A Caledonian Journey

New Kadath Lighthouse Art Gallery

2012-01-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

In a charming old island lighthouse resides the New Kadath Lighthouse Art Gallery, with a small number of delightful Steampunk pictures by Madame Juliana Lethdetter.

The lighthouse itself was designed by Miss Dragonia Decuir. The gallery opened this past October, if my scribbled notes are still correct. Madame Lethdetter describes herself as

...a graduate of the prestigious Académie d'Esprit, having studied photography for 6 years under the tutelage of the late Maître Gilbert Dion. She is the acting professor of Liberal Arts & Cross-Disciplinary Studies at Sainte Jeanne du Nouveau Paris Women's Conservatory (Conservatoire des Femmes de Sainte Jeanne du Nouveau Paris), as well as co-proprietress of New Kadath's Tiphareth Designs art and texture studio.
She has been known to archive examples of her compositions at the following aetheric frequency-- http://www.flickr.com/photos/julianalethdetter/
The photography displayed within the New Kadath Lighthouse Gallery represents Ms. Lethdetter's personal collection, and is not for sale at this time; however, she welcomes inquiries regarding portraiture, commission work and/or showings. Interested parties may forward such inquiries to her via notecard.

Below, a sample of the photographs on display:

Speaking of New Territory

2012-01-24T08:00:00.001-08:00

Where the Duchy of Strathspey, home of Duke Aberdon Enigma and Duchess Fauve Aeon, once stood is now the Duchy of Caledon Arkham, soon to be home to Duchesses Sha'uri Cheshire and Solar Angel. (Duchess Sha'uri may be known to older Caledonians by the name Lianndraa Gothly.)

Although the land is fairly barren at the moment, something tells me this will be a most interesting part of the State.

Something wicked this way comes

Seismic Activity in Wellsian!

2012-01-23T08:00:00.000-08:00

On what had been a lazy Sunday afternoon - I was organizing my spice rack by size, having decided on a previous lazy afternoon that alphabetically was the way to go - the wireless came to life. On the emergency frequency, Guvnah Shang's voice alerted us that there had been an earthquake of moderate magnitude in Wellsian. As a result, there were now several lava flows and several large cavorite pieces had been released from the ground.

I raced to the scene, along with several other Caledonians, to see if I could be of assistance. Fortunately, Wellsian had been evacuated before the lava flow became serious. With no one to rescue, I set about taking several pictures.

Approaching Wellsian from Stormhold, the cavorite is clearly visible, with some pieces already beginning to float away

Fire broke out as well

Newly-formed lava flows

The yard of the Bashful Peacock…I had thought Mr. Woodget would have to postpone his next Tea Dance, but, naturally, disasters in Caledon merely encourage dancing.

I am told that similar activity may be about to take place in Rocabrannagh. The situation clearly bears close monitoring.

(For those who had not heard, the Guv announced that Wellsian would become a homestead sim, rented entirely by Mr. Woodget, and that Rocabrannagh would be shut down. At the same time, one or more full sims could become duchies, so stay tuned for more on how the contours of Caledon might change.)

Ava Heart

2012-01-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

I try to keep the Relay for Life posts to a minimum, especially out of season, but I found Ava Heart to be quite charming (and I enjoyed the punning name!). Miss Burke Nenoir has created a series of hearts for RFL. Donate to the heart(s) of your choosing, or simply donate at the RFL kiosk near the doorway.

"It's what's inside that counts…" So true.

Heartbeats are very important. I know my own is particularly important to me.

One can sit and enjoy a complimentary Cosmopolitan - it seems to be a refreshing beverage made with cranberry and lime juices, and I'm certain there is no alcohol at all in one - at a table made from what appears to be a giant Cosmopolitan. Oh yes, and that RFL thing again.

I heard about Ava Heart through the incomparable Crap Mariner. If he's not careful, people will start thinking he's an old softie.

A Well-Ordered Garden

2012-01-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

The undertaker arrived at Mrs. Barrington's house a little after nine a.m. The milkman, alarmed at the number of bottles that had accumulated on her front porch, called the police. The police knocked and entered the house, finding its owner in bed, dead several days, with an assortment of pills and a bottle of laudanum on the bedside table. Eventually the undertaker arrived on the ferry from Glengarry and did his work.

I watched the comings and goings from a window in my library. Mrs. Barrington lived next door to me and, while we were not close, we conversed as neighbors do. She often worked in her well-ordered garden, taking pleasure in growing vegetables for her table and flowers to display throughout her house. Her husband had passed away a year or so ago, and I had noticed that she was spending less time puttering in the garden, and that the paint on the house was starting to flake away just a bit. Still, tending to an old house was not easy, particularly by a solitary elderly woman - she had a live-in maid, but the rest of her help was sporadic. I was barely home myself, so I knew well how quickly a house could deteriorate when left untended.

I thought back to my last conversation with the lady. It was early autumn, and the weather was turning colder. She was in her garden and I was on my way to send a telegram.

"Good morning, Mrs. B."

"Good morning, dear."

"Lovely spell of weather we've been having. You must be enjoying spending so much time outdoors."

"Yes, indeed, though I confess I've done more sitting than working ever since Howard passed on."

"How are you getting on by yourself?"

"Some days are better than others, but I'm managing."

"Is there anything I can do for you? I'm on my way into Oxbridge Village and would be happy to pick up anything you might need."

"That's very kind of you, dear, but I'm fine. Enjoy your walk."

"I will. Good day, Mrs. B."

"Good day, Miss Jameson."

That conversation again echoed through my mind a few days later as I struggled into a somber dress and set out for the funeral. The ceremony was short and tinged with regret; by then the coroner's verdict of suicide had become widely known. I sat by myself in the church, perched on the back pew as I listened to the minister speak a few words about a woman he had known for decades. Remarks about her dedication to her husband, her children, the community. A personal anecdote about a flower arrangement Gloria had once done for the church. Both her sons and her daughter spoke briefly about their mother, all warm remembrances, though the memories largely came from childhood rather than more recent interactions.

At the graveside I found myself next to Bartholomew Griffin, who ran a small grocer's shop near my house.

"Very sad, Miss Jameson."

"Quite, Mr. Griffin. So utterly unexpected."

"No, who would have thought such a thing could happen? She always seemed a rock, even after her youngest left for Steelhead. I once asked her if she missed her children, thinking what ma doesn't, but she smiled at me and said she and Howard had done all they could and it was time for the wee ones to live their own lives. I nodded - wisdom, innit?"

"It would seem to be."

Our talk left me uneasy, but I put it aside. With some surprise, it occurred to me that one person I did not see at the funeral was Arlene Smith. This surprised me because Arlene was Gloria Barrington's closest friend from childhood, when they were Arlene Devries and Gloria Arment. I wondered about that, and my conniving mind went to work to see what I could learn about her absence. I went home and rummaged in a closet before finding a small vase. I then purchased a spray of flowers of the types that Mrs. B liked to grow and placed them in the vase before wrapping the entire package. Catching the 2:15 C.A.T. airship to Victoria City, I arrived at the Smith house in late afternoon.

"Mrs. Smith? You probably don't remember me. I'm Rhianon Jameson...we met at Mrs. Barrington's house some time ago."

"Of course, Miss Jameson, I remember. Poor Gloria."

"I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I just came from Mrs. Barrington's funeral and recalled that she had once given me a favorite vase of hers, one that she said always reminded her of you. I know how close you two have been, and I thought she would have wanted you to have it. Here, I added some flowers from her garden."

Arlene Smith looked embarrassed, but took the package. "Yes, poor Gloria," she repeated. "I should have gone to her funeral. I feel awful for not doing so, but I just couldn't bear to be there. Facing her children,... We were once so close, but..." She hesitated. "Things change, of course. People change. We say things we regret..."

I started to reply, but she seemed to have forgotten I was there. Suddenly, she forced a smile and said, "Perhaps I could have been a better friend. Thank you for the vase. I appreciate having something to remember her by." Now it was my turn to feel guilty about my little deception, but I merely murmured something polite and said my farewell.

How well we think we know someone when, in fact, a friend could be a stranger. I saw Gloria Barringer in her well-ordered garden and exchanged pleasantries, but knew nothing of how she lived her life. She lost everyone dear to her - children, husband, and best friend - keeping up a brave facade while crumbling inside. I felt terrible, and angry at myself.

On my way home, I stopped at my local pub. My favorite bartender, Sam, was on duty. "Hi, Sam, how are you today?"

He made my absinthe cocktail absent-mindedly, replying, "Fine, miss."

I put a gloved hand on his arm and he stopped what he was doing, startled. "No, Sam, how are you?"

Travelogue: Duchy of Greystoke

2012-01-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

East of Cymru is the Duchy of Greystoke, managed by His Grace, Chance Takashi.

The area is comprised largely of water, with a relatively narrow strip of land connecting it to Cymru to the west and Oxbridge Village to the north. As the Duke notes, the area "is currently under construction. Please feel free to explore, but we cannot be responsible for any harm that may befall you." (Of course, the sign has been there ever since I arrived in Caledon.)

The ironwork bridge provides a rail connection between Oxbridge Village and Caer Firnas.

An aerial vehicle of unique design lies earthbound in the duchy.

The small covered area affords a wonderful view of the spires of Oxbridge.

Aether Salon - Heraldry

2012-01-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

This month's Aether Salon brought His Grace, Edward Pearse, the Duke of Argylle, to discus the subject of Heraldry.

During some technical difficulties, Miss Ceejay Writer entertained the audience with an impromptu dance routine.

Eventually things sorted themselves out, and the duke was on his way. He observed: "The use of symbols to identify kings goes back as far as ancient Egypt."

"England's Henry II is believed to have used a pair of gold lions as his personal arms, although the colours are unknown. His fHis son Richard, added a third lion and this symbol of three lions has continued to be the Royal Arms of England to this day."

I had to leave somewhat early, but one can view the full transcript at the Aether Salon's aetheric Journal.

From L to R: Mr. Addison Greymyst, Miss Rhianon Jameson, Master Satu Moreau, Miss Solace Fairlady, Mr. Linus Lacombe, Miss Darlingmonster Ember

From L to R: Miss Sera Puchkina, Master Tepic Harlequin, Miss Ceejay Writer, Admiral Wildstar Beaumont, Miss Bookworm Hienrichs, Master Jimmy Branagh, Mr. Osric Worbridge, Mr. Vic Mornington, Miss Searra Weatherwax

Duchy of Caledon Cymru

2012-01-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

It's a new year and time for a resolution. I try to keep mind appropriately modest: don't increase my laudanum intake by more than 10%, don't find new vices, and stay out of jail (except in a good cause).

I also thought I should revisit the far corners of Caledon. None of this "50 sims in 50 days" nonsense, however. A leisurely stroll, rather, interrupted by travels elsewhere and other blatherings as I feel compelled to relate.

It seemed natural to start at the southwest corner of Caledon, in the Duchy of Cymru. As I wander through our fair land, I find much that changes… and yet some things remain constant. One of those is Cymru, the home of Mr. Viderian Vollmar, a horse of a different…well, just different. (I have yet to see the mysterious Mr. Vollmar save once a year, during the Relay for Life, when he seemingly effortlessly bounds around the track, amassing lap after lap for the great glory of Caledon and the Guvnah.)

The duchy is dominated by the immense castle. Heavily fortified and situated on the highest point in the area, the castle towers over the remainder of the duchy.

Its iron gate is many times the height of a human being.

Still, the Caledon flag flies proudly over the entrance arch. May it wave forever!

Sleeping Beauty, Part 4

2012-01-12T08:00:00.000-08:00

(Starts here. Part 3 is here.)

Time passed, and the news that the princess had awakened became known, and this was a cause of great wonder throughout the kingdom, especially for those who still had memory of the tale of the Sleeping Beauty. Soon, too, it became clear that Alexis was carrying Luthor's child. Alexis kept to herself her feelings of revulsion for what had happened to her and made arrangements to marry Luthor. This resulted in great rejoicing throughout the kingdom, for who would not think that any prince would want to marry a princess who was also the most beautiful woman in the kingdom? And who would not think that any princess would be honored to marry the son of the most powerful man in the land? When the news broke that the princess was carrying an heir, all the subjects of the kingdom wept. Who could imagine a more perfect ending?

The day came when Alexis would leave the castle of her parents and move across the mountains, to the palace of the current King. Her servants clicked and whirred as they packed her clothing and her personal items in several trunks and transported them to waiting carriages. Luthor smiled at his wife and said, "Soon you will again have human servants, who will tend to you in your accustomed ways. No longer will you have to make do with these mechanical devices - though they are true wonders, they are cold and unfeeling, not proper servants for a princess of the realm."
She looked at him in horror. "Leave my faithful servants? Oh no, my prince. They understand my needs and I have become quite used to them. I know it sounds silly, but they are now part of my family, and would no sooner leave them behind than I would leave behind my jewelry!"

Annoyance flitted across Luthor's face but he held his tongue. This was unexpected, but not worth arguing over. His bride gave him her dazzling smile and instructed the clanks to ready themselves for travel.

When in due time the princess gave birth to a son, the kingdom rejoiced. The princess made herself a new home in the palace and made up for lost time as best she could. She was pleasant, if not warm, to Luthor, and she had her clockwork servants as companions so she never became lonely. To pass the time, she cared for her infant son and maintained several hobbies, including hunting in the royal forest, which she did very well, and knitting, which she did quite poorly, though she enjoyed both activities. Several years passed uneventfully. The king grew old and eventually died, leaving the kingdom to his son. He made his princess a queen.

One autumn morning the queen entered her husband’s chambers. He looked up, startled, as this was not the queen’s regular habit. “My husband, this day is so fine that I cannot in good conscience allow you to spend it inside, tending to affairs of state. They will be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days after that. We should spend today out of doors.”

“What did you have in mind?” Luthor asked.

“You have promised to take me hunting with you one day. Why not today? The stags will be running, and we could have a meal with us, so as to spend as much time as possible at the hunt.”

Luthor considered, then smiled. “A splendid idea.” He made arrangements with his secretary to attend to some minor affairs, and instructed his two most faithful hunting partners to accompany him. Alexis bade two of her most advanced servants to do the same, and soon the odd group - the two royals and the two friends of the king, all on horseback, and two humanoid clanks who walked along side - were making their way into the old royal forest. As the queen promised, they spent the day at the hunt, breaking for a leisurely lunch before resuming.

The day was indeed splendid. Trees were beginning to turn colors under the autumn sky. Small animals scurried under the cover of tree roots and plants as they made their preparations for the coming winter. Clouds wafted across the azure sky, cooling the hunting party as they made their way into a clearing before darting into the woods once again.

As daylight started to fade, Alexis touched her husband’s arm and pointed to a spot in the distance. “I think I saw the stag turn and run through those trees. If you head left and I head right, we will force him into the open, where you will have a good shot.”

The king had been thinking of bidding the group to head home for the night, but he nodded and did as his wife suggested. In turn, she moved into the woods to the right, to the spot she had picked out several years earlier when she learned her way around the royal forest. She brought her old rifle to her shoulder and waited patiently. As she knew would happen, Luthor moved into a clearing that was visible from her position. She raised the rifle and fired once. The bullet flew true and hit his left eye, shattering the socket, continuing through his skull, and came to rest in a tree beyond him.

At the sound of the shot, the queen and her servants converged on the spot where the king now lay dead, with the king’s two companions close behind, still holding their rifles. The latter two surveyed the scene and exchanged glances. “Your Highness,” one said, hesitantly, “how did it come to pass that His Majesty was in the way of your shot? As a gentleman experienced in hunting, he would have known not to walk into your line of fire.”

Alexis smiled prettily. “Just so,” she replied. “Perhaps my late husband was less the gentleman than we all supposed.”

The men attempted to raise their rifles into firing position. Before they could do so, each was restrained by two metal hands, immobilizing the men instantly.

The hunters struggled in the grasp of the clanks, but to no avail. "Take your filthy mecha hands off me," growled one while his companion said to Alexia, "My lady, I ask you to order your servants to release us, as we have done you no wrong."

The clank butler said, "I cannot do so, sir. I was designed to serve your queen in all circumstances, and I will continue doing so until I am deactivated. Although you gentlemen have not made any outward expression of disloyalty to your queen, your tone indicates a deep suspicion of her explanation of her husband's death. It seems likely that you will continue to air those suspicions were you to return to the castle, and it seems possible that some will give credence to your beliefs. My programming allows me but one course of action." The butler said this in his resonant but dispassionate tone; regret was not part of his programming. At his command, the butler and his fellow clank snapped the necks of their captives and deposited the bodies deep in the forest. When they returned, they carefully placed the king's body across one of the horses for the journey back to the castle.

"My lady Alexis," the butler said, "may I suggest that we explain to those who inquire about the nature of the king's death that they tried to kill you both, and succeeded only with your husband before you retrieved your weapon and they fled into the woods, presumably to leave the kingdom? This would reduce the likelihood of awkward questions." Alexis nodded her agreement to the plan, regretting the dishonesty more than the fatal shot.

###

The late king was not well-liked, so few were inclined to probe deeply the cause of his death. His young son was declared king, with the queen serving as regent until his majority.

Thus began a new and kinder reign, born, it is true, from an act of violence, but carried on in a manner of which Alexis hoped her parents would have approved. Fairies were rare in this part of the kingdom, so Alexis lived out her life without further interference from the magical realm. Eventually, she taught her son of the art of shooting, the importance of loyal clanks, and the need for patience when seeking vengeance.

Tales of New Babbage

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

My mailbox held a nice belated Christmas present: my very own copy of Tales of New Babbage, the collection of stories written by citizens of that fine nation-state.

From the back cover:

On one level, of course, New Babbage is a series of magnetic impulses imprinted on a set of disks in a nameless data center, running Linden Labs' Second Life protocol. But that's just the physics of it. To say that New Babbage is "just" a computer-generated environment would be like saying that Paris is "just" stone and plaster.
The City of New Babbage is a consensual hallucination of a Victorian-era steampunk city in a time that never was. It's filled with airships, clockwork devices, submersibles, evil geniuses, street urchins, and the collective activities and imaginations of hundreds of people from all over the world. And they make it as real as Leeds or Pittsburgh or Warsaw.
These are their stories.

Well, I can't speak of this Leeds or Warsaw or (most improbably) a city named Pittsburgh, but I can certainly attest that New Babbage is as real as I am.

Stories by people such as Ceejay Writer, Magdalena Kamenev, Jedburgh Dagger, Darien Mason, and Jimmy Branaugh will surely make the book essential reading. Best of all, the subtitle is "Volume One," promising more stories from the smoggy city.

New Year's Traditions, Growing Older, and Other Observations

2012-01-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

I had about an hour to explore in-world tonight, but three crashes later and I decided the Linden Gods were giving me advice about how to spend my time. Some days are like that. What can you do? Work on something else… like typing this.

After Christmas, when more crap comes into the house, I invariably get into the mindset that stuff needs to exit. I don't want to become one of those people profiled on "Hoarders," with towering piles of junk blocking exits to the house, rescue personnel holding their noses at the stink as they attempt to extract my bloated body from the mess.* Consequently, I've been making piles of things to go in the trash, go to the recycling people, and to go to one of the charitable organizations that periodically comes by to pick up stuff. The problem with this type of cleaning is that it's quite tedious to go through piles of paper, piles of books, piles of clothing, piles of linens, piles of whatever and make decisions…far easier to throw it into a corner and deal with it later, which is how the piles arose in the first place.

I've been shedding New Year's traditions one by one, it seems. Once upon a time, I stayed up past midnight, a bottle of champagne in one hand (well, a glass in hand, bottle in fridge) and Dick Clark on TV. That went by the wayside some years ago when I realized (a) I couldn't really stay up that late any more and (b) there wasn't much point in it anyway. Another tradition was to get up late on New Year's Day (hoping the hangover wasn't too bad) and watch the Rose Bowl parade and college football games. Having New Year's Day fall on a Sunday this year scotched that plan, too, courtesy of the Sports Scheduling Gods. So I went shopping instead, picking up, among other things, a new coat and pair of gloves. The day wasn't a total loss.

Also on the bright side: no annoying midnight fireworks from the local children. (Plus one adult, apparently. The neighbors have complained about a guy in a different neighborhood who sets off fireworks whenever he feels like it and spooks the dogs around here. I'm hoping the police had a stern talking-to with him.) Seems like a silly habit, and in the past no two people could coordinate on the time, so "midnight" stretched over about a half hour.

I've been dealing with an annoying muscular problem of indeterminate cause and even more indeterminate cure. Periodically, the muscles in my right shoulder and neck tense up, causing really irritating spasms in my neck, just under my jaw. I've been doing stretches to strengthen the area and increase flexibility, I've been spending less time sitting - particularly at the computer - and less time typing. Of course, for someone whose job and leisure activities largely revolve around computers of one sort or another, the cure is almost (almost, I said) worse than the disease. I'm hoping rest helps.

Now that the holiday season is over, it's back to work five whole days a week. Life is tough, eh?

-------------

* I haven't actually seen "Hoarders," but this seems like the type of show that's on these days.

Sleeping Beauty, Part 3

2012-01-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

(Starts here. Continues from here.)

A hundred years passed. The kingdom fell into the hands of a family from beyond the mountains, who ruled with somewhat less benevolence and wisdom than did the old king. At first the populace looked on the bygone regime with fond nostalgia, but, as time passed, memories of that era faded. The new regime was all they knew, save for half-remembered tales told by grandparents and great-grandparents, themselves repeating stories of their ancestors.

