Writing chair is unoccupied.  Why is writing chair unoccupied?”

He walked down the stairs to his front door, the large steel door heavily bolted with locks running up the length of the seam.  He looked out the fortified window and saw that it was getting dark.

“Notification.  If you wish to go out, you need to hurry.  The sun is setting.”

“CUT,” yelled The Director as she stood up and took a few steps toward the proscenium arch.  She paused and slumped her shoulders.  As her hands touched her face, she started to tremble.

“This…is…awful!  What are we doing here?  We have a story that goes nowhere, has no tension, and certainly does not have an ending.”

The Writer removed his sunglasses, rose up from his chair, and approached her.  “Listen, this is a required episode.  We need to set up later action.  All this episode is supposed to do is give a little context for forthcoming action.”

“Look, I understand I was hired at the last minute to get this episode shot, but this is terrible.  If you insist we keep on shooting, I can not be a part of it.  I will not allow my name to be attached to this project.”

“Not a problem.  We can go the Alan Smithee route.  All I would ask of you is that you keep your participation silent.  Don’t go advertising that you directed this shoot and that you are unhappy with it.”

“I still get paid, right?”

“Of course, you will get your money.  I can give you cash as soon as we are done.”

“Works for me.  Have someone grab a garbage can and put it next to my chair.  I am sure I am going to barf.”

“Sure, no problem.  Can we get back to work now?”

“I can’t believe how low I have sunk.”  The Director quickly sat down and adjusted her lanyard.  “Let’s get this over with.”

With all once again right with the world, the people took their places, and scenes were shot.  The actors worked to the best of their ability, and the crew acted like the professionals they were.  The sun was low in the sky when everyone called it a day.

The Writer went home to his empty trailer.  The Director did whatever it is directors do when they leave.  No one bothered to invite her out for drinks.  Not a single person bothered to say goodbye.

One of the actors, the guy from the front door gassed to death in the story, was slow in leaving.  He walked around the set, slowly taking everything in.  He knew the script was terrible and that the part was small, but it was work.  He had spent the day earning his living as an actor, breathing in air as a true artist.  As a young boy, that was all he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed.  His mouth started to form a smile as he turned to leave.

 

An Interview with Warren Andrew Slay, Part 5

Warren didn’t want to answer any more questions, but I did my best to tease some more answers out of him.  He is too polite to leave me hanging when I ask a question that is even remotely intelligent.  Here is Part 5 of our wide-ranging talk.

RTNM:  I think if you wrote a memoir, it would be interesting and compelling.  Are you sure you won’t do it?  Write a memoir to get your story out to the world?

WAS:  Good grief.  My story pales when compared to that of someone like Tara Westover.  Her memoir, Educated, is remarkable.  She is a special lady.  I would very much like to meet her one day.

RTNM:  I hate to tell you this, but you are way too old for her.  You recently turned 60.  You are an old man.  Yeah, I know you are in great shape and that you work out 2 hours a day, but you are old with a capital O.

WAS:  Good grief.  I said I wanted to meet her; I didn’t say that I wanted to strike a series of muscle man poses in front of her like some sort of jacked-up bower bird.  I really admire her.  That is all I am saying.  So, to get back to your question.  I will not write a memoir.  First of all, I believe the greatest truths are told through fiction.  That is how my story, such that it is, will be presented to the world.

RTNM:  You and I both know that you are desperate to leave behind a record of “What it was like to be me.”  Just write the memoir and be done with it.

WAS:  One of your problems is that you don’t realize how easily you are replaced.  You’re feeling yourself a little, I get it.  Keep puffing yourself up; we will see how far that gets you.  One problem with writing a memoir is that there has to be a conclusion, there has to be a payoff at the end, a resolution.  My story has no such thing.  It is too early… (he trailed off here and bowed his head)  …I think there is a good possibility that the good stuff for me is yet to come.

RTNM:  You can’t really believe that.  From where I am standing, it is clear that you are just hoping that is true.  Why?  Because if it’s not…

WAS:  What makes you think you have any insight into my life?  That is outrageous.  You are nothing more than a collection of middle names, one, I might add, with a finite life span.  Tread carefully.  Death can come at any moment.

RTNM:  You would know, right?  In the last 6 years, you nearly dropped dead twice.  It is my understanding that you got very lucky both times.

WAS:  Yes, I am fortunate.  People drop dead every day from traveling blood clots.  I am hopeful that my clots are under control and are in my past.  The fact that I got a second and then a third chance makes me work harder.  I do not want to waste any time I have left.  There are several things I need to get done before I die.  I am working on those things now.  I will admit that it is getting harder to work long hours, but here I am, late at night, answering your inane questions.

RTNM:  Yeah, everyone here is proud of you.  Blah, blah, blah…your problem is that you think your life matters.  That when you die, the world will be a lesser place because you have faded away.  What nonsense!

WAS:  You don’t know what you are talking about.

At this point, Warren got up and left.  I called after him, but he ignored me.  My people called his people in the hopes of scheduling another interview.  He, not unexpectedly, declined.  Surprisingly, he agreed to continue the interview by email.  The following is the email exchange we had.

RTNM: I was out of line.  I didn’t mean to insult you.  I apologize.

WAS:  My guess is that you have a list of ways you don’t want to die.  I’ll bet that getting eaten alive by any animal is at the top of the list.  Am I right?

RTNM:  As a matter of fact, yes, you are correct.

WAS:  Good luck to you.  I have deep concerns about your future.  You might want to get your affairs in order; no telling where a man like you might end up.  An adventurer such as yourself might face an infinite range of dangers.

RTNM:  Look, I was trying to get you to talk about the responsibilities you feel you have to humanity.  Nothing more.  I never meant to insult you.

WAS:  Did you ever see Jaws?  Remember that poor guy getting eaten alive at the end of the movie?  Man, that was sick.  I remember I saw that at the movie theater with Todd Gunter, a friend of mine from grade school.  As I recall, we both jumped out of our seats.  I certainly wouldn’t want to go like that.

RTNM:  Look…I apologized…

WAS:  The best we all can hope for is to die in our sleep.  I wish you the best.   I’ll be thinking of you.  Thoughts & Prayers.  Thoughts & Prayers.

RTNM:  If I were you, I would be working on that novel of yours, the special one.  Don’t worry about the other ones; get to work on the big one.

WAS:  It is getting harder and harder to sustain deep concentration.  This I know; I will never be a guy playing out the string.  You, on the other hand, have your own set of problems.

RTNM: Well…

WAS:  Listen, everyone has a responsibility to humanity.  Everyone needs to contribute to society the best they can.  There is no arbiter, other than yourself, as to the success or failure of your efforts.  It doesn’t get easier as I age, but it does bring the problem into focus.

RTNM:  Is there anything else you would like to add to this portion of the interview?

WAS:  Yes, I have a few more thoughts specifically for you, the great and mighty figment of a declining imagination.  Watch out for comma splices and never, under any circumstances, end a sentence with a preposition.  Sleep well; it is the only respite you are going to get.