It was during this time that the only son of the current king found himself in a deep forest. Prince Luthor, as he was known, was with a small hunting party, having traveled with his father across the mountains to visit this part of his kingdom. Despite having come into his majority several years before, Luthor was uninterested in affairs of state and very interested in demonstrating his prowess with his hunting rifle, so his father, with a mental eye roll, dismissed his son from the day’s activities.

The hunting party had followed a large stag, which had bounced between trees with such dexterity that the prince could not take aim. Still, the creature was easy enough to track when the forest was fairly open, and the hunters moved as quickly and quietly as they could. Now the forest had become thick with old trees and withered shrubbery. The stag’s path was clear, the broken branches and trampled bushes signaling the creature’s every move. Luthor followed, his men close behind him. Suddenly, the forest ended and the men found themselves facing an ancient castle. How could such a castle exist behind such a dense forest? the prince wondered to himself. No one could get in or out of such a place.

One of his men spoke: “Your Highness, I met a lady last night - “ This was met with guffaws from his fellow hunters, but the man soldiered on. “- who told me a fantastic tale that I scarce credited. These rural people, as you have remarked, lack the sophistication of the court and are inclined to let their imaginations run wild, with tales of fairies and ogres. Nonetheless, what this lady told me was a story she heard from her grandmother, who herself heard the tale told by her grandmother.”

“Yes?” Luthor said, impatiently.

“She related a tale of a castle in the clearing of a forest, one that had been abandoned for several generations, save for one occupant: a beautiful young princess who, having been cursed, would sleep there for a hundred years, until awakened by a king’s son, to whom she was promised.”

If there was one activity the prince enjoyed more than hunting it was spending time with ladies, especially attractive ones. In addition, the young prince suffered from an affliction that, while common to all humanity, seemed particularly virulent among those enjoying great power: the belief that they were the center of events. He was a king’s son; the prophecy referred to a king’s son; ergo, he was the person to whom the prophecy referred. Luthor urged the hunting party forward, until they came to the great doors of the castle. The doors were closed and sealed, with no apparent entrance. One by one, the members of the hunting party tried the doors, each to no avail. Then Luthor strode to the great doors, which opened at his touch. So startled at this was he that he took a step backward - at which point the doors started to close once more.

“No!” he said, and moved toward the doors again. Once again, the doors opened for him. Luthor stepped inside, into the gloom of the foyer. His men started to follow him, but the doors slammed shut, keeping them on the outside. He swallowed hard, because he was not, at heart, a brave man, but, keeping the prophecy in mind, he gamely continued deeper into the castle.

He found a lantern with a dim flame and, taking the lantern in hand, found that a twist of the dial increased the flame to full brightness. He looked about him. The interior was still in magnificent condition despite the years during which it contained but one human occupant. The wall tapestries were still intact; the marble busts of earlier kings were polished and dust-free; the oil paintings on the walls still shining as though wet. The long dining table was set with a place setting at every chair, from fine china, gold-rimmed, to eating utensils, each embedded with gleaming jewels, to crystal goblets, whose facets caught the light from the lantern and projected images in every direction. Confused, he continued up the main stairway and, in short order, into the bedchamber of the princess.

She lay upon her bed just as she had been placed a century before, her beauty undiminished by time. Luthor looked at her and judged her to be but fifteen or sixteen years old, and the loveliest creature he had ever lain eyes upon. He knew he had but to touch his lips to hers and she would wake.

Luthor hesitated. She was young - perhaps too young for him? She would no doubt be grateful toward whoever ended her long slumber, but he had his doubts as to her willingness to showing that gratitude in the way he would prefer. He was alone in the castle with the girl of his dreams, his men safely outside. Luthor lay down the lantern, removed his hunting rifle and leather bag from his shoulders and placed them on the ground, then hastily undressed. He pulled back the bed covers and, taking care not to brush his lips against those of the sleeping princess, proceeded to climb into the bed.

Only when he was finished with her and once again fully dressed did Luthor provide the necessary kiss. Princess Alexis awoke in an instant. She saw the handsome face of Luthor looking at her, though she did not know who he was. Indeed, her last memory was of being in the unused part of the castle, in the secret room, at the work bench, starting to touch the mainspring. What had happened? she wondered. She knew she had been violated, but who would dare such a thing and incur her father's wrath? In any event, where were her servants?

Luthor was about to speak when he heard a mechanical sound from behind him and, with a guilty start, he jumped to his feet. A tall mechanical man glided into the bed chamber. "My lady, you are awake!" exclaimed the mechanial man. Luthor was terrified and scrambled for his firearm, but the Alexis appeared calm and said evenly, "Would someone please explain what has happened to me?"

At the sound of her voice, several other mechanical servants entered the room with a whirr and began to perform all the functions of her human servants. "I believe I can relate some of the events since last we spoke." Her eyes widened as the machine explained that a hundred years had passed in what to her seemed but an instant. He described the old fairy's curse (of which the king and queen had sheltered their daughter, so as not to worry her), the king's efforts to keep the curse from coming to pass, and how it was all for naught. He explained how the royal court had abandoned the castle and how the young fairy used her magic to keep the castle from prying eyes. The king had programmed all his mechanical devices, save those necessary to build and repair their own kind, to serve the princess both during her long sleep and after she woke, as she would have no human servants. The speaker, bowing deeply, said that, as he was the most advanced device, he had been given the honor of the role of butler, coordinating the efforts of the other clockwork servants. He and his staff carried out their duties for the past hundred years, until sentries identified the hunting party of Prince Luthor and his men. Knowing that the kiss of a prince was necessary to break the spell, the mechanical devices hid in order to not frighten the young man, appearing only when they heard the sound of the princess's voice.

"I was not frightened by your kind," said the prince, though his voice was a half-octave above his usual tone. "So it was you who prevented my men from entering?" The servant bowed again.

"Thank you for awakening me, my prince. Forgive me, but I have much to ponder, and I desire to be alone with my thoughts."

Luthor kissed her hand, collected his rifle and hunting bag, and left the castle, rejoining his men. Alexis threw back the covers and rose to her feet, a little unsteadily. She looked at the array of clockwork servants standing before her and said to no one in particular, "Would someone prepare my bath?" With a whirr, one of the smaller devices sped to the bath room and started the water. She stared at the butler. "It seems no one programmed you to know that not all princes are gentlemen."

The butler replied, "Have we done wrong, my princess? If so, we did not know, and we humbly beg your forgiveness. Should you allow us to continue serving you, we will ensure that no such harm ever comes to you again." Alexis nodded, though her eyes now showed a weariness that was much older than the rest of her.

Steampunk Home

2012-01-05T10:49:00.000-08:00

From Wired, a piece about a New Englander named Bruce Rosenbaum, who has Steampunked his house. I particularly like the old pump organ being used as his desk (with the three brass-framed monitors atop the desk). No doubt when working at home he tells his boss that he's pulling out all the stops.

Linden Realms: Rock Monsters, Fireballs, and Crystals - Oh My!

2012-01-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

Not being one to want to miss out on a good adventure, I decided to try my hand at the new Linden Realms game.

For reasons unexplained, but likely an effort in crowd control, a player needs to start at one of the portal sims: LR Portal Park 1, LR Portal Park 2, LR Portal Park 3, or LR Portal Park 4. The first is generally crowded, while the others have at most a handful of avatars. Each has the same setup: the landing spot is in the center, surrounded by portals. Pick one and walk through it and you are transported to the "gathering circle" - the starting point of the game.

At the portal

When I arrived at the portal the first time, using my usual Phoenix Viewer, I spent some time waiting for what I thought were sculpts to completely rez. Eventually it dawned on me that these were mesh objects that I wasn't - and would never - see correctly under Phoenix, so I switched to a mesh-enabled viewer.

Once at the starting point, the game automatically attaches a HUD (which then detaches when you leave the sim; alternatively, if you detach the HUD while still in the game, you are transported to your Home location). The HUD tracks your inventory of crystals and reminds you of your current quest.

Something else to keep in mind: although all the portals lead to the same game, they lead to different starting locations. In essence, there are a number of different but identical sets of sims containing the game. This is important because, on occasion, some glitch occurs: the HUD won't attach, or the HUD won't recognize that you've completed a quest. In that case, going back to a portal and trying another route into the game - to a different set of sims - often solves the problem.

The game is one of exploration and quests, reminding me of older adventure games. There's a brief backstory: Tyrah asks you to help her (?) with some tasks in order for her to leave the island. Tyrah's workshop is just off the gathering circle. Other locations are scattered about the island, with helpful signs pointing to them. The first few tasks involve finding locations on the island. Quite simple, until you discover the rock monsters roaming the place. If a monster catches you, you're "killed" - sent to a nearby "resurrection circle," whereupon you can continue your quest from that point. It's possible to outrun the monsters, though. Other things can kill you as well, from falling rocks inside a cave to flaming boulders to toxic water. This is no island for the faint of heart!

A captive rock monster - don't be fooled by its cute expression!

Certain parts of the island are rich in crystals. Most are red, orange, and yellow, with green and blue as the rarer varieties. Passing over a crystal takes it into your HUD's inventory, which is convenient because you can still grab a crystal while running from a rock monster. Tyrah will ask you to gather certain numbers of crystals, then return to the workshop for more instructions.

A map of the island, with areas of high crystal concentration marked

I found remarkably little lag, particularly given the number of people wandering about. Sim crossings were painless, often un-noticeable. The quests are fairly simple, though some strategizing over how to avoid problems comes in handy. There is the occasional glitch - the HUD not attaching seemed to be the most common one - but no show-stopping bugs I encountered.

The setup seems open-ended, so that the Lindens can add more quests as time goes on. I completed more than two dozen in perhaps two hours of playing time, so this is not a huge time commitment.

I'm not sure who the target audience for Linden Realms might be. I saw a fair number of new players - well, those with the surname "Resident," which is not necessarily all that new - but I also saw many people with more than a year of experience. Newcomers won't learn a lot of skills beyond being able to handle avatar movements, while old-timers might not be impressed by the straightforward goals of the game.

Still, it's a fun time. I like the idea of introducing some unpredictability into Second Life.

Steelhead St Helens in Winter

2012-01-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

Steelhead is lovely at any time of the year, but the St Helens region is especially so in winter, with a fresh coating of snow on the ground and a sunny, crisp day. I took the opportunity of just such a day to stroll about the area, snapping pictures along the way.

A stone church with its simple graveyard stands in contrast to the snow

St Helens is described thusly: "The rustic frontier community is in a valley surrounded by Mt St Helens, Mt Hood, and Garlic Ridge. Picturesque Spirit Lake rests at the bottom of the volcano surrounded by trees and wilderness. American Frontier, rustic scenery with Steampunk Influence."

The working mill uses water from the strong current to power its operations

What would a frontier town be without a general store?

Though most of the area is rustic, at least one fine house stands ready for Christmas

The Dragon's Rest saloon

The owner of this house must hope against strong breezes

Of course, the entire area is under the shadow of its two large mountains, giving the feel of being far removed from the rest of Steelhead.

------------------

Merry Christmas to all, and may the new year be happy and prosperous for everyone in the Steamlands!

Sleeping Beauty, Part 2

2011-12-30T08:00:00.000-08:00

Continued from here.

She didn’t know what she expected to find, but what she saw was beyond anything she could have imagined. Mechanical devices of all shapes and sizes, some of which looked like men, moved smoothly to and fro, great keys protruding from the back of each device. They carried out tasks crisply and efficiently, though never leaving the large room. Along a wall of the room stood a long workbench, which was covered with parts. Several of the devices worked with the parts, apparently creating more of their kind. The princess was mesmerized by the sight, so much that she did not see a tall, humanoid clockwork device breaking from its routine and walking toward her. “Good afternoon, miss. How may I be of assistance?” it said in a pleasant, if slightly machine-like, baritone that reminded her of her father’s voice.

The princess gasped. “You can speak!”

The automaton bowed. “Indeed, miss. I am equipped with the latest vocal technology. Though we are all confined to this small area of the castle, we continue to refine the work that our creator started.”

After she recovered from her shock, Alexis was delighted at what she saw, and asked for a tour of the room, with an explanation of what every machine did. The valet - for that is what the tall automaton turned out to be programmed for - seemed eager to serve a human. He introduced Alexis to each machine, some of which could speak and greeted her in return, some of which were less sophisticated devices that merely continued about their business. He showed her the work table, where two clockwork devices that had far too many hands worked with the delicate machinery.

“Oh, let me try!” exclaimed the princess, and she took a mainspring and two gears in her hand. Despite her gift of dexterity, her inexperience with the parts caused her to pierce her hand with the sharp edges of the spring. No sooner had it pricked her skin then she fell to the ground in a swoon, just as the old fairy had prophesied.

The clockwork valet whirred as its programming considered how to respond to this crisis. A decision made, it picked up the princess and, for the first time, disobeyed an order, leaving the restricted room to return to the inhabited part of the castle, to seek help.

At that moment, the king and queen returned from their journey, only to see their daughter in the arms of the clockwork valet, as though dead. The queen cried out, and human servants arrived. They took Alexis to her chambers and many efforts were made to revive the girl: one servant threw water upon her face; another loosened her corset; another applied a healing balm. Nothing worked, though, and she remained in a deep sleep.

The king judged that this was the work of the evil fairy and correctly noted that no mortal could rouse the sleeping princess before the designated time. Despite his grief, he ordered his daughter to be laid out in her night clothes upon her bed and covered with the finest linens. When she was so situated, the king ordered her left undisturbed until her hour of awakening came.

Upon hearing that the evil fairy’s curse had come to pass, the young fairy, who had tried to ease the sting of the curse, returned to the castle. She looked at the princess and complimented the king on his good judgment of allowing the girl to sleep peacefully in her bed. She looked gravely at the king and spoke: “You have done well for your daughter and prepared her for her long sleep. Even those preparations may not be sufficient to see her through this time, however. She will be here long after you and the queen are gone, long after her servants can care for her. I will prepare some magic to help her, but you should use your skills at building and programming your clockwork men to create an immortal army of servants whose job will be to tend to the princess, keeping her safe until a king’s son comes to revive her.” The king nodded his agreement.

While the king made his preparations, the fairy did as she promised, enchanting the castle and the forest in which the castle stood. When the king was ready, he and his wife kissed their daughter gently on the cheek and, for the last time, took their leave of her. With them, every human servant in the castle departed as well, traveling with the royal couple to a residence on the far side of the kingdom. Once they had departed, leaving only the clockwork men to tend to the sleeping princess, the fairy’s enchantments took hold: in but a quarter hour’s time a dense forest surrounded the castle, leaving no path to or from the structure. Bushes and brambles assured that no creature, man nor beast, could make passage to the castle. The trees were so tall that the spires of the castle were obscured from view, and the trees of such a wood that they would last for a century.

The princess slept on, and the people of the kingdom slowly forgot of her.

Holidays

2011-12-29T08:00:00.000-08:00

Another Christmas has come and gone. Thank goodness.

The flooring guys wanted to deliver the flooring on the Thursday before Christmas, just hours before company was to arrive. They couldn't get the long boards down the cellar stairs, so they stacked the boards a dozen deep in a corner of one room. The pile seemed awfully heavy, and the fact that they were all placed along a single joist didn't help matters. When I inquired about the safety of this, the owner of the company agreed that yeah, that seemed too heavy and placed wrongly, so the guys had to return and re-stack the piles. I suspect there will be a construction nightmare in my future.

I drove to my father and stepmother's house on Christmas Eve. Traffic was light - I assume everyone left Thursday afternoon or Friday, leaving Saturday morning free for me - which was a pleasant surprise. My sister and her two teenaged sons arrived a few hours later. The boys almost immediately entertained themselves with electronics. Unfortunately, the crazy stepmother decided they needed to be "entertained," so she popped in a DVD of a movie called The Blue Butterfly, a 2004 indie flick about a 10-year-old boy dying of cancer who wanted to go to South America to see a beautiful butterfly. This seemed (a) a little depressing for Christmas and (b) not all that entertaining for two teenaged boys. They disappeared quickly, I changed rooms to read a book, and my sister and father had a conversation in the kitchen until they were shushed. Shushed? I thought the whole point of getting together at a holiday was to TALK. My father says to his wife, "Gee, it looks like no one else is interested in the movie." Her reply: "I don't care." Indeed.

We survived dinner and the grand gift opening. The teens both wanted, God help us, "Beats by Dr. Dre," because adding some old rapper's name to a set of headphones makes them worth three hundred bucks.* At least their mother had the good sense not to buy the darn things for her kids. Various people, including me, contributed gift cards that helped the cause. I'm going to hope that this provides a good lesson in opportunity cost for the young pair.

My headache the next morning was better than usual. Although one might reasonably guess that the source of the headache was distilled at 80 proof or so, but that would be incorrect. The combination of an overheated house and something I'm allergic to - cat hair, I suspect - combines to create a sinus headache every year. I just dial that in. I managed to escape without taking any ham home. I like ham, but there are limits. This season, I was eating on ham no. 1 (leftovers from a get-together) when ham no. 2 (dinner for company) arrived. Hence, I had no need for ham no. 3 (Christmas dinner). Back on the road.

I don't mind people who drive faster than I do. I try to stay out of the left lane except when passing. During the holidays, when traffic is heavy, most everyone drives sanely. Still, there are always a few ~~jackasses~~ aggressive drivers who blow down the right lane until they're (inevitably) close behind another car and wonder how to change lanes, or who zig-zag among the lanes, assuming the rest of the drivers will get out of their way. Also: a solid line means do not change lanes, people. It's not that difficult.**

At least the world ends around December 21 next year. That will save me a bundle on gifts.

---------------------

*I needed new headphones, too. Sennheiser 202 II for $20 at Amazon. Does Rasputina really sound that much better on audiophile headphones?

**I made an exception for myself when I encountered a petrified lady driving about 40 mph on an exit ramp connecting two interstate highways. Sorry, ma'am.

Holidays on Edloe

2011-12-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

Celebrating the season in his unique way, R. Crap Mariner has decorated Edloe. Clocktree Park is in the spirit of the season...

…well, if one ignores the "bah humbug" message below the tree. The kitten-in-a-box is so cute that one might not notice the crate behind it to the left: Dame Ordinal's automated snowball-throwing machine.

Dare I say that Edloe has the world's largest steam-driven menorah?

Throw some more coal on the burner - it's the Festival of *cough* Lights!

Sleeping Beauty, Part 1

2011-12-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

(I had the idea to reimagine this classic fairy tale many months ago, when I saw a call for Steampunk versions of fairy tales. I had thought that the poor princess got a raw deal, but there was no reason my version had to remain that way. As with so many projects, I procrastinated until the deadline passed. More months passed when I wrote almost nothing. Finally, I dusted off my old notes and penned the tale. - RJ)

There once was a king and queen who ruled a small but prosperous land. Though they greatly desired children, they could have none, and this gave them great sorrow. They tried everything from folk medicine to pilgrimages and prayers, but still the queen could not conceive.

The king devoted his energies into administering his kingdom, but in all honesty little work was needed to keep things running smoothly. In his spare time, of which he had much, he developed quite a skill at creating ever-more-intricate clockwork devices, purely for the amusement of his wife and court. The first creatures were fairly simple wind-up devices that would, for example, fetch a daily newspaper from a specified spot in the castle's mail room, take it to the king's library, and spread out the paper for the king to read after breakfast. Another would keep watch for couriers to arrive at the castle and would then wander inside and give word to a servant, who would locate the king and deliver the news. As time went on, these creatures became more complex and more independent, so that the clockwork servant who kept watch would no longer have to travel to the servants' quarters where it would surely find a human servant, but could instead locate the king himself anywhere in the castle. Eventually, the devices no longer required human intervention for winding, but could instead restore their mainsprings by themselves.

The queen kept busy as well, though her interests lay more toward the arts of hunting and self-defense. She was an excellent shot with both hunting rifles and pistols, and was trained in several martial arts, having learned these from a visitor from the Orient who loaned the queen his personal trainer for several years. The queen had the decidedly untraditional view that ladies should be able to defend themselves in any situation and be able to walk the (admittedly low-crime) kingdom without fear.

After a number of years passed in this fashion, and both the queen and the king had become accustomed to their fate, the queen at last conceived a child and, in due time, bore a daughter, whom they named Alexis. There was much rejoicing in the kingdom, not the least among the royal household. The delighted parents arranged for a very fine christening, asking all the fairies in the kingdom, seven in total, to serve as godmothers to the infant. After carrying out the ceremony in the royal chapel, the king and queen returned to the castle's state rooms for a magnificent feast, as both tradition and good hospitality demanded. The fairies, as the honored guests, found before each one of them, delivered by a liveried automaton, a beautiful case covered with gold. Inside were a spoon, knife, and fork, all of pure gold and set with diamonds and rubies.

Each of the fairies was delighted with her gift, and, in return, each prepared to present the princess with a special gift. As they sat down at the table, however, they saw a very old fairy enter the dining room. This fairy had not been invited because she had not been seen for more than fifty years; those who remembered her thought her dead, and most had forgotten about her altogether. The king hastily welcomed the newcomer and ordered her a case of her own, but this case was plain, not made of gold like the others, because the king had ordered only seven jeweled cases. The old fairy felt slighted, and muttered various threats under her breath. It does not do to slight a fairy. The youngest of the fairies, hearing these threats, quietly slipped away as the group rose from the table, for, fearing that the old fairy might give the princess an unlucky gift, determined to speak last so as to repair, to the extent possible, any evil that the old fairy unleashed.

Each of the fairies presented their gifts to the princess. The first decreed that the princess would be the most beautiful person in the kingdom; the second, that she would have the intelligence surpassing the kingdom's greatest scholars; the next, that she be graceful in everything she did; the next, that she would dance exceptionally well; the fifth, that she should sing with great range and always in tune; and the sixth, that she have the gift of great musicianship. These gifts all delighted the beaming parents, who nevertheless paled as they saw it was the turn of the old fairy next. The crone shook in rage and spite, and decreed that the princess would have her hand pierced with the mainspring of a clockwork device and die of the wound. All were aghast at this dreadful proclamation, and the kind and queen wept.

At that moment, the young fairy emerged from her hidden spot and spoke: "Although I cannot undo entirely what my elder sister has done, I assure you, king and queen, that your daughter will not die from this curse. The princess shall indeed pierce her hand with the spring from a clockwork device, but, instead of dying, she shall fall into a deep sleep, lasting a hundred years, after which a king's son shall come and awake her." The parents thanked the young fairy profusely, but were still unnerved by the prophecy.

After their guests had gone, the king and queen discussed deep into the night what could be done to avert the fate destined for their daughter. They agreed that the king would have to sacrifice his avocation, and from then on banished his clockwork devices to a disused wing of the castle. He set forth a proclamation that clockwork devices were forbidden, upon penalty of death, an edict that caused the kindly king great pain.

Some sixteen years passed. Princess Alexis grew into a beautiful young lady, possessed of wit and grace. Her mother taught her the arts of firearms handling and shooting, and that of self-defense. Her parents had nearly forgotten of the old fairy's curse and she, of course, had not been told of it. One day, when the king and queen were both away, visiting a far part of the kingdom, the princess, possessed of free time, explored the old castle. She marveled at the formal state rooms, and the substantial library, and the guest chambers. She spent time with the servants, who, as always, were delighted to see the charming young lady. After she had exhausted the parts of the castle still in use, she made her way into the disused wing, feeling that she was on an adventure. Most of the rooms were dimly lighted and contained only old furniture, covered with dust cloths and smelling slightly of mold. She climbed higher, to the upper floors of the old wing, and heard noises behind a door. Another girl might have been frightened, but the princess was brave of heart and possessed of her mother's martial arts instruction, so she boldly opened the door.

It's the Most Wonderful Time...

2011-12-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

It's good to know that, when everyone else is viewing the world through peppermint-colored glasses, Mr. Denver Hax is there to keep things in proportion.

I was observing that the ground level of Steam Sky City seemed to be growing land mass, with little islands popping up in the large body of water beneath the sky city, when one in particular caught my eye: Santa's Ghetto. Not all is spic and span in the North Pole.

Take these two snow-bandits, for example. One has a bat, the other has a cosh, and both seemed to have done a number on one of their kind. (Who knew they bled?)

Of course, what would Christmas be without too much rotgut to drink and passing out in a pile of garbage beneath a dead tree? (Oh, so your Christmas is so much nicer?)

Not that there isn't plenty to eat here. Why, reindeer slow-roasted on a spit is just the thing to take the edge off one's hunger.

And this little guy seems to have missed the spirit of the season, hasn't he?

Don't miss a trip to Lapland, where Santa himself may be in attendance. The old guy has some kinks they tend to keep out of the holiday shows; ladies may wish to keep out of range of grabby hands.

Fa la la la la...

I Visit the World's Only Robot Sanitorium

2011-12-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Sitting high above the ground, inside the head of the Jetsons' robot, Rosie, stands a Robot Sanitorium. Ever wonder what happens to those robots that are just a little…off? Inside lies the answer.

Of course, one can't simply walk in. Visiting hours are… carry the one, subtract the square root of minus 1,… oh, never mind. Just walk in.

Jar Jar Binks was clearly too much for R2D2 do deal with. Now he has a substance abuse problem - 10W40 - and is no condition to be appearing in more movies. Other celebrity robots reside inside as well, but keep cool - they don't like too much attention.

Be sure to schedule enough time in your visit to have the complete robot experience. Thanks to cutting-edge techniques in surgery and robotics, you, too, can be transformed into a mechanical person, from the starter body...

…to the red-hot finished product.

I did manage to find a good surgeon to return me to my original body, thanks for asking, though I still speak with a somewhat mechanical tone.

At the World's End

2011-12-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

Via Honour McMillan, I learned of the World's End Garden, a beautiful but desolate spot.

Light shines in among the ruins and the dead trees.

A bird - where did it come from? - sits in an iron cage. Everywhere water laps at the land.

An old carousel in a field of flowers?

Find the teleporter to be transported to where it is always night. A glowing tree provides the only light as it sits against the wine-dark sea.

A very moody place to spend some time. Well, it is the World's End.

Christmas in Caledon

2011-12-18T08:00:00.001-08:00

While Rhianon is in New Babbage, hoping to help solve the problem of the Dark Aether, I set up our Christmas decorations. It keeps me out of trouble.

It's not clear I've been entirely successful at the keeping out of trouble part. Let's just say it's a work in progress.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 8

2011-12-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

As I sat nursing my absinthe, it started to snow. Soon the ground was covered in a thin layer of sooty powder that stuck to work boots and ladies' shoes alike. The temperature was not cold enough for a deep freeze, so the motion created puddles of dirty slush along side the newly-fallen snow. Winter had come to New Babbage, and still we were no closer to a solution.

I must have nodded off - odd, as I generally have quite a strong constitution for absinthe, a skill acquired through years of practice - and my sleep was troubled by strange dreams. Surely the Dark Aether was seeping through the ground and pervading the air, not just near the devices but everywhere in New Babbage. I resolved to stay awake as long as possible, if only to keep the dreams at bay.

Several people had come in and sat at a nearby table. I overheard them discussing a run-in with mad Margo December, who, in her unique way, said the town needed to unite to defeat the Dark Aether. They also whispered that it was the Clockwinder who destroyed the robotic Writer, and that the Melniks were planning to attempt to destroy the eyes of the crab-like creatures with magnesium flares. And Dr. Sonnerstein had a conversation with Jason Moriarty himself…or what passed as Moriarty these days. Young Gadget was kidnapped by the Van Creed… but a daring rescue freed him.

Then word came of a body found hanging in the opium den behind the old Imperial Theatre. The game was once again afoot! I hastened to the scene.

His name was Darren Mawatt. Two pages from what appeared to be his journal were on the floor near the body. His words suggested that he hanged himself…but could it have been murder? I examined the rest of the opium den. The squalid mattresses and debris from the opium users that littered the floor made it clear that this building was in active use. I could find no other clues, however, nor sign of the remainder of the missing journal. I decided to widen my search to the nearby buildings. Still I found nothing.

The journal pages discussed a meeting with Jason Moriarty… and a tale about the Woe Tree. I traveled north in search of it. The snowy terrain played havoc with my sense of direction, so I followed the train tracks, my boots crunching against the crusty snow with each step.

From one location in Babbage to another, I followed the trail and pieced together the history of the young Moriarty. Despite the evil he has perpetrated on the people of New Babbage, his story is ultimately a tragic one, and I could not help feel a pang of sympathy for the orphan who thought he had finally found acceptance with Professor Eliot. These records made clear that Moriarty is guided by, or at least acting under the influence of, the Aether.

Focus

2011-12-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

Paralysis. Inchoate thoughts. Plans that I can't bring to fruition. It's true that I'm busy - everyone seems to be busy these days - but how is that an excuse? Perhaps there are more worries than usual at work, but that's no excuse, either. Other people have far more serious troubles.

I play with technology, convincing myself that the time spent in new hardware, new software, blogs and podcasts are all investments, but I know I'm just fooling myself. It's fun, the time passes, but it's a distraction.

I consume: books, television, movies. Entertainment, yes, but it's learning, too, it's discovering craftsmanship. So I tell myself, even though I know it's a lie.

It's a momentous time out in the greater world. The Left sees their Arab Spring moment, with capitalism itself playing the role of third-world dictator, while the Right sees financial ruin. This does not create a sense of mental calm. It's the end of the world as we know it, and I don't feel fine. Still, no excuse.

It's a bad time of the year…Thanksgiving, Christmas. Holiday parties, buying gifts, readying the house, travel. But when is it a good time? Summer brings heat, fall brings vacation. Life happens. It's never a good time.

There's no mental energy to put thoughts to paper. The action of creating sentences seems more than I can handle. Stories half, three-quarters written remain unfinished, un-posted. I wander the world, not bored but not engaged, either.

I can beat myself up about it, but that's not helpful, I realize. I need to move past this. Discipline. Focus. Move forward.

When Zombies Attack

2011-12-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

(Hamoa Island… still there, but the build is entirely different. How quickly things change.)

I was walking about a creepy little town that seemed oddly empty when I saw a creature shambling across the grass. I decided to take a closer look - after all, what could go wrong?

I saw another, then another. They appeared to be zombies!

Of all shapes and sizes, including the god-awful Clown variety. I'm shuddering as I type these words with merely the memory of that thing.

They noticed me, and some primal instinct in their decomposing little minds drew them toward me. Thank goodness I never travel unarmed! I dispatched several, but for every one I disabled, another would arrive to menace me.

Soon they had me surrounded. I shot several more, then decided it was time for evasive action.

I retreated to a deserted old house. The zombies pounded on the door, but the old wood held fast.

Hmm, okay, perhaps creepy deserted little towns carry their own dangers, and exploring them alone is not the best of ideas.

I discovered the back exit, where no zombies awaited, and ran as fast as I could to the outskirts of town. When I passed the sign that thanked me for coming (and hoped I had a pleasant stay and would come back soon), I paused and caught my breath. I hoped my luck was better in the next town!

Review: The Magician King, by Lev Grossman

2011-12-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

The magic has returned! This sequel to 2009's The Magicians returns us to the magical world of Fillory, where Quentin, Eliot, Janet, and Julia reign as kings and queens. Although they live in luxury in the palace and want for nothing, Quentin feels vaguely unsatisfied. When the opportunity arises to collect unpaid taxes from an island at the furthest edge of the kingdom, he jumps at it, setting sail as soon as he can. He is accompanied by Julia, his high-school crush who failed the entrance exam to Brakebills (Grossman's Americanized and far more realistic version of Hogwarts) but nonetheless found some way to learn magic.

Although Quentin's initial purpose was a mundane one, he finds himself on an altogether different mission, to find first one, then seven, golden keys. Their adventure becomes nothing less than a mission to save magic itself, and takes them back to Earth - where both Quentin and Julia, for different reasons, are desperate to find their way back to Fillory - into the world of the dead, and to the end of the world.

Interspersed with the main narrative is the backstory of how Julia gained her magical powers, a harrowing tale that explains why Julia appears so emotionally disconnected.

As with the earlier book, The Magician King takes the modern touchstones of Harry Potter and the Narnia novels (with a dash of Tolkien and perhaps other fantasy series as well) and adds a healthy dose of realism. The Fillory kings and queens are more like ordinary young people than the idealized heroes of those other series. Quentin is impetuous and subject to bad decisions; they all drink too much and have made unwise choices in romantic relations.

In the first book, Quentin learns that a life of ease isn't necessarily a satisfying one. (Sadly, in the second book, he has to learn that lesson a second time.) As for this book, the review in the New York Times puts it well:

“Everybody wanted to be the hero of their own story,” Quentin declares, framing the novel’s theme in neat miniature. But by the end of “The Magician King,” he comes to realize that he just might not be. It’s a harsh lesson, and one that, in keeping with the preoccupations and innovations of this serious, heartfelt novel, turns the machinery of fantasy inside out.

Will another sequel follow? I can only hope so.

Civil War Discussion Group, Part 4

2011-12-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

November 23 was the next meeting of the Civil War discussion group, and the evening's topic was Walt Whitman's poem "The Wound-Dresser" (1865), which reflected Whitman's stint as a hospital nurse in Washington, DC during the war.

I admit to no little trepidation before the discussion, as poetry and I tend not to mix. Nonetheless, we had a sizable group and a lively discussion, led, as always, by Sir JJ Drinkwater and Dame Kghia Gherardi. Dame Kghia kindly read the poem, stanza by stanza, over the course of our hour together.

Sir JJ and Master Kei Saito, with Mr. Joe Arnica in the background

(1)
An old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

Mr. MikeVa Waco and Miss Jessie Darwin

(2)

O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur’d works—yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade—I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys
(Both I remember well—many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content).

But in silence, in dreams’ projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors (while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart).

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,
To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.

I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.

Dame Kghia

(3)
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away),
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly).

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side-falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.

I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame).

Your humble journalist, Miss Aubry Clarity, and Miss Brianna Nitely

(4)
Thus in silence in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips).

Duchess Augusta Maria

Miss Serena

Dark Aether Falls, Part 7

2011-11-30T08:00:00.000-08:00

New Babbage is on edge, its inhabitants held hostage to the prophecies of the robot Writer, whose tale is now many pages long. However many new pages appear in the book, the ending is always the same: the evil that Jason Moriarty unleashed win, and the town is in ruins.

Some have started to question the leadership of the Clockwinder, but no one has offered up a coherent plan to fight the monsters.

The New Babbage Militia is mobilizing to counter the threat.

Gadget and Miss Falcon are working on a plan of their own. Gadget and Nat delivered a surprising piece of information to Miss Hienrichs - a letter from the Van Creed that claims the society killed Alexander Eliot and framed Jason Moriarty for the deed. The twist: a Van Creed member gave the letter to Gadget and asked him to deliver it to the Babbage authorities.

So far, all the things foretold by the robot Writer appear to be coming true: Jimmy arrived in his airship/time machine, an old man; the machines scattered about town have spawned the crab-creatures; Sebastian of Malkuth appears to have Cloud Angels. However, our ability to glean clues about the future of New Babbage may have come to an end. As Miss Hienrichs reports, the Writer and its clockwork guardian were both attacked:

[Bookworm] sucked in a breath at the sight of the Writer lying on the floor, a few cogs scattered around it, and a hammer driven into its "ear." There was another pile of machinery next to it, the last remains of one of Miss Avariel Falcon's clockworks.

A hammer? Hmm...

As if things weren't bad enough, a crack in time itself appeared outside the Hotel Excelsior:

And yet, as Triky told Myrtil, "you still got choices, the future is not set in stone." Is that true?

I certainly wanted no part of the Dark Aether after my brief and frightening encounter with it. Still… Jason Moriarty was supposed to be masterminding the plot against Babbage, so it served to reason that finding him would be a good first step. It seemed quite odd, however, that my encounter with the Dark Aether was in the Van Creed warehouse. I decided that a stop in a nearby pub would help me sort this out.

What Does This Button Do?

2011-11-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

I just can't help myself...

Mr. Hax's mysterious new site on Aether Isle beckoned me. The control room was filled with dials and levers.

Hmm, what does this button do?

Whoops.

As the missile launched from its underground silo, I was grateful for the blast-resistant bunker. The heat blossomed around me, and the ground shook with the force of a moderate earthquake. Beyond the immediate din, I thought I could hear glass shattering.

I hope I didn't inadvertently start a war, or anything like that.

Aether Salon - Victuals

2011-11-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

Sunday saw the start of the "new" Aether Salon - or at least the new management of the Salon, and the new design for the Salon, created by Mr. Blackberry Harvey.

Baron Klaus Wulfenbach introduced the Salon and welcomed the large and enthusiastic crowd. In lieu of the usual lecture about no weapons, incendiary devices, and so on, the Baron glowered at us, briefly locking eyes with each person, and growled, "Don't make me come over there!" It was oddly effective.

The day's topics was Victuals - vittles, as they say in Deadwood - and the speaker was New Babbage's own Miss Ceejay Writer.

Miss Writer, aided by the slide projector behind her, spent about an hour discussing some of the food preservation and preparation techniques over the ages.

Pictured, Fanny Farmer

Sir JJ Drinkwater and Mrs. Breezy Carver-Fabre.

Miss Writer then discussed the contributions of Louis Pasteur in developing techniques to reduce bacterial growth in food. She also noted the development of canning - first using iron cans (deucedly difficult to open - apparently the use of firearms in the kitchen was frowned upon), then steel - and the invention of the can opener. Preservation in glass came next, though, as several in the crowd noted, it was less sporting when one could identify what was for dinner through the glass than when one had to take a guess as to what was in the steel can.

Other kitchen inventions followed, including that of the waffle iron. To be honest, my stomach started rumbling quite loudly at that point, rendering the rest of the lecture difficult to hear.

I did hear the word "popovers" mentioned (a kind of individual Yorkshire pudding, for those on the other side of the pond), which set off my stomach once more.

Mr. MacKnight Culdesac standing behind me

Miss Rhea Riel, Miss Trout Suppenkraut, and Captain Static, all part of the delegation from the Scoundrel Fleet

Part of the large and enthusiastic audience

Miss Darlingmonster Ember and Miss Solace Fairlady, illustrating the adage that couples begin to look like one another

Dear Occupiers, Rage is Not a Substitute for Critical Thinking

2011-11-22T08:00:00.000-08:00

Or, what I hope is my last statement on the topic.

One of my strategies for staving off the unfortunate effects of middle age is to take a walk prior to or just after lunch. Where I currently work, a walk to Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House and back is just about the right amount of time and distance. As a result, I have become an observer of the art of the protest. It seems to me that there are some clear dos and don'ts involved.

First, far too many protesters, especially those demanding action on foreign policy, write posters in their native tongue. This may be out of necessity, as English is a tricky language, but it does little to help the cause when nearly everyone looking at your sign has no idea what message it conveys. To me, "Allow democracy to flourish in South Sudan" looks the same as "Kill 'em all and let our Higher Power sort 'em out." Similarly, trying to put too much on a sign, resulting in tiny writing, is fatal to conveying your message to passers-by and, more importantly, to any cameras in range.

Second, protesters need to think about their aims. "America out of Iraq!" is simple, direct, and with the added benefit of having a coherent action item. Should anyone in power care about the protest, he or she could take action - removing U.S. troops from Iraq - thereby accomplishing the aim of the protest. Less effective but still potentially powerful is the more amorphous thought - "War is Not the Answer," for example. One has to think first about whether the protester is referring to a specific war, in which case the protest presumably aims to end that war, or whether the reference is to wars in general, in which case the action item is less clear (and, indeed, a blanket statement that all wars are bad may be a less compelling message). Worse still is the empty slogan - your basic "Death to America!" type of sign, which certainly conveys an emotion, but nothing about the root cause of the emotion nor what we should do to mollify the protester.

Third, the aim of a protest is, one presumes, to capture public attention, convey the message, and then go on to do something more productive. Public attention is fickle and short-lived, so the best protests are ones that make a splash - generally by massing as many like-minded individuals as possible - and go away. Houseguests and fish may start to smell after three days, but the stink rises from a protest in a matter of minutes, not hours.

Distilling these points into Jameson's Rules for a Successful Protest, we have these three elements:

A coherent, easily-digestible aim
Snappy and quickly-understood presentation
An exit strategy.

By those criteria, the Occupy movement is zero for three. Although everyone is aware that the protest involves unhappiness at "greed," or possibly "capitalism," and specifically calls attentions to the financial sector, it has become obvious that the protest has no unifying theme. Various commentators of all political stripes have tried crafting a coherent theme, but every one is an effort in futility, as the protest itself is an untamable set of heterogeneous beliefs and concerns. Similarly, tribal drums, "general assemblies," human microphones, signs referring to the "99 percent," and chants involving "our streets" and "f*** the police" don't really convey much of a message. Partly this is a problem of the lack of a simple, coherent aim, but even within the movement no one seems able to convey his or her own message in a workable manner. Sorry, kids, but "we are the 99 percent" is a statement of the obvious - well, except for the brief fly-ins by Michael Moore, Jay-Z, and decrepit but rich Sixties musicians - and a mathematical truism, not a message.

But their biggest problem is the lack of an exit strategy. The media was all too happy to craft a message, which is an advantage your average White House protester doesn't get. By drawing crowds, Occupy Whatever managed to capture attention and the press worked hard to suggest there was a point to it. However, one thing about protests that protesters tend to forget is that they irritate ordinary people (you know, the real 99%). The CEO of Bank of America is in Charlotte, North Carolina, not New York City, and doesn't really care about the drum circle. The owner of the deli across from the drum circle does care, and is not happy, nor is the working stiff who used to enjoy a pastrami sandwich and a Coke for lunch, but now has to listen to a dozen happy idiots banging away. If you want the sympathies of regular people - and, believe me, the whole protest is pretty much pointless without public support - you might want to keep in mind that pissing people off tends not to be a helpful strategy. Loud noises, closing streets and bridges, trash, public urination, and the air of a never-ending Grateful Dead concert may be fun for the participants but are not viewed in a positive light by the rest of society. Unfortunately, having no real aims means having no way of declaring victory, and having an open-ended protest means never finding an honorable way to go home. Oops.

This is not to say that there are no Occupests who have legitimate complaints. As I've noted before, young people have been sold a bill of goods on higher education, allowing themselves to go deeply in debt for an expensive, but not necessarily valuable, degree. Job prospects are bad, and there are reasons to think they won't improve any time soon, regardless of who is in Congress or the White House. Furthermore, something that doesn't seem to occupy much of the Occupiers' time but is nonetheless critical is that the country has and continues to mortgage their future in order to sustain our current spending priorities. (As an aside, they don't act all that upset at the "1 percent," as the truly rich never seem to bear the brunt of their anger: producers, movie stars, musicians, and athletes are generally the top earners in the country, but no one seems to be protesting Dr. Phil making $80 million in 2010, or Oprah pulling in a cool $315 million. Indeed, to make the top 1% in income in 2010 you would have needed $380,354 which, though a hell of a lot more than I make, doesn't seem worth complaining about.) A message that (1) focused on these issues with (2) people who conveyed the impression that they don't mind hard work if that allows them a shot at success would have melted hearts.

Instead, we have overgrown adolescents alternating between getting stoned and channeling their "rage" at inanimate objects. (Note to kids: bank buildings don't have feelings and are not responsible for you in any way.) They intimidate working class employees, such as bank tellers, scream at the police (again, blue collar stiffs just trying to earn a living), and make incessant demands while contributing nothing to society. At Harvard, the rage extends to wasting tuition money by boycotting a class they clearly should have been more attentive in. If this is the kind of critical thinking they learned in college, no wonder they want their money back!

Steelhead Port Harbor Reimagined

2011-11-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

Steelhead's chief elf, Mr. TotalLunar Eclipse, reported that he and Miss Tensai Hilra have been reimagining Steelhead, starting with Port Harbor. The following pictures show that Steelhead becomes more stunning with each iteration.

The welcome sign at the landing spot

Providing plentiful, clean power: the Hydro Teslatron!

The Casbah

The bridge to the Casbah district

An old, weathered shop

Rush to Judgment

2011-11-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

(No doubt this will be one of the least popular opinions I've ever posted to this site. Ah well.)

Nothing like a healthy dose of moral indignation to lead to a rush to judgment.

If the allegations about Jerry Sandusky are anywhere close to true, the man is an evil predator and deserves the punishment that is surely coming to him. I don't know if the allegations are true; that's what a trial is for.

What I do know is that the witch hunt against Joe Paterno and (at the time) graduate assistant Mike McQueary is being conducted in the absence of facts and with a good dose of hindsight. At the risk of introducing a sports metaphor, this is Monday morning quarterbacking at its worst.

A quick review of what we know:

In the late 90s, long-time Penn State defensive coordinator Sandusky comes under investigation for child abuse. No charges are filed.
In 1999, Sandusky leaves the coaching staff at Penn State, though he retains an office on campus as part of a retirement package.
In 2002, McQueary reportedly sees Sandusky and a child in the locker room. What he sees isn't exactly clear, but he's disturbed enough to report the encounter to his boss, Coach Paterno. Paterno, carrying out his legal responsibility, informs his boss, Tim Curley, the athletic director, and Gary Schultz, the VP who oversaw campus police. Apparently neither Curley nor Schultz actually contact the police, as they were required by law to do.
After a lengthy investigation, on Nov. 5, Sandusky was charged with sexual abuse of eight minors and Schultz and Curley are charged with perjury before the grand jury. Paterno is not charged.
The media outcry shortly takes Paterno's job and that of university president Graham Spanier. Pennsylvania's governor - who, I might add, as the state attorney general, started investigating Sandusky but did not charge him - adds that Paterno failed in his "moral duty" to do more in 2002.

The witch hunt crowd claims that Paterno, and by extension the rest of the football team's coaching staff and the university administration, ignored evidence of child abuse in order to protect the team and the university's reputation. If true, this is terrible.

But is it true? What is the evidence that anyone in the university knew of a crime before 2002? Sandusky's sudden retirement seems suspicious, but doesn't that seem like an episode where the university had suspicions, couldn't prove anything, and wanted to get the man off the payroll as soon as possible? His on-campus office sounds like the sort of perk that retired professors and such usually get. Recall that the police did investigate Sandusky around that time and couldn't find evidence of a crime. Under the circumstances, getting rid of the guy discretely doesn't seem like a bad idea.

Turning to the 2002 incident, both McQueary and Paterno did what they needed to do. (Should McQueary have done more at the time? Maybe. I don't know what he saw, whether he could have done something at the time, or even what I would have done as a 22-year-old graduate assistant. The point is that, by the next day, he told his boss.) The outcry is that Paterno didn't do more than what the law required. According to these critics, he should have called the police himself. Really? In my organization, I'd call the police in a heartbeat if someone were in danger, but afterward, I'd let people above me in the food chain take care of it. Of course, I'm not a legendary coach, but neither are Paterno's critics. Those critics also claim that he should have followed up with Curley and Schultz about the alleged attack. Maybe. That's a tougher call. It's hard to imagine that a normal person wouldn't have said at some point, "Hey, Tim, whatever happened to that allegation that McQueary made against Sandusky?" Again, though, we don't know what happened, who said what, or what was in anyone's mind.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but, at the time, what would those critics have done? The crime was terrible. A coverup would be nearly as bad. Being scared is natural, though, and concern over the fallout from a scandal is a scary thing.

Football players who have been coached by Paterno over the decades have said (both before this scandal broke and since then) that his coaching went beyond the football field and extended to how players should conduct themselves both on and off the field. These players spoke of Paterno's desire that they do things the "right way," the morally correct way. This doesn't sound to me like the kind of person who would engage in a cover-up of serious crimes against children for the purpose of protecting the reputation of the team or the university. Of course, I could be wrong. People can change. Power can become corrupting. If so, I'll admit to being wrong in my judgment. In the meanwhile, I'm inclined to give the man the benefit of the doubt. I think he's earned it.

In time, many of the facts will emerge. Perhaps the critics will turn out to be right. It seems a shame to destroy reputations and careers on innuendo and Monday morning quarterbacking, however.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 6

2011-11-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

I had seen the machine-creatures earlier, shuddering at the way the hideous single eye of each creature followed the movements of anyone nearby.

I found another one, behind Loki's pub, so I moved closer to inspect it. As I approached, a high-pitched scream erupted from the device, and several crab-like creatures rose out of it.

I backpeddled quickly, drawing my pistol with a practiced movement and fired a shot. With a metallic clang, it ricocheted off the shell of one of the creatures, not even slowing it down.

I scrambled into open territory, where I could maneuver better, and fired several more shots, aiming for the large eye. Whether my aim was off or the creatures were resistant to Dame Ordinal's exploding ordnance I could not tell, but in either event my weapon was having no effect.

The great pincers snapped open and shut, leaving me with no doubt as to what would happen if one caught me. Discretion being the better part of valor, my only sensible course of action was to run. Still the creatures pursued me, though I seemed to be putting some distance between myself and them.

Several blocks later I dared look back again…they were gone. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Reloading my gun, I decided that I should have a second look at the Van Creed factory. Perhaps I had overlooked some important clue in my last visit.

Again I gently moved the old planks away from the doorway and crept in. The factory was unoccupied, as it was on my last visit, but this time there was something different…a gap in the floorboards in the center of the factory floor allowed a gas to escape. I peered in and the gas seemed to overwhelm me. I swooned, and when I regained my senses I was staring at a huge eye, much like the ones on the crablike creatures, only many times larger. Voices shouted at me, as though coming from the inside of my head:

Think about those moments all of them, the moments you felt hopeless, the moments you felt alone, those moments that life pained you, the time those you admired turned on you, the moments were you were young and alone and hurt, that moment of losing a loved one and accepting that never again you would experience their light. Don't repress it anymore, let it out, let it free, all the hate towards the world that demands you forget the pain and bury it away. Let the truth of your existance ring from your beating heart; you need not carry the guilt any longer. The choice is yours, take it and let go to the painful truth: none of it matters, you do not matter, no one matters.

More faintly: "None of it matters, you do not matter, no one matters.

The voice, combined with the smoke, made me dizzy. I clasped my hands to my ears as the voice repeated its evil mantra. "No!" I shouted, though I spoke to no one. The despair was overwhelming. What was the point of it all? What did I really have to live for?

As the mantra cycled through once again, I shook my head. This wasn't real. Something was putting these thoughts into me, but it wasn't real. Despite my dizziness, I unholstered my pistol once more and shot directly at the eye three times. The eye still glared back at me. I didn't see the point in continuing this investigation - or any investigation. With shaking hands, I placed the still-warm barrel of the pistol against my temple and started to squeeze the trigger...

…I awoke in a canal, soaked to the skin. Judging by the sun, several hours had passed. Blessedly, the voices were gone and I had no idea why I would want to harm myself. I slowly dragged myself and my sodden garments out of the filthy canal water and made my way to a hotel.

As I reflected, I thought: I just had an encounter with the Dark Aether...

Other news: Miss Breezy also meets the crab creatures.

Miss Avariel Falcon finds saboteurs have destroyed several of her units.

Master Jimmy finds the crab creatures.

Miss Bookworm Hienrichs finds the Dark Aether.

Brother Napolter creates a weapon.

Haunted Glengarry

2011-11-12T08:00:00.000-08:00

(A belated Halloween post…)

As I ambled through Glengarry, my eyes were drawn to the small cemetery near the water. Indeed, who could resist a sign in a cemetery that reads "Enter at your own risk"? Not I!

I found myself in an old house in a long corridor, with doors lining either side. In an effort to find an exit, I tried one door after another. A diabolical laboratory, with an experiment on something human…or something that used to be human…in progress. Nope, not that one. A restless apparition…sorry to bother you, ma'am. Perhaps this door with the strange seal on it. "Eeeeek! Cthulhu!" Not that one either, I guess.

The demon attempting to make his way through the wall wasn't helping my concentration, either.

Something tells me that a spell has gone terribly wrong in the next room.

I had almost reached the end of the corridor when a hole opened beneath my feet and I fell, landing roughly on a stone floor. Nothing seemed to be broken, only bruised, and I started wandering the corridors, looking for a way out. Instead, I found only spiderwebs. Large spiderwebs. Then I found the owner.

After escaping the spider, I reasoned that things could only start looking up. Then I found the next chamber. Demons, anyone? Zombies? Fortunately, some kind soul had left an axe on the ground. Sure, it had some sticky blood stains on it, but I couldn't afford to be choosy. I picked up the axe and swung at the nearest creature...

…only to find myself back in Glengarry again. Whew!

I learned my lesson: never again enter a mysterious crypt in a cemetery...

…unless well-armed.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 5

2011-11-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

Poor Jimmy Branagh is weighted down by the predictions of the robot Writer, whose narrative has increased yet again, spiraling the story backward in time.

Mr. Mornington expounds on what a "partial predestined paradox" might be, and why New Babbage is in one at the moment.

Master Gadget makes a discovery with Miss Felisa Fargazer - and a cat!

Brother Scorpio relays news of the meeting between Sebastian of Malkuth and the "men of faith." Master Stormy Stillwater does the same from a somewhat different perspective.

Master Tepic tails a member of the Van Creed society - in a bright green dragon costume!

Mr. Arnold reports on vandalism inside Dagon Hall.

Miss Dagger files a report on a body found in the New Babbage canals.

A ghost explains to Mr. Arnold that he has been diverting some of the Dark Aether out of the city.

Mr. Melnik discovers that the machine creatures can defend themselves.

Sebastian of Malkuth pays a visit to Master Jimmy - and performs a ritual!

As for my investigations, I have found where the Van Creed have been doing their nefarious work, and discovered what may be a connection between the machine creatures and the Eliot Device...yet every answer only leads to more questions.

Jimmy, Mrs. Breezy Carver-Fabre, and Mr. Skusting Dagger discovered a body in the Vernian Sea - charred and with a deadly-looking hole in the skull:

Finally, in Steelhead, young Miss Myrtil Igaly has an encounter with a friend she had thought she would never see again - and gain some insight as to what might be going on in New Babbage.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 4

2011-11-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

The mystery continues to unfold around New Babbage:

Miss Marish Lanfier discovers one of the half-machine, half-creature devices in her yard while Miss Bookworm Hienrichs is stymied in her investigations.

Brother Napoltler meditates and comes to a conclusion regarding weaponry.

Master Gadget Starsider meets Sebastian of Malkuth, who directs Gadget to gather the "men of faith" in Babbage so that Sebastian can talk to them.

Little Tepic Harlequin considers who the old Jimmy (in the robot's ever-growing narrative) could have meant when he told Clockwinder Tenk not to trust "him."

Mr. Orpheus Angkarn has an encounter with one of the machine creatures, causing him to wonder if, unknown to his conscious mind, he could be Jason Moriarty.

Meanwhile, I nosed around, following the trail earlier dispatches from Babbage had indicated. In Moriarty's secret lab, his arcane device was cleaned up and looked as though it was nearly ready to activate - though for what purpose, I could not say.

In a room at the Hotel Excelsior, I discovered an odd chemical smell - and a ghost!

Then, in a graveyard late one night, I encountered one of the machine-creatures:

It was altogether as horrible as others have described, pulsating as though alive, and staring with its single, terrible eye, radiating an unearthly light. It seems clear that these creatures are the progenitors of the things that attack Babbage as the robot describes. Somehow they must be able to be stopped - but how?

Following the Path

2011-11-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

Well-known Second LIfe artist Bryn Oh, in conjunction with the Linden Endowment for the Arts, invited seven other artists to collaborate on a piece entitled The Path. As Miss Oh describes it in a notecard:

The Path is an immersive project based around the exquisite corpse concept sometimes used by the Surrealists. Essentially, each chosen artist adds to a composition in sequence. Eight artists were invited to stand upon one of eight different coloured boxes I had set up. Once all had chosen a box to stand on, a chart was rezzed which listed the order of colours which would dictate the sequence of artists to compose scenes for the narrative.
So if red was first on the chart, then the artist standing on the red cube would begin the narrative. If blue were next then the artist on the blue cube would continue the story.The artist who goes first composes a short start to a story. They then pass on this segment to the artist who is next on he list. That artist would then write up a continuation of the narrative and pass it on to the third artist. This would continue until reaching the eighth and final artist. This was the random order.
1-Bryn Oh
2-Colin Fizgig
3-Marcus Inkpen
4-Desdemona Enfield / Douglas Story
5-Maya Paris
6-Claudia222 Jewell
7-Scottius Polke
8-Rose Borchovski
I would like to thank the artists involved for the positive atmosphere they created and the professionalism shown. It was a great pleasure working with them.
I hope you enjoy our work.
Bryn Oh

The exhibit starts in a dark room with information about the exhibit (the above notecard), information about the artists, and an instruction to click on the head of a Salvador Dali-look-alike to teleport from one area of the exhibit to the next.

Be sure to keep sounds on - the ambient sounds and occasional narrative provide both atmosphere and context in the exhibit.

The first part - by Bryn Oh - starts in a room of pure white, save for a black doorway. "Hmm, should I step through there?" Throwing caution to the wind, I cross the portal.

This is the room of the Inventor. Walk around and examine the objects - I marvel at the exquisite detail that Miss Oh puts in her work. Butterflies flap their wings and have moving gears to propel themselves. Everything has a Steampunk feel to it, and many of the objects as well as people have gears and cogs creating motion.

Hidden in the room are nooks with objects that, when clicked, open an external browser directing the viewer to YouTube videos, one, named "Cerulean," is a side story to the main narrative in the exhibit; the other is a machinima of "Anna's Many Murders," an earlier piece by Miss Oh.

Next (Colin Fizgig's section) we find the Inventor in a room with many windows, portals to other worlds. Find the one he took...

...to arrive at the next destination (by Markus Inkpen), a room with many doors, and two unsavory-looking characters that provide some needed advice to the Inventor.

Desdemona Enfield and Douglas Story continue the theme of the key. Follow the key through the door... and find your way out!

The surreal scene below is the next stop (by Maya Paris), filled with menacing creatures of eyes and webs.

The next stop (by Claudia222 Jewell) is a watery one. Where is the pathway out?

Now (in Scottius Polke's section) you appear to be miniaturized - or is it simply that everyone in this world is a giant? The Inventor's head looms over you as you try to find your way out.

The last stop (by Rose Borchovski) is another surreal space, filled with eyeballs and keys. "There is only one way back," someone - or something - whispers. "Choose wisely."

The Path is a delightful way to spend an hour or more. Click, listen, contemplate the detail in the different rooms.

The exhibit, which opened Oct. 14, runs for three months. It is well worth the time to see it.

For more detail about the exhibit, and lovely photographs, see this entry by the incomparable Inara Pey.

Fireworks in Babbage

2011-11-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

On Saturday afternoon, New Babbage's Mayor Tenk kindly extended an invitation to Caledon to join him in the annual New Babbage fireworks celebration. (Coincidentally, in England, Guy Fawkes Day was being celebrated.)

Master Loki Elliot masterminded the display, held in Babbage Square on the canal just by the Old Imperial Theatre. Master Loki can be seen below on the stairs leading to the canal, as a crowd of spectators gathers on the bridge and along the canal.

Quite clever of Mr. Tenk to have an urchin risk his limbs putting together such a dangerous program. And Babbage seems to have more urchins than they know what to do with.

In any event, the crowd was enthusiastic, waving flags and cheering as the rockets sped toward the skies.

The urchins seemed to prefer the view along the canal to the view on the bridge - or perhaps they were just shy.

The skies of Babbage lit up like the Fourth of...like Guy... well, lit up.

I watched from what seemed to be a safe distance.

The crowd sent up a collective "Oooh" as a strange red, white, and blue flag appeared in the sky.

Too soon it was over, and, after an enthusiastic round of applause for Master Loki, dispersed for the evening.

Civil War Discussion Group, Part 3

2011-11-06T08:00:00.000-08:00

October 26 found me once again in the Caledon Library reading room in Victoria City to discuss a memoir from the Civil War.

This month we considered selections from the diary of Mrs. Mary Boykin Miller Chesnut, the well-to-do wife of a U.S. Senator from South Carolina before the war and aide to President Jefferson Davis during the war.

Sir JJ Drinkwater and Dame Kghia Gherardi led a large and spirited group, touching on Mrs. Chesnut's views on such topics as the war and her servants, and whether a memoir edited and published two decades after it was written made the author an unreliable narrator.

I think there was something of a tendency for some of the participants to judge this woman by the standards of the 21st century. It is true that she was a wealthy woman in a time when that meant owning slaves, and we rightly view that as reprehensible today. It's hard to know the mind of a mid-18th century lady, however - one who knew no other world than that of the antebellum South.

Next month we discuss a poem by Walt Whitman, which I approach with some trepidation. Poetry is not my long suit. We shall see.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 3

2011-11-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

More reports from New Babbage:

Master Tepic Harlequin provides instances of materials disappearing from warehouses and machine shops - greased leather, scrap wood, oven windows, granulated charcoal, rivets, cotton wadding, spools of thread, pots of glue, and more. What do these items have in common, he wondered?

Upon hearing that assets of the Esoteric Order of Dagon are being seized and that the Order is under suspicion of being responsible for the part-organism, part-machine cylinders appears about the city, Master Stormy Stillwater notes that he is bricking up the entrance to the library of arcane materials at Miskatonic University, hoping to hide some of the darker materials of the Order.

Scottie and Sky Melnik spent an uneasy night with one of the machines. The longer they spent in the presence of the creature, the more ill they became - while witnessing an unusual transformation:

The machine’s tank started to sweat like a cold glass of water on a hot humid day. The ‘sweat’ appeared to be a translucent green slime that seemed to ooze from nowhere. It grew thicker until it covered the entire thing, the fluidic gel flowing around the machinery it encompassed.

Even shooting the thing caused no apparent permanent harm:

[Scottie] saw the bullet, lodged inside the strange ichor coating the machine. It floated almost weightlessly for a few moments before sinking slowly through the sludge. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity it reached the ground, shifted, and rolled free of the blob and into the dirt.

Mrs. Breezy Carver-Fabre also has an unusual interaction with one of the machine creatures.

Mr. Arnold relates several conversations.

An airship crashed well away from New Babbage, as Miss Jed Dagger reports. Miss Dagger considers the possibility that this tragedy is related to more local events.

Finally, young Miss Myrtil Igaly decided to find a ride on the next airship to Steelhead (despite that city's widespread illness, as Dr. Mason relates), in order to seek out the elderly (and not altogether compos mentis) Miss Margo December in the hope of learning more about the future destruction of New Babbage.

As for me, I am no further toward understanding the problem as I was before I reached New Babbage, much less any further toward a solution.

Strange days indeed.

"Above the Senior Wrangler"

2011-11-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

A fascinating piece from Smithsonian Magazine on Philippa Fawcett, who in 1890 shattered the stereotype (more like an ingrained conviction) that women were not capable of learning mathematics at the same level as men. Although women were not permitted entrance to the main colleges at Cambridge, they could take the math "tripos" -

Candidates typically sat for five and a half hours of exams every day for eight days—12 papers and 192 progressively more difficult questions in all. Those in contention for the title of Wrangler then sat for a further three days of examinations consisting of 63 still more testing problems.

The men were ranked, with the top group known as "Wranglers" and the best of those the "Senior Wrangler," and then women were ranked, their scores announced with reference to their male counterparts - "between the 15th and 16th Wrangler," say. Miss Fawcett's score was announced as "above the Senior Wrangler." And not just by a little, but an amazing 13% better.

Dr. Obolensky Rises in the World

2011-11-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Quite literally. He has raised his laboratory substantially above sea level - the better to look down upon his future subjects in New Babbage, he cackled.

Below, a closer look from the cameras of the Hangover Two.

I wonder what the fiend could be up to?

The 1894 Steam-Powered Motorcycle

2011-11-01T09:20:00.000-07:00

God knows I like steam power, but this seems one invention too far.

It's a boiler grafted onto a bicycle. Points for trying, but I can understand why the concept didn't set the world on fire. (Only the rider's pants.)

Dark Aether Falls, Part 2

2011-10-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

I traveled to City Hall in New Babbage to look at the automaton myself.

The remarkable machine was being guarded by one of Miss Falcon's devices, but it let me approach until I could read the manuscript, which appeared to have grown longer in the past few days.

I started reading, and was amazed: in contrast to previous reports of the content of the manuscript, this narrative was different. Somehow, it had changed! Whereas the original version described the complete destruction of Babbage, the new, longer version describes a fierce battle between the Babbage residents and large, tentacled creatures. Although many people lost their lives in fighting these monsters, Jimmy Branagh escaped in a ship to go back in time and stop Jason Moriarty before he could put in motion the events leading up to the narrative.

How curious!

Clocktree Park

2011-10-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

Autumn has come to the eight Five Islands, and I decided to pay a visit to the center of activity, Clocktree Park, in Edloe. The park (and tree) are curated by local tyrant/evil land baron R. Crap Mariner, so I stole in when the robot's attention was elsewhere.

It's a pretty spot, to be sure.

That robot does have an obsession with time...well, timepieces, at any rate, as most don't actually tell the correct time.

Below is the reading room, where the storytelling magic occurs.

And the office, where, fueled only by a burning desire to write 100 word stories (okay, and by a fifth of Jack Daniel's), Clocktree Park's despot bangs away on his trusty typewriter.

Hmm, that sounded naughty, didn't it?

"I Tip Profusely"

2011-10-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

In one of life's little coincidences, I was still musing over Mrs. Volare's mention of tipping in her comment on a recent post when I listened to a lengthy discussion of tipping. In a recent episode of The Talk Show, tech writer John Gruber* and host Dan Benjamin discussed, among other things, tipping, including why and how much they tip for various services.

Gruber notes that he tips generously in almost every instance where tips are expected: wait staff, of course, but also hotel maids, curbside check-in at the airport, bellboys, cab drivers, and so on. He offers several reasons why he does so: first, the tips are part of the income that these workers rely on; second, the loss of a few dollars to him is less than the benefit of the few dollars to those he tips; third, those jobs are, by and large, unpleasant ones, and it's his acknowledgement that he's been fortunate in having avoided that kind of career; and, fourth, he likes to buy a little insurance against bad things happening - such baggage being misdirected - that a tip might help with. I put that one last because, with the exception of the Sky Caps, most tips are given after the service has been performed, so the tip isn't to get better service, unless you're a repeat customer with the same person. You tip your hairdresser, among other things, because she has a pair of scissors and the power to make you look horrible for the next three months. But tipping the waitress in the diner in the town you're passing through is unlikely to be for the purpose of getting better service somewhere down the road.

I agreed wholeheartedly with his analysis. I try to be generous without being outrageous. (One reads stories about celebrities leaving hugely disproportionate tips - the $100 tip on the $10 drink, say - and I always wonder what the message being conveyed is supposed to be. Sure, it's nice to have the $100, but isn't the message, "I'm so rich that a hundred dollars is nothing to me"?) However, like many people I know, I have a certain amount of apprehension when it comes to tipping. Gruber and Benjamin didn't seem to be as sure of themselves about why people hesitate to tip as they were about why people do tip, so let me take a stab at it.

Just as there are two basic reasons to tip - the generous impulse and the desire for better service - there are two basic reasons why some people are uncomfortable with tipping culture. First, I can't help think that there's an undercurrent of... not exactly resentment, but an unease about why this job earns tips but that job doesn't. The Sky Cap's job is to get my luggage from Point A to Point B. Someone else - someone I don't see and can't tip - has the job of getting it from Point B to Point C, and still others are responsible for getting the bag on the luggage carousel at the end of the flight. They all have the same job, but only one gets tipped? That seems arbitrary. I go into work in the morning and have wide discretion over what I'm doing at any moment. Surely a generous tip from my boss would induce me to spend more time reviewing a report and less time checking news headlines on the Web, but I never see a tip from him. So for some jobs, the salary is considered sufficient, but others require tips?

Don't get me wrong - waitressing, which was Mrs. V's example, is a job where everyone understands the social contract: the waitress is paid a minimal hourly wage and expects to make it up in tips. When the bill reads $50, I know it's really a $60 meal, and I budget accordingly. Other arrangements are possible - restaurants could pay a more reasonable wage and incorporate that added cost onto the bill, so the waitress might earn, say, $12 an hour and my bill would come to $60. This isn't merely hypothetical; I'm told Japan is a country where tipping is nonexistent. But the custom is well-established here, and I'll do my part.

The second reason people are uncomfortable is that tipping is part of the social contract, and people are, by and large, conformists. No one wants to be berated by a cab driver for unwittingly giving him an insultingly low tip. Travel is especially tricky, because one interacts with so many people in service jobs. God help the middle class businesswoman whose company puts her up in an upscale hotel. Do the maids get tipped more at the Waldorf than at the Holiday Inn? Does that woman handing you a towel in the rest room get a tip? When taking in a show in Vegas, do you still tip the maitre d' when he seats you? All very confusing.

Second Life - to get back to this Journal's main topic for just a moment - provides an excellent example of this second issue. Many people enjoy in-world music or performance events. When Mr. Pearse spends several hours with his Victrola and record collection at a Breakfast in Babbage event (plus however long it takes him to prepare), many people feel that tipping is the right thing to do. Similarly, the speakers at the Aether Salon clearly put substantial work into their presentations, and tips are a way of both acknowledging that work and compensating them for the work. But how much should one tip? At some level that's a personal issue, of course - how much can I afford, how much seems reasonable - but it's also a social issue. These are your friends, and no one wants to seem cheap in front of her friends. What's the right metric? A lot of Linden dollars equates to very little real world money, so is a L$500 tip insulting? "Hey, you gave me a little under two bucks. Thanks, big spender!" Or should it be relative to other prices in SL - L$500 might be a new outfit, or a pair of shoes? Those tip jars that say the amount tipped are helpful in letting everyone know what the median tip is, but that's a mixed blessing.

Gruber may tip profusely. I tip nervously.

------------

* I love reading Gruber's blog Daring Fireball, and I love listening to him on The Talk Show (including that slacker "Yeah, whatever" tone of voice he employs 90% of the time), and I even enjoy his Twitter feed, even though he's a hopeless Yankees fan. But John - may I call you John? I think I've listened to you enough that we should be on a first name basis - for the love of God, think before you do those political posts. It's not that I disagree with the stuff you link to, it's that some of the people you link to are so disconnected from reality that it's painful to read. Stick to your strengths, of which there are many.

Review: Phoenix Rising

2011-10-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

My latest Steampunk read was Phoenix Rising: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel, by Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris.

This rousing romp of an adventure starts with a bang as Miss Eliza Braun, a field agent with the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, rescues fellow agent Mr. Wellington Books, the Ministry's Archivist, from the clutches of an organization attempting to torture information from Books. Braun makes the rescue in as destructive a manner as possible, leading the head of the Ministry to assign her to the Archives in the hope that the refined and even-tempered Books might have a civilizing effect on his wild agent.

What follows is a potboiler of a plot involving (not necessarily in this order) Mad Science, a secret society, a bullet-resistant corset, men killed and drained of their blood, a beautiful assassin, a night at the opera, urchins, mechanized men, and our heroine in a bathtub.

One review suggested that the closest analogy for this book was a Steampunk version of The Avengers, with Eliza as a Colonial Emma Peel and Wellington as a more gadget-oriented and less field-tested than John Steed. The analogy is apt.

When an author names her lead characters Books and Braun, the reader can readily see that the authorial tongue is planted firmly in cheek. However preposterous the plot, it's a fun, quick read that keeps the pages turning, the reader constantly wondering what kind of trouble our agents could find.

Phoenix Rising was clearly designed as the first in a series of novels about Agents Books and Braun, and I look forward to their further adventures.

Surreal Dreams

2011-10-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

Through the Lens of Dreams is a new exhibit by Madcow Cosmos and Lorin Tone.

SL is best when its the land of the the subconcious made real, beauty, smut, crayon drawings, and all. Art Screamer is lead by Zachh Cale, Chestnut Rau and Amase Levasseur.

I briefly hesitate before jumping through the hole

From the introductory notecard:

"Through the Lens of Dreams" is an exploration of the transformative nature of dreams, where each new setting may emerge from the last and seems continuous while we're experiencing them. The only truly consistent part of a dream is the viewer, that's you. Thus as you walk through the installation you help complete the piece, good work. The piece is more a series of doodles that flow from each other than a single large composition so it seems somewhat sprawling and busy. Just relax and enjoy your own little piece of the whole.
How to enjoy this piece:
Walk, fly, hop, or shimmy as to your preference. Click things, poke them, dance naked around them, or sit on them. Feel free to photograph, make machinima, exactly copy my work by painstakingly reproducing it, or loudly decry it as an assault against good taste, you have the artist's permission!
About the Artists:
Madcow Cosmos is a complete (self described) armateur who came to SL from a cooking background in order to try his hand at some 3D digital art. He provides the visuals for the piece.
Lorin Tone is a real life noise maker and a tasty beverage. He provides the noises for the piece
Musical selections employed:
"March of the Trolls", by Edvard Grieg
"Twinkle Twinkle Little Starfish", by Lorin Tone
And music that you will create and mix yourself.

Although the sound was not working when I visited, the scene is very dreamlike, with rainbow bridges, giant caterpillars (evoking Alice in Wonderland), giant bees with strange expressions, puffy stars, floating houses, and more.

The brain generates dreams - clearly the fuel for this exhibit!

Wander about, poke at things, and marvel at what the human subconscious can evoke.

Hat tip again to Inara Pey.

Aether Salon - Mark II

2011-10-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday the 16th was the third anniversary of the Aether Salon, and the first under the direction of Baron Klaus Wulfenbach.

Baron Wulfenbach

The former Salon structure was destroyed in a mysterious explosion (in the Steamlands, are there any other kinds?), so the site was surrounded by fencing and scaffolding.

A number of past Salon speakers came to share some memories of past events, and all brainstormed about possible topics and speakers.

Miss Ceejay Writer (foreground), Miss Zaida Gearbox and Miss Junie Ginsburg.

Mr. Vic Mornington

Your humble diarist

Master Jimmy Branagh (foreground), with, L-R, Adm. Wildstar Beaumont, Prof. Bodhisatva Paperclip, Mrs. Breezy Carver Fabre, and Lady Stargirl MacBain

Mr. Blackberry Harvey, Miss Solace Fairlady, Miss Darlingmonster Ember, Prof. Paperclip

L-R: Miss Kimika Ying, Miss Jed Dagger, Miss Sera Puchkina, Mr. Jasper Kiergarten, Capt. Red Llewellyn

Sir JJ Drinkwater, Capt. Stereo Nacht

Baron Wulfenbach then announced that the winner of the design contest for the Salon was none other than Mr. Blackberry Harvey, who had developed a model of the site.

Baron Wulfenbach unveils the model of the new Salon design

The new Salon design

Mr. Harvey's design evokes the Globe theater, and contains a fold-down stage and, in a technological marvel, the entire structure rotates. Most amazing! Some discussion was held involving the proper way to light such a venue - gas lamps, Tesla coils, and even mysterious glowing rocks that caused mutations in humans were all considered. The final design decision should be quite interesting.

The next Salon will be Victuals!, with Miss Ceejay Writer, and will be held on Nov. 20.

Occupying an Endless Frat Party

2011-10-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

I can understand the frustrations of (some of) the Occupy Wall Street protesters*: the economy is terrible, jobs are hard to find, especially for young people, and many graduates are saddled with large student loans that they see no way of repaying. They see the government propping up large banks (via TARP) and wonder why the government isn't doing more to help them.

That said, I have trouble with both the logic of the protesters and the tactics the protesters employ. Starting with the latter, it troubles me that these spaces are co-opted for the exclusive use of these people for extended periods. Public spaces should be available to everyone, and, for example, issuing a four-month permit for one organization to camp out at Freedom Plaza in Washington, DC denies the public at large from using that space. Having made their point, it's time to move on.

The protesters and their defenders in the media like to say that "This is what democracy looks like." But as Anne Applebaum says in an op-ed for the Washington Post,

[A]ctually, this isn’t what democracy looks like. This is what freedom of speech looks like. Democracy looks a lot more boring. Democracy requires institutions, elections, political parties, rules, laws, a judiciary and many unglamorous, time-consuming activities, none of which are nearly as much fun as camping out in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral or chanting slogans on the Rue Saint-Martin in Paris.

Worse is the misdirected anger. Several weeks ago, part of the DC anti-war mob tried to rush the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum, and were fortunately rebuffed by the guards. It's boneheaded behavior like that that leads to having guards at museums, searching everyone's belongings and creating lines to get into buildings. Next time you wait to get into a museum, thank a protester. Last weekend, two dozen people were arrested in a Citi branch in New York, loudly demanding things from bank tellers. Bank tellers? These are hardly the fat-cat bankers with huge bonuses; these are working-class people just trying to earn a living.**

Then there's the logic of the protests. Never mind the people making rediculous demands: free tuition, a guaranteed wage of $20/hour, prosecuting bankers for losing money. Let's look at the demands of the people with some remaining connection to reality. Angry at TARP? It sure looked sleazy, propping up banks that made billions of highly-leveraged bad bets on the housing bubble.*** I'm not bright enough or informed enough to know whether it's true, as both the Bush and Obama White House and Treasury told us, that TARP was necessary to keep the entire financial system from melting down. Bank failures would surely have led to liquidity problems for the "little people" (perhaps the FDIC would eventually make good on its insurance guarantees, but how long would you like to be out of your entire bank balance?) and runs on other banks. Rich people have other options for banking and investments; you and I depend on the banking system. But let's say that TARP was a bad idea. It's done, the banks have largely repaid the government, and life has moved on. I understand the anger at large salaries and bonuses being paid to executives of banks that took taxpayer loans, and wish that shareholders would be more assertive in limiting executive pay, but it strikes me that regulating pay - especially in one sector of the economy but not others - isn't a good solution.^ The anger at "greed" seems entirely misplaced. Are we not all greedy? Desire is part of the human condition. In a capitalist society, markets impose discipline on greed, howevery imperfectly. Would it be better for government bureaucrats and politicians make those decisions? Neither China nor Russia, to pick two examples, have created a workers' paradise through more centralized decisions about resource allocation.

Student loan debt is huge, and I feel sorry for people who bought into the concept that returns on education were large and that the returns to an expensive education were enough larger than the returns to a moderately-priced education to make the extra debt worthwhile. The protesters would do well to consider why education costs so much, and why those costs have vastly outpaced inflation in the past few decades. I'll point to three reasons: the availability of government-backed student loans, which encouraged debt and let universities increase tuition without an immediate effect on enrollment rates; an academic tradition that rewards research over teaching, so that many academics have a light teaching load, increasing university costs as well as leading to large introductory classes and increasing reliance on graduate assistants; and horrible bloat in university administration, including deans of this and that, catering to self-indulgent students and their helicoptor parents. The protesters should be agitating for education reform. Occupying a park near New York's financial district doesn't seem to be the best way to go about this. How about occupying the Department of Education?

That leads us to the big problem, the lack of jobs and what to do about it. It's a mistake to think that the government creates jobs. I know this is a tough argument to sell; after all, aren't there a lot of jobs in government? Most government jobs, however, don't create anything; rather, they draw resources from elsewhere in the economy, through taxation, or draw resources from future generations, through borrowing.^^ What government can do is provide the environment necessary for the private sector to create jobs. This is an important role, and I don't mean to minimize it. Strong property rights, a stable currency, low inflation, predictable corporate and capital gains tax rates - all of these things help maintain an environment in which individuals and firms can make long-term decisions, including starting new businesses and expansion plans that involve hiring new workers. Government can deter hiring, too - for example, by imposing onerous regulations that create costs for firms. None of this is magic. The magic comes in knowing how to create a balance between a business-friendly evironment and other interests that we have (clean air, worker safety protections, societal safety net programs, and so forth). The protesters are asking the government to do more, while fundamentally misunderstanding what the government is capable of.

Maybe all of this is too much to expect of a large-ish gathering of mostly young people. Demonstrations run on slogans, not a careful understanding of facts. Protests are driven by emotion, not dispassionate analysis. However, without a sensible unifying principle, rather than the inchoate set of demands that have evolved, what are the rest of us supposed to do about it? Should I be against "greed" in the abstract? What sort of action item is that? Contrast this with the evoution of the Tea Party activists, who have a simple, yet actionable principle - less government, lower taxes - and easy ways to implement that principle - vote for people who won't support new government programs and higher taxes. Add to this the perception that the protesters are not serious people, asking not for a way to achieve goals (e.g., jobs) but instead insisting that the government - meaning the rest of us, the "53 percent" - provide handouts.^^^

All in all, while I can sympathize with their plight, I can't sympathize with either their means or their ends.

-------------------

* Newspaper articles and video show that, in addition to the genuinely aggreived, these protests have attracted anarchists, well-to-do kids looking to have fun, union-hired extras, and people with a motley assortment of other greivances. Some are part of the professional protesting class, the people you see at the G-20 meetings, decrying "globalization" and smashing windows. Some, especially those in DC, are part of the anti-war Left, co-opting the Wall Streeters to complain about...well, I'm not sure what.

** I have similar feelings toward the union-hired mobs who bang on drums and chant mindless slogans in front of buildings using non-union labor. The building owner is somewhere else, and the people affected by the noise pollution are the hard-working individuals in and around the affected locations.

*** I continue to recommend Michael Lewis's book The Big Short for a wonderful discussion of the housing bubble leading to the financial crisis. This wasn't something that could only have been predicted with hindsight; the number of people who understood how bad those collateralized mortgage obligations were *but bought them anyway* astounds me.

^ Do you *really* want even less-competent people running financial institutions?

^^ Don't get me wrong: many of those jobs are important in keeping the rest of the economy running well. Defense keeps the population safe from foreign dangers. Law enforcement maintains domestic civil order. A variety of regulations help balance interests. However, these are transactions costs. We're better off with fewer of these costs, all else equal, not more.

^^^ College students who are skipping classes in order to camp out in a park reinforces this perception. Instead of getting the education that they - or, more likely, some combination of their parents and taxpayers - are paying for, they're complaining about the cost of the education they're not getting.

Into the Inferno

2011-10-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

Inferno is a new exhibit under the aegis of the Linden Endowment for the Arts, created by Rebeca Bashly. The exhibit depicts various areas of Hell, as described by the poet Dante, in his Divine Comedy.

The Wikipedia entry on the poem sets the stage:

The poem begins on the day before Good Friday in the year 1300. The narrator, Dante himself, is thirty-five years old, and thus "halfway along our life's path" ...The poet finds himself lost in a dark wood in front of a mountain, assailed by three beasts...he cannot evade, and unable to find the "straight way"... to salvation. ...Dante is at last rescued by the Roman poet Virgil, who claims to have been sent by Beatrice, and the two of them begin their journey to the underworld. Each sin's punishment in Inferno is a contrapasso, a symbolic instance of poetic justice; for example, fortune-tellers have to walk forwards with their heads on backwards, unable to see what is ahead, because they tried, through forbidden means, to look ahead to the future in life. Such a contrapasso"functions not merely as a form of divine revenge, but rather as the fulfilment of a destiny freely chosen by each soul during his or her life."
Dante passes through the gate of Hell, which bears an inscription, the ninth (and final) line of which is the famous phrase "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate", or "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here"
Before entering Hell completely, Dante and his guide see the Uncommitted, souls of people who in life did nothing, neither for good nor evil.... Mixed with them are outcasts who took no side in the Rebellion of Angels. These souls are neither in Hell nor out of it, but reside on the shores of the Acheron, their punishment to eternally pursue a banner (i.e. self interest) while pursued by wasps and hornets that continually sting them while maggots and other such insects drink their blood and tears. This symbolizes the sting of theirconscience and the repugnance of sin. This can also be seen as a reflection of the spiritual stagnation they lived in. As with the Purgatorio and Paradiso, the Inferno has a structure of 9+1=10, with this "vestibule" different in nature from the nine circles of Hell, and separated from them by the Acheron.
After passing through the "vestibule," Dante and Virgil reach the ferry that will take them across the river Acheron and to Hell proper. The ferry is piloted by Charon, who does not want to let Dante enter, for he is a living being. ...
Virgil then guides Dante through the nine circles of Hell. The circles are concentric, representing a gradual increase in wickedness, and culminating at the centre of the earth, where Satan is held in bondage. Each circle's sinners are punished in a fashion fitting their crimes: each sinner is afflicted for all of eternity by the chief sin he committed. People who sinned but prayed for forgiveness before their deaths are found not in Hell but in Purgatory, where they labour to be free of their sins. Those in Hell are people who tried to justify their sins and are unrepentant.
Allegorically, the Inferno represents the Christian soul seeing sin for what it really is, and the three beasts represent three types of sin: the self-indulgent, the violent, and the malicious. These three types of sin also provide the three main divisions of Dante's Hell: Upper Hell (the first 5 Circles) for the self-indulgent sins; Circles 6 and 7 for the violent sins; and Circles 8 and 9 for the malicious sins.

Limbo

The visitor follows Virgil through the sections of Hell: the Dark Wood, Limbo, Hurricane (Lust), Gluttony, Progidals (Greed), and the River Styx (Anger).

The lower parts of Hell are contained within the walls of the city of Dis, which is itself surrounded by the Stygian marsh. Punished within Dis are active (rather than passive) sins. The walls of Dis are guarded by fallen angels.

Lust

Greed

The River Styx

The Seventh Circle: Violence

In the Bolgias

The Ninth Circle/ Frozen River of Cocytus, showing Satan

Inside the city of Dis is where the real fun takes place. The sixth circle contains the heretics, trapped in flaming tombs. The seventh circle contains the violent, divided into three rings: the outer ring has those who are violent toward people and property, and they are immersed in a river of blood and fire; the middle ring has the suicides (those who committed violence against themselves), transformed into thorny bushes and trees; the inner ring contains the blasphemers (those who were violent against God) and the violent against nature (usurers and sodomites), residing in a desert of flaming sand with flaming flakes falling from the sky. The eighth circle contains those who committed fraud, and is divided into ten bolgias, separating various types of fraud, from the first - panderers and seducers, who are forced to march in lines while being whipped by demons - to the tenth - falsifiers (alchemists, counterfeiters, perjurers, and impersonators), who are afflicted with various diseases. The ninth circle contains the treacherous, those who engaged in various types of betrayal: betrayal of family ties, community ties, guests, and liege lords. These traitors are frozen in a lake of ice (Cocytus), each encased to a depth related to the seriousness of his sin. The circle is ringed by various giants, while at the center of Hell, "condemned for committing the ultimate sin (personal treachery against God), is Satan.

For a more user-friendly take on Dante's vision of Hell, see Inferno, Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle's 1976 novel.

Hat tip to Inara Pey, whose entry on the exhibit is infinitely more detailed.

A Minor Mishap

2011-10-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Walking along Aether Isle the other day I noticed that Miss Glorf Bulmer seemed to have had an experiment go awry.

Quite the mess! I hope no minions were hurt - they are so hard to train.

The sign in front of the establishment is less than entirely reassuring. It reads:

Do not be alarmed. There has been a minor incident, within the health & safety guidelines for this Establishment.
There is no cause for concern.
However, as a visitor, you may wish to take simple precautions regarding debris, NBC hazards and tentacle monster attack if you:
Are under 18
Are over 80
Have a compromised immune system
Do not want a compromised immune system
Are over 18
Are under 80
Are pregnant
Are thinking of becoming pregnant
Are related in any way to anyone who has ever been pregnant
Enjoy your visit. The Management.

Dark Aether Falls, Part 1

2011-10-14T08:00:00.001-07:00

Once again, something mysterious is occurring in New Babbage. News trickles slowly from New Babbage to Caledon, but I received multiple accounts describing what seem to be a connected set of occurrences.

As I related last year, a Mr. Jason Moriarty was responsible for the mayhem befalling Babbage. When Moriarty's laboratory was destroyed, some thought Moriarty died, though others, having no evidence of a body, were more skeptical. It turns out the latter had a right to be skeptical.

Last week, Mr. Orpheus Angkarn had an unexpected encounter with Moriarty - though the exchange was never short of polite, there seemed to be an underlying menace to Moriarty's words.

Then young Myrtil Igaly described what she called a vision of the future, and young Master Nat related similar events. (See also the account in Miss Felisa Fargazer's journal.) Briefly, Clockwinder Tenk received a cylinder with an encoded communication that directed New Babbage citizens to meet at the City Hall on Saturday evening. Thus assembled, the crowd saw a swirling vortex from which an airship appeared. An old, apparently ill man emerged from the airship, demanding to talk to Mr. Tenk. The old man handed Tenk a box and said not to believe "him," whoever that might be, before returning to the ship, which to all accounts exploded on takeoff. The box contained some sort of automaton which, once assembled, wrote the ending of a book that told of a future Babbage in its final days - in flames, utterly destroyed. The manuscript (as well as the recollections of the urchins who met the old man) seemed to imply that the "old man" was none other than young Jimmy Branagh.

With the automaton safely in the Hall of Records inside City Hall, Brother Riddle sat guard during the night. Near dawn, the automaton reactivated and wrote another page in the book, saying that Jason Moriarty was responsible for the destruction of Babbage, and that the ship they saw was built by Mr. Vic Mornington, and indeed it was Jimmy piloting it.

After these alarming events, the urchins met Moriarity himself in the Hall of Records, where Moriarty urged the children not to meddle in his business.

Mr. Angkarn, a Time Lord, came to the conclusion that there were now two versions of New Babbage history - and that one was slowly rewriting the other out of existence! He returned to New Babbage in our time, only to find that he was temporally trapped there...as fellow Time Lord Mr. Mornington also discovered.

Adding to the mystery, Mr. Percival Gedge, the undertaker, made a startling discovery of a machine in his cemetery, the purpose of which is still unknown.

And then it appears that citizens of New Babbage are coming down with a respiratory malady... is it connected to the other events? And has it already infected Steelhead?

I had to set off to New Babbage myself to investigate further.

Burn2, part 2

2011-10-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

A few more intriguing builds from Burn2.

Wormholes, by Katz Jupiter. Not sure what this one's about, as the notecard offered never arrived. Something about maturing from one stage of life to the next?

The Joker's Wild, by Herbie Haven. A commentary on our dependence on oil?

Too Many Signs by Leroy Horten. I enjoy the literal fire sale.

I made it through about half the builds in two days, but then the lag got the best of me. I think lag illness is similar to the bends - it requires a great deal of rest, with no strenuous activities, in order to recover.

The huge lag that always accompanies popular events really puts a damper on those events. It's one thing to have a concert or lecture, where everyone sits for the duration, or even a dance, where everyone uses the dance ball, which doesn't seem to tax the system as much. Having 20+ people all moving independently is no fun at all.

I'll also concede that the whole Burning Man phenomenon is a mystery to me. I don't get these camp sites and builds.

Wandering Through Burn2

2011-10-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Some of the builds at Burn2 that captured my interest:

Passage to Learning, by DeAnn Dufaux:

Starting with a picture book, then a simple reader, the build shows the progression of learning to read. And I can't resist builds of books.

The Insolence of Nature, by Garvie Garzo:

No idea what this one is about, but it looked interesting.

Mystical Tree, by Kell Baberco (apologies if I got the name wrong, but my handwriting was particularly bad on that one);

Another head-scratcher, but it did look vaguely tree-like and, well, vaguely mystical.

Grail Quest, by Trill Zapatero:

My favorite of the bunch in the Black Rock sim, Grail Quest urges the visitor to click on things.

I sense that greed isn't rewarded.

Perhaps this is more of a "to thine own self be true" kind of place.

This build typifies what I think of as the vaguely hippie vibe of Burning Man, but it's also fun - something that's often sadly lacking.

Wandering Through Caledon

2011-10-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

After paying one last visit to Fuschia's Frocks in Wellsian (as Miss Begonia announced the store would be closing shortly), I decided to wander about, as it was a nice evening and I had been such a homebody lately.

I ambled through Wellsian, the little corner of Stormhold that connects Wellsian to Regency, through Regency, through Eyre, and into Tanglewood.

I'm a shy person by nature, but it disturbed even me that I encountered only one other person, a lonely shopkeeper.

It seemed a good night to spend under the stars, contemplating the enormity of the universe and how few people are in it some days.

Civil War Discussion Group, part 2

2011-10-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday was the second evening of the Civil War discussion, "Voices from the Civil War," focusing on first-hand accounts of the war.

Material for the discussion came from Life and History of the Rev. Elijah P. Marrs, First Pastor of Beargrass Baptist Church, and Author. As before, Dame Kghia Gherardi and Sir JJ Drinkwater led the discussion.

Mr. Marrs was a slave in Kentucky who ultimately became a minister. However, in 1864, as the Civil War was in its fourth year, he and 27 fellow slaves decided to join the Union army, making their way to a recruiting office in Louisville. Although he bridled at taking orders from white men in the army - seeing it as little different than taking such orders at home - he understood that this was part of a process that would ultimately gain him freedom.

Our group included a number of newcomers, including the gentleman to my right, a Mr. Stranger Nightfire, who seemed to be no stranger to the conflict, judging by his uniform.

We had a spirited discussion of Mr. Marrs, his account of his time at war (he never seemed to encounter a true battle, but he was on the fringes of the war at a time when the South was near defeat), the reasons he joined the Union army, and his motivations for writing down his memoirs.

I enjoy these sorts of events (and this one happens to be at the right time of day for me, a rarity!), which remind me of my misspent university days. I do feel quite ignorant of the subject, however, and therefore a bit shy about chiming in. (And yet a transcript would doubtless show me to be a blabbermouth, which just shows that my companions were even more shy!)

I have the next meeting in my calendar for October 26 at 4 p.m. SLT, and I have my homework in hand.

New York and Dictators' Week

2011-10-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

I enjoy New York City. I suspect that if I lived there, I wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much. I don't care for noise, or grime, or crowds, all of which New York has in abundance. It's also not a city in which to be broke, as the displays of wealth are too commonplace to avoid. Still, in small doses, it can be a magical place.

It was less magical this time around for two reasons. Most importantly, I was in the midst of a brief but virulent cold. (Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm pretty sure I wasn't contagious by then. If there's a pandemic in New York over the next week or so, my bad. In public I'll still blame the guy across the aisle on the airplane who coughed his lungs out.) This meant more sleeping and less tromping about than I had hoped.

The other reason was that it was Dictators' Week at the U.N. I had seen the week before that President Obama made a speech, and the crazy Palestinian guy said he wanted a Palestinian state but didn't want to take all those Palestinian refugees around the world, which seemed like a bad deal to me, and the crazy Iranian guy complained about the Jews again, which always seems a dangerous game in Midtown Manhattan. But it never occurred to me that all those Third-World dictators (not Mr. Obama, the other guys) would be wiling to stay out of their countries for a week or more at a time. Don't they worry about a coup when they're dancing the night away at Studio 51?

Also, my knowledge of Manhattan is a little sketchy, despite my many trips there. So while I was vaguely aware that the U.N. building was around somewhere...

...and that the hotel was in some proximity...

...it seemed unlikely that the two were as close to one another as a closer inspection of the map indicated they were:

This meant that the hotel had a large police presence, plus dozens of colorfully-garbed men milling about in the lobby at any one time. Plus frequent police sirens as one dictator or another wanted to move from Point A to Point B and thought that petty inconveniences such as sitting in traffic were what he staged a coup to avoid. Attempting to move from the side entrance of the Waldorf to the Bull & Bear bar was a farce that involved, at one point, a crowded elevator ride to the 13th floor and back down to the lobby.

Ah well, not all was lost. Among other treats was a return visit to the J.P. Morgan Library, a beautiful spot inside a wonderful building. (I can't say much for the modern appendage to the neoclassical building, however.)

And there was a side trip to see where the new World Trade Center tower was rising:

(A computer-generated image, to be sure. But even the unfinished tower reminded me of a big middle finger to terrorists.)

And no trip to New York would be complete without a visit to the shrine of pen addicts, Fountain Pen Hospital:

Sure, it's a nondescript building on a seedy-looking street in the shadow of City Hall, but inside is a top-notch selection of writing instruments: fountain pens, roller balls, ballpoints, and pencils, as well as refills, inks, and books and magazines on pens and pen collecting. They have everything from limited editions costing thousands of dollars to more economically-priced pens, as well as a selection of vintage pens. I must be strong...okay, just one pen.

Finally, though it's touristy, I can't resist the literary credentials of the Blue Bar at the Algonquin Hotel, famed home of Dorothy Parker and the Algonquin Round Table:

The drink was for medicinal purposes only.

(All pictures ripped off the web and are someone else's. Sorry.)

BoobieThon 2011 is Nigh!

2011-10-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's October, which means it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I'm not big on this whole renaming months thing. It's like the ribbons - sure, yellow ribbons for troops was a grand idea, but then it got out of hand.

That said, I can't help but admire BoobieThon. As the poster says, "fighting cancer with humor and irreverence." I'm all about humor and irreverence. Oh yeah, and that cancer thing sucks, too.

Starting in 2008 with just the Boobie Ball, there is now a week of activities from which to choose.

The Primgraph has a complete listing of events. Alas, I will be out of town for the events that are early enough for me, but that doesn't mean you good people should miss out as well.

Hard Problems Lack Simple Solutions

2011-09-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

Well, the title says it all, doesn't it?

Almost everyone thinks that the annual deficits in the U.S. have reached alarming levels. Even worse than the $1 trillion+ deficits as far as the eye can see are the liabilities - off-the-books as far as the deficit is concerned, an accounting sleight-of-hand that only a government could get away with - of various social programs, especially Medicare but also including Social Security.

The Pollyanna-ish view is that we don't have a spending problem, we have a revenue problem. Or, to put it another way, we don't tax enough. If we just tax the rich - sometimes expressed as "making the rich pay their fair share" - we can go on spending on everything from universal health care to foreign military adventures to...well, cowboy poetry festivals.

The harsh reality is that there just aren't enough rich people - truly rich people - to make the numbers work. The middle class is where the money is. And it should come as no surprise that politicians of all persuasions find it a good idea to pander to the middle class - that large group of voters who will make or break a career in politics.

While President Obama likes to talk about ending tax breaks for "millionaires and billionaires," the fine print always mentions a $200,000 annual income for individuals and $250,000 for households as the dividing line between "millionaires" and the rest of us.

Sunday's Washington Post had two pieces that put the problem in perspective. The first, an op-ed in the business section by Fiscal Times columnist Karen Hube, noted that some of the truly rich people, Warren Buffett most notably, complain that they are not taxed enough. Buffett recently said that his average tax rate was lower than the administrators in his office, and that this wasn't "fair." Well, fair or not, the President's most recent tax plan, er, "jobs bill" does little to address this imbalance. The President's bill would limit deductions for mortgage interest, charitable donations, and state and local taxes, but, Hube notes, this would do little to affect taxes paid by the truly rich.

The Obama proposal doesn’t address the major reason for the kind of tax inequity that exists between Buffet and his secretary: the preferential tax treatment of capital gains and dividends. The tax rate on dividends and long term capital gains is 15 percent, while the top income tax rate is 35 percent.
The super-wealthy can easily cut their effective tax rates to half of the 35 percent income tax rate by drawing modest incomes and using their long-term gains to live on, according to [director of federal tax at the Center for Budget and Policiy Priorities Chuck] Marr.

At the same time, this article in the Post notes that the big winners in the tax break sweepstakes have been the middle class.

The number of tax breaks has nearly doubled since the last major tax overhaul 25 years ago, with lawmakers adding new benefits for children, college tuition, retirement savings and investment. At the same time, some long-standing breaks have exploded in value, such as the deduction for mortgage interest and the tax-free treatment of health-insurance premiums paid by employers....
Only about 8 percent of those benefits went to corporations. (The write-off for corporate jets equals about .03 percent of the total.) The bulk went to private households, primarily upper-middle-class families that Obama has vowed to protect from new taxes.
“The big money is in the middle-class subsidies,” said Syracuse University economist Leonard Burman, former director of the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center. “You’re not going to balance the budget by eliminating ethanol credits. You have to go after things that really matter to a lot of people.”
These tax breaks weave an invisible web of government benefits that now costs nearly as much as the Pentagon and all other federal agencies combined.

Not surprisingly, polls have shown that the vast majority of voters don't want their Social Security benefits cut, don't want changes in Medicare, don't want to pay higher taxes, and really like their tax breaks. It's easy to vote a tax cut, or a benefit increase, or a new spending program, but nearly impossible to raise taxes, cut benefits, or eliminate programs.

For those inclined to blame the Bush administration for such things, the Post provides a great deal of support.

The biggest culprit, by far, has been an erosion of tax revenue triggered largely by two recessions and multiple rounds of tax cuts. Together, the economy and the tax bills enacted under former president George W. Bush, and to a lesser extent by President Obama, wiped out $6.3 trillion in anticipated revenue. That’s nearly half of the $12.7 trillion swing from projected surpluses to real debt. Federal tax collections now stand at their lowest level as a percentage of the economy in 60 years.
Big-ticket spending initiated by the Bush administration accounts for 12 percent of the shift. The Iraq and Afghanistan wars have added $1.3 trillion in new borrowing. A new prescription drug benefit for Medicare recipients contributed another $272 billion....
Obama’s 2009 economic stimulus, a favorite target of Republicans who blame Democrats for the mounting debt, has added $719 billion — 6 percent of the total shift, according to the new analysis of CBO data by the nonprofit Pew Fiscal Analysis Initiative. All told, Obama-era choices account for about $1.7 trillion in new debt [albeit over three years, rather than eight], according to a separate Washington Post analysis of CBO data over the past decade. Bush-era policies, meanwhile, account for more than $7 trillion and are a major contributor to the trillion-dollar annual budget deficits that are dominating the political debate.

(One could certainly quibble about the Post's article. National Review's Jim Geraghty notes that the Bush years raised the debt by $4.9 trillion over eight years, while the debt under Obama increased by $3.6 trillion in 27 months. I'm not pointing fingers here, and there's plenty of blame to go around, including both Republican- and Democratic-controlled Congresses.)

The amounts are staggering, and yet...it's not too late to change course. Politicians need to step up to the plate and acknowledge that the promises made aren't feasible. Doing is soon is important, though. Wait too long and, rather than enjoying 90% of benefits, we'll be making do with 50%.

Of course, part of the problem is that most people have high discount rates; that is, they weigh future consumption much less than consumption today. It's why savings rates are too low, and it's why few people are interested in paying more today for retirement years from now (or paying the same today for less of a retirement years from now). Worse, they think the problem will not be their problem, but will belong to a future generation. Why so many people are interested in consuming their children's and grandchildren's income is beyond me.

Kathy Hits the Target

2011-09-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd take a stab at the Avatar Games.

In honor of "talk like a pirate" day (I suppose), announcer R. Crap Mariner was very piratical.

One of the contestants at the starting line. That outfit looks built for glamor, not speed.

Some of the motley band of spectators and shooters.

Hey, I'm on the leader board! It sure seems like luck, rather than aiming, when I hit something, but 20+ hits to my measly five suggests that some people have mastered the art of aiming those Wallopers.

An excellent way to let out some of the day's frustrations.

Class Warfare

2011-09-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Associated Press (via the Wall Street Journal's James Taranto) writes of the President's "Buffett rule" idea:

"Warren Buffett's secretary shouldn't pay a higher tax rate than Warren Buffett. There is no justification for it," Obama said as he announced his deficit-reduction plan this week. "It is wrong that in the United States of America, a teacher or a nurse or a construction worker who earns $50,000 should pay higher tax rates than somebody pulling in $50 million."
On average, the wealthiest people in America pay a lot more taxes than the middle class or the poor, according to private and government data. They pay at a higher rate, and as a group, they contribute a much larger share of the overall taxes collected by the federal government.
The 10 percent of households with the highest incomes pay more than half of all federal taxes. They pay more than 70 percent of federal income taxes, according to the Congressional Budget Office....
There may be individual millionaires who pay taxes at rates lower than middle-income workers. In 2009, 1,470 households filed tax returns with incomes above $1 million yet paid no federal income tax, according to the Internal Revenue Service. But that's less than 1 percent of the nearly 237,000 returns with incomes above $1 million.
This year, households making more than $1 million will pay an average of 29.1 percent of their income in federal taxes, including income taxes, payroll taxes and other taxes, according to the Tax Policy Center, a Washington think tank.
Households making between $50,000 and $75,000 will pay an average of 15 percent of their income in federal taxes.
Lower-income households will pay less. For example, households making between $40,000 and $50,000 will pay an average of 12.5 percent of their income in federal taxes. Households making between $20,000 and $30,000 will pay 5.7 percent.
The latest IRS figures are a few years older — and limited to federal income taxes — but show much the same thing. In 2009, taxpayers who made $1 million or more paid on average 24.4 percent of their income in federal income taxes, according to the IRS.
Those making $100,000 to $125,000 paid on average 9.9 percent in federal income taxes. Those making $50,000 to $60,000 paid an average of 6.3 percent.

The country can have a reasonable debate about whether the very wealthy should pay even more in taxes than they do. The country can have a related reasonable debate over the capital gains tax rate, various tax breaks that both reduce tax revenue and create market distortions.* But we can’t have a reasonable debate in which one side says, falsely, that, on average, millionaires pay less in tax, or at a lower tax rate, than middle-class workers.

This reminds me of the debate over the merits of raising the minimum wage back in the mid-90s. Economists David Card and Alan Krueger (the same Alan Krueger who is now tapped to head the Council of Economic Advisors) conducted a study of the effect on employment of raising the minimum wage in New Jersey, and concluded that the higher minimum wage actually increased employment. Now, one could imagine that the effect on employment was essentially zero, or, more likely, that a small decrease in employment occurred but other factors that the authors couldn’t control for more than offset the decrease, but it’s not possible to have a serious conversation about the minimum wage if one side insists that demand curves for labor slope upward.

If, indeed, Warren Buffett - reportedly worth many billions of dollars - is paying a lower average tax rate than his secretary, shame on us. However, if he understands that this is a bad situation for the country and continues to do so while lobbying to have the rule changed, shame on him.

---------------------

* For example, mortgage interest deduction, which benefits the middle class (as the poor tend not to own houses and the very rich tend not to have mortgages), encourages home ownership at the expense of the rental market. While home ownership has its benefits, it has costs as well, including increasing the costs of moving.

The New Piermont Landing

2011-09-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Breezy Carver-Fabre recently unveiled the new Piermont Landing in New Babbage.

The entertainment venue looks radically different from the old - this one has more of an Art Deco feel to it - but there are still plenty of wide-open spaces for dancing - or landing an airship.

Below, great gears slowly grind in the choppy waters of New Babbage. Are they generating power for the interior of the structure?

The sign above the door said that the Engineer's Ball is scheduled for this evening (9/24). Alas, I can't be there, but I'm sure lovely ladies and dashing gentlemen will soon be filling the dance floor.

Alice: Madness Returns

2011-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

Inspired by the video game of the same name, Alice: Madness Returns combines shopping (including some naughty items - and, as I'm on the subject, the sim is rated Adult, in case that matters) with a number of set pieces from the game.

I'm not familiar with the game itself, but, judging from the web site, the build seems to be faithful to the game.

A room near the landing point sets the mood:

Behind the shop is a person-sized keyhole. Walk through it and down the rabbit hole.

Alice is armed!

A smug grin indeed:

Cry me a river:

Clocks everywhere!

Cards on attack:

This house is never short of tea:

Finally, a peaceful, if psychedelic, garden. I'm not sure I want to try those mushrooms.

(Hat tip to Miss Honour McMillan's lovely entry.)

Mieville, part 2

2011-09-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

The first part of our journey through the Mieville sims focused on the southern five sims. My trip continued through the north.

Below, a Steampunk house in Mieville Kipling (apologies for the viewer controls visible on the picture):

The harbor in Mieville Twain:

More refreshments! The exterior of the Mieville Brewery and Pub...

...and the interior of the pub. I like the gears on the beer draws.

A moss-covered building in Twain:

The disc jockey's musical apparatus on a floating dance floor:

The sun sets on a Steampunk house in Mieville Shelley:

Another Steampunk house - with observatory! - in Mieville Stevenson:

Stevenson and its neighboring sim, Mieville Dickens, are described as "Victorian Steampunk Chinatown," and the Chinese-in-America theme can be seen throughout, including the gates below:

This pagoda sits at the top of a hill, surrounded by lovely gardens:

There you have it: a whirlwind tour of Mieville! I didn't mention the shops, most of which are Steampunk-themed, so take a full purse when you go.

Mieville, Part 1

2011-09-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

I started the Steam Hunt - full of good intentions, but got bogged down somewhere in the 30s and lost, uh, steam - and noticed the large number of participating shops in the Mieville sims. I thought a little exploration was in order.

Mieville now consists of 10 sims, all vaguely Steampunk-themed (that is to say, some seem more so than others). I started in the southwest corner, in Mieville Lovelace, and worked my way through the

Lovelace and its neighbor to the east, Poe, are both described as "Victorian Steampunk New Orleans." Lovelace itself is mostly empty, so it's hard to assess that description, but Mieville Poe definitely has a New Orleans feel to the buildings, much like New Toulouse or Caledon Cay.

There's even a steamwheeler:

Leaving Poe and continuing east, one reaches Mieville Doyle, which is described as "Victorian Steampunk San Francisco" (as are the next five sims we will encounter). The area just to the east of Poe is dominated by the Mieville Magical Academy, a sort-of Hogwarts without the millennium-old castles and cathedrals used in the talking pictures about that other wizarding school.

The interior courtyard of the academy:

Elsewhere in Doyle:

The waterfront:

Haven't I seen that quantum-physics-reading cat before?

Of course, I can't help but stop in the local for refreshment. Below, the Laughing Penguin pub:

Below, the Perryn Lord Mieville Theater:

Mieville Verne, to the north of Doyle, is rural and residential, as the treehouse below indicates:

To the west of Verne lies Wells. Below, the Timeless Curiosities airship and shop:

The village in Mieville Wells:

Hell Week

2011-09-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Journal has been neglected. It's been Hell Week - or, really, Hell Two Weeks.

My boss is away for three weeks, which increases the amount of stuff that needs tending to around the office. My boss's boss is new, which means she feels a need to stay on top of everything, which means weekly workload meetings. I'm hiring research assistants, which means phone interviews and many back-and-forth discussions with other people in the office. And two cases of mine appear to be steaming toward litigation, with a third in a hopeless mess caused by the confluence of being ambushed by a set of lawyers and a friendly fire incident with my own staff guy.

Here's a little levity, though: the weekly workload meeting, which is usually held in my office building, was scheduled for this Thursday only to be held in the Big Boss's office, in a separate building, several Metro stops away. My colleague and I dutifully arranged to arrive early at said building, had a cup of coffee, and waited until the appointed time....Only to find no one there. Hmm, odd. Wait a moment. Nope, none of the three people that work in that building who should have been at the meeting were there. They couldn't have gone to the other building, could they? Check email. Oh yes, the could indeed.

All three of them. Independently. Each showed up, wondered why the two people critical to a workload meeting were both gone. Not one of them noticed that the meeting location had been changed...and one of them must have ordered the change. Back on the Metro we go!

I said at the time "only in government could something be screwed up that badly," but I suspect that's not true. Only in a big, dysfunctional organization could something be screwed up that badly.

Maybe next week will go more smoothly. One can but hope.

Steampunk Reading

2011-09-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

It's been quite some time since I nattered on about recent books I've read. Here are some brief thoughts about some Steampunk books (some more Steampunk than others, I'll admit) from the past year.

Susanna Clark, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (2004)

Not a Steampunk novel, but instead a novel of magic and manners of the early 19th century, I had purchased the book several years before I read it, daunted by its thousand-page length. Despite the length, the Victorian-style language, and the dense footnotes (many of which relate some episode in the history of English magic), the book was surprisingly easy to read and, dare I say, fun.

Mr. Norrell, a fussy little scholar, has devoted his life to learning "practical" magic. He finds a protege in the talented dilettante Jonathan Strange, who is willing to draw on darker powers than his mentor dares. After working together to, among other things, help the English defeat Napoleon's forces, the two ultimately part ways and Norrell determines to demonstrate that his approach to magic is the better one. When Strange's wife dies, he enters into a bargain to bring her back - in a manner - but finds that he has started down a path that may restore the old magic - and power that dwarfs his own.

The lighthearted tone of the earlier part of the book gives way to a more somber tone as the narrative grows darker, but the entire novel is eminently readable.

Jonathan Green, Unnatural History: Pax Britannia Series (2007)

This is the first book in an ongoing series (mostly written by Green) in which the British empire still rules the world in the late 20th century - including the 160-year-old Queen Victoria, kept alive though steam-powered medical technology.

Ulysses Quicksilver, a dandy by day, action hero by night, works for the government as an unusual troubleshooter. This time, he uncovers a plot to bring down the Crown and...adventures ensue.

The plot is somewhat irrelevant to the book. It serves to move the action forward, as in old adventure serials. Quicksilver is an amusing character, but other characters aren't all that well-developed. The mixture of modern technology and 19th-century technology is a little off-putting, though I give Green credit for moving a Steampunk novel out of the usual Victorian era (though, I suppose it's technically still the Victorian era in his world!). Ultimately, while I found it to be a fun read, I wasn't enthused enough to buy the sequels.

Scott Westerfield, Leviathan (2009)

The first in a trilogy of young adult Steampunk (perhaps more correctly Dieselpunk) novels (Behemoth is out and Goliath is scheduled to be out in September), Leviathan tells two intersecting stories set against an alternate version of World War I. In the first, Deryn Sharp, a young girl, disguises herself as a boy in order to enlist in the air force to support her family. She distinguishes herself in training and finds herself aboard the Leviathan, the British Empire's largest airship - and also a living creature, as the British have become experts in genetic engineering. In the second, young Prince Aleksandar, Archduke Franz Ferdinand's son and heir to the Austrian throne, must make his escape after his parents are assassinated. The Axis powers are expert in mechanical devices, so the conflict becomes one of genetics versus mechanics.

Ultimately, of course, the two stories intersect, as the Leviathan is damaged in battle and its crew encounters the refugee prince and his advisors.

This is another book I couldn't quite get into. In part I had a hard time getting past the conceit that a girl could go undetected in the close quarters of the military, much less in the closer quarters of an airship. Still, an an adventure story for young adults, the book is a quick read filled with action and, of course, the potential for romance down the road.

Cherie Priest, Dreadnought (2010)

A sequel of sorts to Boneshaker, Dreadnought is the story of Mercy Lynch, a nurse and war widow in the Civil War, which has continued into the 1880s as each side tries to wear down the other.

Mercy, working in a hospital in Richmond, Virginia, learns that her estranged father is seriously ill back in Seattle, Washington. She takes her few belongings and starts to make her way back home.

The entirety of the novel describes Mercy's journey, from Richmond to Tennessee by airship, then on a series of trains to the west coast. There are various adventures along the way, including an airship crash, a mysterious Texan who joins the caravan west, a locked train compartment guarded by Union soldiers, missing Mexican soldiers, rebel attacks on the train, and the yellow gas/drug first encountered in Boneshaker that turns users into zombies.

It's a long novel with long stretches where the action is thin. There's no big payoff here, just an account of a young woman's dangerous trip west. Nonetheless, Priest keeps the story going and the book was enjoyable to read.

Gail Carriger, Blameless (2010), Heartless (2011)

The latest entries in the Parasol Protectorate series of Victorian romance/adventure pastiches with a Steampunk flavor. In Blameless, our heroine, Lady Maccon, married to a werewolf, finds herself in the family way. As her husband is technically dead and, therefore, unable to have children, he is more than a little perturbed. Alexia travels to Italy for answers and to clear her good name.

In Heartless, Alexia, now well along in her pregnancy (carrying what she refers to as the "infant inconvenience"), must first find out why London's vampires have begun trying to kill her, then uncover why ghosts are whispering about a plot to kill Queen Victoria. As if that weren't enough, Alexia's inventrix friend, Madame Lefoux, is creating something in secret, an Alexia's sister has become a suffragette. To top it off, Biffy, Lord Akeldama's former drone who was turned into a werewolf, is having trouble adjusting to his new condition.

As with all the books in the series, the plotting is crisp, the characters well-drawn, and the action non-stop. Even a pregnancy can't slow down Alexia. Readers who found too much werewolf-on-preternatural grabbing in earlier books will be relieved that Alexia and her husband can (mostly) keep their hands off one another and get on with the plot. The dandy vampire Lord Akeldama features prominently in Heartless, which is quite a good thing.

O.M. Grey, Avalon Revisited (2010)

Less Steampunk than gaslight fantasy, Avalon Revisited involves Arthur, King Henry VIII's older brother (and one-time fiance of Catherine of Aragon), thought to have died in the 16th century but actually turned into a vampire. Now, in the Victorian era, Arthur meets Avalon, a young lady who reminds him of Catherine.

Avalon and Arthur are both interested in getting to the bottom of a series of gruesome series of murders that Arthur suspects is the work of a vampire. Avalon, initially cool to Arthur's attentions, warms to him - until she discovers his secret. Still duty calls, and Avalon, along with her more enthusiastic vampire-hunting partner Victor, use Arthur's talents to uncover the mystery.

Some niggling complaints: Arthur's language tends to be surprisingly modern - as in 21st century modern - despite his origins as a 16th century Tudor. The romance aspect is fairly cookie-cutter. And it's never really clear why Arthur switches from his three centuries of womanizing to a puppy in love over Avalon. If one can ignore those issues, the book was a fun romp - and, in the Kindle edition, the price was definitely right.

Thomas S. Roche, ed., Like a Wisp of Steam (2010)

Five stories of *cough* Steampunk erotica. Here's the sad thing: it wasn't so long ago that I read the book (in Kindle format), but I couldn't tell you anything of substance about any of the stories.

The trouble - or a trouble, at any rate - with short story collections is that the reader invests some mental energy into understanding and believing the world that the author builds...only to have the story end and the reader has to repeat the process. Without an immediate hook into the characters or the situations in which the characters find themselves, the effort feels far too much like work. These stories felt too much like work. All of the setup seemed designed to lead to the erotic scenes.

Perhaps it's not the book, it's me. I often find sex scenes to be so contrived, the language so ridiculous, that I'm in the "less is more" school when it comes to reading the things. Building a story around a sex scene strikes me as odd. In any event, I didn't care for the book.

Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris, Phoenix Rising: A Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Novel (2011)

I'm currently reading this novel, a Steampunk take of The Avengers, with agent Eliza Braun, sporting a bulletproof corset and a seriously bad attitude, in the Emma Peel role and stuffy agent Wellington Books, archivist in the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, in the John Steed role. (Steed seemed to have more fun, though.)

The novel opens as Braun makes a daring rescue of Books, who has been held captive by the opposition and is on the verge of being tortured. Despite her successful mission, Braun is considered too much of a loose cannon and is assigned to the archives with Books, with the hope that he can instill some discipline in her. Then bodies start appearing, and the agents discover that they have something to do with Braun's former partner, now locked in an asylum.

The main characters are well-done and distinctive, and the action is nicely paced. The plot seems preposterous, but, then again, couldn't one say that about most of the episodes of The Avengers? I'm about halfway through the book and looking forward to seeing how the story ends.

Never Forget

2011-09-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ten years. Doesn't seem that long, does it? Perhaps that's because of the enormity of the event, or the continual reminders of how the world has changed, such as the TSA screening at airports. Perhaps it's the awkwardly-named "War on Terror that is too often front-page news.

Photo from somewhere on the Interwebs.

Mrs. Aevalle Galicia-Constantine created this memorial in the Jaguarland USA Education region. It's hard to see the ghostly towers in the picture, but they, too remind us of what we lost.

Photo by Kathy Jameson.

Never forget.

(Edited 9-11-11 to correct region name and add a SLRUL.)

Hotel Rothesay

2011-09-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

I seem to be irresistibly draw drawn to the constantly-rotating cast of characters in Caledon Rothesay. Once again, thanks to Mr. Mako Magellan's comments in the Steamlander, I paid a visit.

Miss Gabrielle Riel has decamped from her Duchy of Carntaigh, leaving the entire area to Miss Savannah Blindside, Duchess of Clarendon, and Mr. Blake Panache. The area is still under (re-)construction, but I took a few pictures.

Below, Blindside Manor:

Most of the earlier landscaping is gone, yet to be replaced. But the property has a pretty waterfall and small pool.

A new building is going up in the center of the property.

This scale model suggests what the finished product will look like.

Mr. Panache is completing what appears to be a large store and a series of elegant town homes.

And what of the earlier residents of Rothesay, Laird Elrik Merlin and the Duchess of Carntaigh? I happened to return to Aether Isle through Victoria City, only to find that both had property in the city. Below, Mr. Merlin's modest home, the new Brideswell Estate:

Miss Riel has a larger property and home, Carntaigh House:

They can check out of Rothesay any time they like, but they can never leave.

Neighbors

2011-09-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

My new neighbors on Aether Isle:

First, Mr. Jerimiah Cansworth has this charming house on Glengarry border near the southern end of the island.

I should say he had such a house, as it is no longer there, at least as of this writing, though he appears to still be the landowner of record. Perhaps the house merely shifted into a nearby dimension that is not visible to us, and will return soon.

Mr. Excalibur Steamlander's cottage is coming along nicely. Mr. Steamlander is, of course, the editor of his eponymous electronic newspaper, and maintains offices in the Sky City above. This cottage on the water below appears to have been dredged from some watery Atlantis, but is in remarkably good shape.

Going to the Carnival

2011-09-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

The carnival is always open in SOHO New York, part of the New York Health Scapes sims.
I took a trip on the roller coaster and, afterward, had a bite to eat at the diner.

I heartily recommend doing things in that sequence, as the reverse may have tragic consequences. The coaster, by the way, is best experienced in Mouseview.

Nearby, this haunted house and carriage provided an eerie sight, including the ghostly (but sooty) horse.

This eatery seemed inspired by Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, though this version sells Nathan's hot dogs.

And what carnival would be complete without a ride on the Ferris Wheel?

Two rides, a diner meal, and a hot dog... let me quickly assure you a good time was had by all before I rush off. For some reason I don't feel so well...

Civil War Discussion Group

2011-09-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

In that other Life, the one that by convention we call Real, organization is key to surviving our increasingly complex world. Spontaneity is not always wise or rewarded.

In Second Life, however, one can be spontaneous, seeking new sims by searching random keywords, popping into a social event, or stumbling into something educational. One Wednesday, shortly after I logged on, I received word from Caledon's Librarian extraordinaire, Sir JJ Drinkwater, that a new discussion group would shortly be underway, focusing on the American Civil War, with a particular emphasis on firsthand accounts of the period. Knowing terribly little about the war except from high school classes a...er, few years back and the odd dramatization in the meanwhile,* I thought that sounded intriguing, though I wondered how much of a contribution I could make.

Mr. Drinkwater and Dame Kghia Gherardi welcomed me as I arrived in the reading room of the Caledon Library in Victoria City.

Sir JJ Drinkwater, Mr. Michael Neff Macbeth, Mr. Ruvean Skytower in front, Miss Lyncean Luminos and Miss Jane Fossett seated behind Mr. Drinkwater.

Your humble narrator, Dame Kghia Gherardi, Sir Kyle Chalice

Miss Herndon Bluebird, Mr. Snow Scarmon (the height-challenged dinosaur behind the chair on the right)

This turned out to be but the first of the monthly meetings of this group. The initial discussion was limited as few of us were on solid factual footing, and thus our remarks tended to be more in the line of questions than answers. Nonetheless, I anticipate a range of views.

We have a reading assignment as well for the next meeting. I need to find my reading glasses and get cracking, lest Professors Drinkwater and Gherardi think me entirely unserious!

* That's not entirely true. My typist took an economic history class as an undergraduate, taught by the eminent Dr. Claudia Goldin. One of the works we studied, and that I still recall more than a quarter-century later, was Time on the Cross, the 1974 book by Robert Fogel and Stanley Engerman. Using a variety of contemporary sources (contrary to the claim in the linked Wikipedia entry), the authors put forth the view that, contrary to what most historians at the time believed, slavery was a profitable institution and thus would not have withered away of its own accord in the absence of the Civil War. The book was quite controversial in its time.

Camp Zombie

2011-09-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a hard day at the office? Has the dirigible been giving you fits for no apparent reason? In-law troubles?

I understand, friend. We've all been there. Kicking the puppy is considered a serious faux pas. Pulling out your Colt Peacemaker and going Pony Express on your boss is another serious breach of etiquette, this one liable to put you behind bars for the rest of your life.

I have just the solution: killing the Undead. Sure, it seems unsporting. They shuffle about and lunge at you with that shambling gait, arms outstretched as though they're still in rigor mortis, mumbling something unsavory about "Braaaiiiiins!" Still, it's a socially acceptable pasttime that, I assure you, relieves a great deal of job-related or personal stress.

So head to Camp Zombie, pick up your pistol, thumb the safety off, jump into the zombie-infested pit, and fire away.

One odd thing about the supplied gun is that the ammunition is ineffective if the zombies get too close. If that happens, tell 'em to back off, spawn of Hades, and have at 'em again from a greater distance.

As the young lady pictured above demonstrates, finding higher ground can be an effective strategy, turning the earth below into a charming killing field.

Keeping one's arms free of encumbrances so as to be able to freely reaim one's pistol is also good advice. One might also wish to consider a dress sans bustle for the same reason. (My fellow slayer went so far as to wear trousers, but this is clearly one step too far.)

Follow Auntie Rhianon's advice and you'll feel better in no time. Your colleagues will ask you the next day how it is that you look so relaxed. A coy smile is all the response that is needed.

Steampunk Sculpture

2011-08-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple of shots of a completely out-of-context Steampunk sculpture sitting inside a mall/casino complex in Niagara Falls, Canada. (It's the Fallsview Casino, just outside the main casino entrance.)

I'm not sure what it was supposed to be about, but I'm willing to swear I've seen its sibling in Second Life.

Room with a View

2011-08-30T08:00:00.001-07:00

I've had good hotel rooms and I've had bad. Loud kids next door, loud TVs, loud music, loud adults engaging in adult activities. Loudly. Dirty rooms. A huge bug in the bathtub. Insufficient lighting to read. Dodgy neighborhoods.

Sometimes one's expectations are exceeded, however. Below, Niagara Falls.

From the hotel room. Sure beats waking up to a view of the parking lot.

Below, a few closer-in views. First, the Horseshoe (Canadian) Falls from the Maid of the Mist.

The Maid viewed from the U.S. falls.

The U.S. falls:

Okay, there's a certain cheese factor in Niagara Falls. But I like waterfalls, and these are pretty darn good.

And you can't beat the view from the room.

Numantia and Numantia Maris

2011-08-28T08:00:00.001-07:00

Rounding out my tour of the western isles, adjoining the new Stella Maris, is Numantia and the new Numantia Maris, both owned by Miss Stonehedg Magic and Mr. Wordsmith Jarvinen.

Approaching from the sea, the stone lighthouse is the most striking feature on land.

The town itself has a high wall on two sides, providing protection from the sea...or invaders. At the center is a castle made of light-colored stone.

The terraced gardens provide a pathway from the castle toward the sea.

On the far side of the island is a small village.

Numantia Maris is a new section of the duchy, consisting of much water. The striking feature of this area is an airship mooring tower.

A grassy meadow grives way to this stone building.

The strange lands of the Caledonian West...

The Duchy of Caledon Stella Maris

2011-08-26T08:00:00.001-07:00

The Duchy of Westmoreland has faded, but Stella Maris has appeared in its place. Established by Miss Patty Poppy and occupied by a Professor Wombat as well (though I have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance), this area is best approached by the sea or air, as it has no direct connection with the Caledon mainland.

As though celebrating the area's naval heritage, the manor house takes the form of a large ship embedded in the rocks.

Another flat surface - of which the area has few - contains this humble block structure.

The Earth Really Did Move Under My Feet

2011-08-24T08:00:00.002-07:00

August 23, 2011, the day the Big One hit. Hmm, not so big, you West Coast folks say? Barely a ripple according to you Alaskans and Japanese? Thank goodness! What an interesting sensation, to be in an earthquake! (Not one I'd recommend, however.)

I was in the hallway of my office building, eight floors up, when the building began to shake. My first thought was that the contractors rehabbing the structure had a big-time screwup; earthquake was guess number two.

After things had settled down, I went back to my office. No sooner had I sat down to work, however, when a security guard came by and said the building was being evacuated. (Note to the relevant people: if you want people to leave the building, try using the alarm system.) I trudged down the stairs, which were eerily empty. Most everyone else was already milling about on the sidewalk. (How is it safer to stand under and near scaffolding than to be inside the building?)

I decided to venture to Metro - God knows when we would be allowed back in the building, and I didn't see the point of standing around for an hour and a half, only to go home at that point. Metro, bless their hearts, was open and I boarded a crowded train. We were limited to 15 mph as a safety precaution, but at least we moved. The 25-minute trip took a little over an hour, standing all the way, but I was grateful to have made it home without much fuss. Apparently the system reached meltdown a little later when the combination of slow speeds and the Federal workforce leaving en masse overwhelmed the capacity of the trains.

Thanks to Mr. Vivito Volare, I saw this picture, which nicely sums up the extensive devastation that the earthquake wrought.

Aether Salon - Forks!

2011-08-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

...as in "forks in the road" or "stick a fork in 'em, they're done," both of which apply to last Sunday's 28th and final Aether Salon under the aegis of founders Viv Trafalgar, Sera Puchkina, Jasper Kiergarten, and the day's principal speaker, Jed Dagger.

Mr. Jasper, Miss Jed, Miss Sera, and Miss Viv, one last time.

Miss Solace Fairlady, Miss Darlingmonster Ember.

Miss Jed talked about the formation of the Salon, some of the work that went on behind the scenes, and some of the not-ready-for-prime-time moments of Salons past

Master Jimmy Branagh, Mr. Vic Mornington, Miss Bookworm Hienrichs, Clockwinder Mosseveno Tenk, and Mr. Linus Lacombe.

Miss Gabrielle Riel, Baron Klaus Wulfenbach.

Although the talk was principally backward-looking, commemorating the more than two years of Salons, Miss Viv did let slip one gratifying tidbit: that Baron Wulfenbach would be playing a role in keeping the Salon going, though the Baron, ever tight-lipped, merely bowed. We all await the Salon's next incarnation.

Miss Ceejay Writer, Mr. Blackberry Harvey.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Breezy Carver-Fabre, Mr. Simeon Beresford, and Miss Ceejay Writer.

Miss Kimika Ying, Dr. John Watson.

Your humble narrator.

Miss Jed, in full rhetorical flourish.

Dr. and Mrs. Rafael Fabre.

Miss Krystine Qwuinn and Winterfell's Senechelf, Miss Serra Anansi.

After one final craft box from Mr. Jasper - a lovely tea set commemorating the Salon - it was over. Mr. Mornington served as DJ for a post-Salon dance that, alas, I could not make.

I'd like to thank all the founders of the Salon for their hard work in providing the Steamlands with such wonderful speakers. I learned a great deal, and had fun in the process. Who could ask for more?

Back to Caledon Prime

2011-08-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Exploring the western edge of my immediate neighborhood, I found myself in Caledon (or Caledon Prime, to distinguish it from its younger siblings) for the first time in many moons.

Near the Telehub is Miss CoyoteAngel Dimsum's estate, with gadgets sitting in a field:

The gardener has not been in some time, it appears, as the grass is quite high:

The Welcome Center still anchors the area:

Next to it is Miss Aevalle Galicia's Aether Education and Travel, providing information on a wide variety of destinations within the greater Grid, focusing on both Steampunk and Educational sites.

On the other side of the area is the wide open expanse of the Vannevar Bush Reading Room (part of the Caledon Library system), Dame Ordinal's remnant of her Ordinal Enterprises store, and a long swathe of land owned by Miss Victorian Magic, known as Centre Court. This includes her manor house...

...and this cozy Steampunk house.

Ahavah Synagogue and Memorial Garden

2011-08-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon saw the unveiling of a synagogue and memorial garden in Caledon Ahavah. The Duke and Duchess (Mr. Walter Schnogginstein and Miss Yenta Bernheim) were there for the opening, with Miss Patty Poppy serving as the mistress of ceremonies.

Above: the Duke (far left) and Duchess (front center). Mr. Jorge Serapis and Miss Skye McLeod in back.

Miss Poppy, Miss Solace Fairlady, and Miss Darlingmonster Ember

Miss Poppy said:

Good afternoon or evening new friends and old friends. I'm not quite sure why I was chosen for the honor of presenting this lovely Synagogue and Memorial Garden on behalf of the Duke and Duchess of Ahavah, but I am humbled and so very pleased to be here.

We gather today to mark another milestone in Caledon history. This milestone is to present to the community a beautiful Jewish Synagogue and remembrance garden. To my knowledge this is the first synagogue to be constructed in Caledon. My humble apologies if this is not the case.

This sim is called Ahavah – In the Hebrew language the word meaning Love. I think you will agree a most fitting name for this beautiful sim and home for this new synagogue (shul) and memorial garden . These additions are dedicated to our community from our own Yenta Bernheim and Walter Schnogginstein.

Inspired by Yenta's vision, other known artisans contributed to these Icons. Yenta and Walter wish to recognize Jorge Serapis, Kaluura Boa, and Bram Hallison for the building of the Synagogue. Alastair Whybrow for the creating of the Torah and all their full dress. It is with humble gratitude we present to Caledon and the Second Life virtual world this truly lovely and inspirational Jewish memorial and garden. This is a place that is open to all to come for comfort, reflection, remembrance, meditation or for prayer.

A bit of history about Yenta's vision: Miss Yenta lost her parents at a very young age and has had a dream of creating a memorial to her parents and grandparents inspired by Jewish tradition. Her grandparents and father both attended services in the original schul (synagogue) and her father studied Hebrew within its walls in Belgium. The synagogue before you is a replica of the Arlon synagogue found in the city of Arlon Belgium. They have named this Synagogue "Beit Chesed-Ahavah" (house of loving kindness and love).

Mr. Jorge Serapis, Miss Annie Rosen (in the white dress), Miss Magadalena Kamenev.

Miss Valerie Bluebird and Mr. Alastair Whybrow.

I don a hat for the occasion.

The crowd was large and enthusiastic. In addition to those pictured above, Miss Nyree Rain, Mr. Ravelli Ormstein, Miss Remember Snowfall, and Miss True Irelund, Duchess of Kintyre, among others, attended.

After Miss Poppy's speech, the synagogue was unveiled.

The interior:

Miss Poppy continued:

Let's now turn to the Memorial Gardens. Yenta and Walter wish to acknowledge Darlingmonster Ember, Solace Fairlady and myself for work on this garden.

There is a maternal symbolism of regeneration represented here. As I mentioned before it was inspired by Yenta's vision. Darlingmonster and Solace created this living work of art. Yenta and Walter want to recognize them both as well as Yenta's Mother h'en (grace). We present the “Solace Ember h'en Memorial.”

Through generations it has become a tradition in Jewish communities to leave a small stone when one visits the grave of a loved one. It is a small remembrance of a loved one saying "we still remember". The custom began hundreds of years ago when grave markers were but a mound of stones over a grave. Over time, stones disappeared for any number of reasons and it was necessary to replace the missing stones. Over time it became a lovely custom.

A lovely and unique part of Caledon!

Highlands Beauty

2011-08-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

I had been meaning to pay a visit to Caledon Highlands ever since the Vikings (Mr. Roberto Viking and Mrs. Soliel Snook-Viking) had relocated there. As soon as I stepped foot in the area, walking along the stone path as it began climbing from the lowlands of Caledon II, I realized I should have come earlier.

An amazing variety of plants was there to greet me, a dizzying array of colors on trees and shrubs, some familiar, some unknown to me. A short distance away was the greenhouse that marked Soliel's Garden Centre.

Not far away was a covered bridge over a gentle stream.

Beyond was a white church.

And what would the Highlands be without the famed Highland Coos? (I dared not get too close!)

The Vikings have a large manor house, complete with those newfangled horseless carriages.

There's even a local watering hole, the Dog and Pony Pub!

And if one needed to leave paradise, what better way than via a leisurely sail aboard a wooden ship?

A Soothing Spot

2011-08-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

After a hard day in the Steamlands - you in the back, stop laughing; I work hard some days - one sometimes needs a place to unwind and soothe the soul. Not far away from the Sky City is Miss Panacea Luminos' pastoral Victorian Gardens.

A flower-lined path, complete with gas lamps, leads the visitor toward the manor house. (Note the floating neighbor to the right!)

The imposing manor, with its stone exterior, overlooks a fenced-in yard to the right and a hedged garden to the left.

The stone bridges are particularly striking in the twilight.

Victorian Gardens may be sparsely populated, but what is there is beautifully done. Just right for one of those days.

Avatar Games

2011-08-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

I've now spent two enjoyable Monday evenings at the Avatar Games, a heady concoction of athletics, endurance, and entertainment. Mostly entertainment. Audience participation is not only encouraged, it seems downright crucial to these games.

Each contestant gets two runs through the course, and then all compete in a final group run. Times - including the best times of the season - are posted on a board behind the stands.

The audience stands overlooking the course (which is in a separate sim - a high draw distance is a must):

Contestants must complete the course, from the starting area, across a moat, through two turning wheels, up a hill where giant balls are rolling down at the runners, up a set of steps that grows and collapses, over a wall, up another incline, to the finish line.

And to make things challenging, spectators may arm themselves with a special gun that can knock a contestant off her path.

I was content to merely watch and listen.

Indeed, listening may be the greatest pleasure. Announcers R. Crap Mariner and Miss Honour MacMillan provide the play-by-play, the color commentary, the banter, the jokes, the complete digressions, and asides.

A contestant needs nerves of steel to handle the course and a strong ego to withstand the withering comments of the announcers!

The games are held Mondays at 4 p.m. SLT. on LEA3.

Customer Service

2011-08-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

Customer service seems to be a declining art. I don't pretend to know all the causes - people seem angry all the time, and they take it out on their customers; the carrots and sticks available to managers no longer suffice to induce good service; there's a sense of entitlement that is at odds with a substantial work ethic; some customers can be jerks, and salespeople have had enough and are fighting back - but I've seen it often enough to think that I haven't just seen a few people on bad days.

The other night provided a good example: I was in Sears, looking for filters for a fan. Problem one: the shelves were not well-stocked or well-labeled. I finally settled on a box that had no price associated with it, figuring that I would see at the counter what the computer thought the price might be. The young lady behind the counter was eating a hamburger, and put it down long enough to ring up my transaction. Holding aside the sanitary consequences to her of handling cash and then putting her hands on her food, I was clearly interrupting her important business of eating with my silly desire to purchase a product from her employer.

My local Safeway provides other examples weekly. The older staff (and by older I mean people in their 30s and 40s, not Roosevelt-era holdovers still manning the butcher's counter in their 90s) are knowledgeable, courteous, and friendly toward regular customers. (A little too friendly, at times, as I'm not keen on hearing a running commentary on my purchases. "Oh, another one of those itches again?") (Okay, that was made up. But I did have a checker comment on a piece of meat I was buying that she thought was outrageously expensive.) They know all the codes for the produce, even the weird kinds of fruit and rarely-purchased herbs. They know how to bag groceries. In contrast, the younger people, in their late teens and 20s, appear uninterested in being at work - an attitude I often have, but choose not to share with the public at large - are aloof, have no idea what some of the produce is (one couldn't identify Brussels sprouts, not exactly an obscure vegetable), and think that it's perfectly fine to put heavy items on top of eggs in the shopping bag.

One last example involves a trip to Staples. In the checkout lane, as I was waiting for my items to be rung up, the cashier said to her friend, "I really wish I didn't have to be here." Same here, lady, but I'm not insulting you by saying it to your face.

Dealing with the public is hard. I've been fortunate in not having to make a living that way. I have meetings with people outside my agency a half-dozen times a year, and it's often a strain to be polite in what is usually an aversarial relationship. I have sympathy for people who work in retail jobs, so I don't ask much of them. Furthermore, it's true that I can come up with examples of good customer service from young people (and of bad service from older people). But the fact that those examples stick out suggests that they're the exception rather than the rule, and that's a shame.

It seems to me that part of the problem stems from a collective view from the employees that their parents oversold a vision of their future. They were raised in nice houses by people with decent jobs, and instead they've come to the labor force at a time of great uncertainty and lowered expectations. Such a reversal of fortune would make anyone upset.

Another part of the problem is that the trend away from thrift toward instant gratification has resulted in people viewing a job as a way to occupy eight hours before the next social event. My grandparents were young adults during the Depression, a decade that surely shaped their attitudes toward work and saving. My parents became adults during more prosperous times but were close enough to the prior generation to learn some of the same lessons. My generation, in contrast, has spent freely, borrowing money whenever possible, to finance a lifestyle beyond that which is wise or, at times, sustainable. (I suspect that this stems in part from the unfortunate fact that U.S. productivity growth slowed between the 50s and the 70s and has never really regained its higher level. It's become harder for people to achieve much upward mobility when, at the same time, television reinforces the view that conspicuous consumption is a desirable goal.) People in their 20s have grown up under that attitude, and it has created a mindset - again, not universally - that every night is a good one to go out and have a good time. Technology, which allows people to remain connected to their social group even at work, has only added to this problem: whereas helping customers was once a way to make a dull day go faster, customers are now interfering with the ability to talk or text to one's friends.

I find interesting the fact that, despite all of the above, some retailers manage to find employees who are hard-working and enthusiastic and to train those employees to provide good customer service. High-end retailers are good at this, possibly because they can afford to pay more (and likely pay sales commissions or bonuses to reward effective customer service), and so my local pen store (Fahrney's) always has a helpful staff, as does every Apple store I've been in (now those are some enthusiastic nerds!). But other, less tony places seem to attract helpful staff, too: for example, several of the local Au Bon Pain locations, or my local Borders before its untimely demise. I don't know what magic the managers of those stores have, but they consistently hire and train employees that provide good customer experiences, so I'm convinced some magic is involved.

Traditional retail stores and chains have lost a considerable amount of business to online retailers over the past decade, and a great deal of ink has been spilled trying to understand why. Lower prices are of course a large part of the explanation. Part of it, though, is that shopping isn't fun any longer, and if it's a chore we may as well skip the store and buy from the comfort of the couch whenever possible. The folks at Sears may want to think about that.

All Aboard the Steam Snail

2011-08-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

It turns out that the Steampunk Tribune and Dr. Rafael Fabre visited this site somewhere around the same time I did. "This site" is the quirky Steam Snail Headquarters of Mr. GianLuca Araghi.

The platform is apparently kept aloft by a large balloon...

...with the help of a number of industrious clanks wearing some sort of propulsion system.

Nearby is The Pipe, also owned by Mr. Araghi and floating high above the mainland.

Be the Human Cannonball if you dare, Dear Reader, but beware - you may find yourself several sims away when all is said and done.

Steampy the robot is on board the Snail to greet visitors, but he's remarkably taciturn.

Still, this is undeniable:

Mr. Hax's Junkyard - Buyer Beware

2011-08-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

I was delighted to see that the small property next to mine was now occupied. Then it hit me: this was Steam Sky City (well, Aether Isle, but the principle is the same), and one's neighbors are often...different.

"Yoo-hoo!" I called out, holding the pie I had taken with me as a prop. It was a real pie, just not of my own making. It wouldn't do to poison the new neighbors on the first day.

As I neared the building, however, I saw that it was not a residence but a brick shop, and one in run-down condition at that. The structure nearly abutted Miss Samm Florian's shop and maze and had a back that was open to the water.

Although the shop was empty, it was clear that the proprietor was none other than Mr. Denver Hax, whose earlier Laboratory was just down the road a bit.

He calls this shop The Junkyard, and it contains bits and bobs, including the Mark I Drama Reactor shown below. Drama, as it turns out, is a fine fuel source but just a tad unstable.

There's also the ever-popular Guvnah in a Jar:

There's even a time machine (pictured below, far right) and a teleportation device that seems to have only one destination and a unique way of getting one there (below, center). First-generation products often leave room for improvement.

Come to think of it, there was a great deal of broken glass in the shop. Perhaps not every device was ready for sale. Ah well, I'm sure Mr. Hax has a generous return policy - your heirs can take products back for a full refund.

Debt Deal a Draw

2011-08-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

As no doubt everyone knows, Congress struck an 11th-hour deal to increase the debt ceiling. It seems to me that this deal could have been struck any time in the past month, as it largely reflects both parties' sticking points: no new taxes (right away) and a nominal reduction in spending that (slightly) exceeds the increase in the debt ceiling - the basic Republican demands - and a debt ceiling increase that extends past the next election (the basic Democratic demand). I try to find humor whenever possible, and God knows this situation requires looking very hard to find the humor, so I find it quite funny that both ends of the political spectrum are up in arms about the contours of the deal.

For example: RedState declares that "Obama is the bigger winner," while the Wall Street Journal quotes disgruntled Democrats with a headline "Liberal Debt Deal Revolt." The Journal's columnist James Taranto quotes a number of unhappy Donkeys:

A New York Times editorial calls the deal "a nearly complete capitulation to the hostage-taking demands of Republican extremists. . . . This episode demonstrates the effectiveness of extortion. Reasonable people are forced to give in to those willing to endanger the national interest." Haha, remember "civility"?

Former Enron adviser Paul Krugman is even huffier: "By demonstrating that raw extortion works and carries no political cost, [the deal] will take America a long way down the road to banana-republic status. . . . What Republicans have just gotten away with calls our whole system of government into question."

Roars Robert Kuttner of The American Prospect: "The United States has been rendered ungovernable except on the extortionate terms of the far-right. For the first time in modern history, one of the two major parties is in the hands of a faction so extreme that it is willing to destroy the economy if it doesn't get its way. And the Tea Party Republicans have a perfect foil in President Barack Obama."

And, as Roll Call reports, Rep. Emanuel Cleaver, the Kansas City, Mo., Democrat, "said early reports of the new deal appeared to be 'a sugar-coated Satan sandwich.' " Hey, it's better than peas!

Hyperbole much?

In my view, both groups need to take a Valium and relax. I am disappointed that next year's spending cut - the only year that really matters, as whatever "framework" this Congress create for future years will not be binding on future Congresses - is minuscule. However, it's hard to see how control of only one House of Congress could have allowed fiscally conservative Republicans to demand more. Similarly, while Democrats are no doubt unhappy that spending isn't going up next year, they are in a politically untenable position in trying to spend more given the public's unhappiness with both the size of the debt and a general unwillingness to see taxes rise.* Republicans whine that the Yet-Another-Commission Commission that will supposedly find another round of spending cuts by the end of the year are not constrained in some iron-clad way to avoid raising taxes. At the same time, though, the forces that prevented President Obama and a Democratic-controlled Congress from raising taxes in 2010 are at work in 2011 and 2012: a bad economy and little public appetite for higher taxes. Democrats whine that they're not allowed to spend more, borrow more, tax more, but it's not the Republicans who called a halt to the free-spending policies of 2007-2010, it was the voters.

In effect, this debt deal was a way to defer action on the important fiscal questions dividing the country: how will we ultimately get the debt under control? Will it be through higher taxes (and, if so, on whom?) or through reduced spending (and, if so, on what?), or, as seems most likely, a combination of the two?

Although both sides seem to acknowledge that the status quo is not sustainable, there is a fundamental disagreement about the way to solve the problem. Both in terms of day-to-day spending and, more importantly, Social Security and Medicare spending, Congress has promised more than it can deliver. It's promised generous government services combined with low tax rates. Both parties enjoy spending and dislike taxing; they differ only in degree. Yet, as Greece has discovered already and other European nations are slowly realizing, deficit spending to finance unsustainable payouts is not the way to the Worker's Paradise. Eventually those who end up footing the bill decide that they've had enough, and chaos ensues.

Whether we end up substantially increasing taxes** or substantially decreasing services,*** the piper will be paid. What we've done is to defer that conversation. There is no way to avoid having it.

--------------

* Where the public stands on raising taxes tends to depend considerably on the specific question asked. I think it's a fair generalization to say that most people are okay with raising taxes on other people but are not to keen on seeing their own taxes rise.

** I've seen some truly stupid things on the Aetherwebs recently regarding the relationship of taxes to job creation, as well as the ability of "the rich" to finance our current and promised future levels of spending. Suffice it to say for the moment that "the rich" don't have nearly enough money to let the government spend at European levels. If you want a European-style economy, be prepared to pay a lot more for it. That means you, people in the bottom 99% of the distribution (meaning me, too). The top 1% - with adjusted gross income above $380,000 - pay 38% of all income taxes, or about $392 billion out of $1,032 billion (as of 2008). In this group, the average tax rate is 23.3%. Doubling the average rate paid to 46.6%, just to make the math easy, would result in an incremental $392 billion to the Treasury, assuming that this increase had no effect on the economy or the level of tax evasion. A nice chunk of money, to be sure, but nowhere near the $1.4 trillion in current deficit, much less the larger deficits (counting Social Security and Medicare) going forward.

*** "Substantial" is in the eye of the beholder, of course. I've read that a switch from indexing Social Security payments from wage growth to price growth eliminates a good chunk of the Social Security projected deficit. Whether that's substantial to you depends on what else you've saved and how many years you have before retirement in which to adjust.