Train in Vain

I'm not really surprised by this...

http://www.slate.com/articles/technology/technocracy/2011/12/high_speed_rail_is_dead_in_america_should_we_mourn_it_.html

To be honest, I never thought high-speed rail ever had a chance in this country. It's far too much of a First World kind of conveyance for our country to seriously consider it, particularly as we slide into post-imperial Second World status (and, sorry, but that's where we're heading, folks).

The kind of capital expenditure and infrastructure awareness high-speed rail requires doesn't fly in the land of car culture -- Americans like cars, like sprawl, like highways (hell, I like cars, too, although I recognize that a proper rail network would strengthen our country, not weaken it).

Only when gasoline is about $10/gallon will Americans begin (and I stress "begin") to wonder if alternatives are desirable. And even then, the politicians are likelier to offer non-solutions like hydrogen fuel cells or some other meta-contrivance to something like a rail service, let alone a high-speed rail service.

This article is also illustrative:

Why Conservatives Hate Trains

So long as our government panders to reactionary crybabies, nutballs, flat-earthers and whiners (mislabeled "conservatives" in our Gliberal Media), we'll continue to fail to see progress in things like rail. Frankly, it should be confined to blue states, rather than trotted out across the entire country. Let those who get it, get it (although maybe, even in blue states, people don't get it). I dunno.

Naughty or Nice?

You better watch out! You better not cry! You better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town. He's making a list, checking it twice, he's gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming! Santa Claus is coming...

Here Comes Santa Claus! Here Comes Santa Claus! Right down Santa Claus Lane!

Santa's helpers will be coming in your chimney, ready to stuff your stockings, so be good, for goodness sake!

This-n-that

Crazy-busy week. I've already had about 6 meetings in the past 2 days! Lots of stuff to deal with. But it's all good, for sure!

I've gotten the boys' Christmas presents mostly sorted out; I try to get them each three good gifts, plus stocking stuffin's, think that's sufficient. Each thing I pick out is well-chosen, based on what the boys actually have said what they wanted (ideally something they've said they wanted months ago, so they don't remember, so there's a nice surprise factor). I'm just glad to have it all (nearly) done. Then I just have to get B1 something for his birthday (his 10th -- oh, my), and then I'll be all set. One of the gifts I got for B1 is so perfect, he'll be super-thrilled. I know it! I'll just have to keep B2 from destroying it in a fit of little brotherly pique!

Amazing that there's not been any actual snowfall proper so far. We've had a couple of flurry moments, but no honest-to-goodness winter wonderland action.

I'm going to see a band tomorrow; or, at least, I've got a ticket to do so. We'll see how industrious I am, whether I go or not. It's at one of my favorite small clubs, but because it's a haul from where I live, if it's a rotten weather night or something, I may not go. We'll see. How jaded am I? Hah. It's only a $15 ticket, so it's not like a big investment or anything.

Speaking of that, I was amused to see a check in the mail, some kind of settlement for a class-action lawsuit I didn't even realize I was in on. Hah! $18, cash-money, out of the blue. Woo hoo!

Cipherpunk'd

The latest book I'm writing is coming along very well; I'm about 20% done with it, after 3 weeks, which is a new speed record for me. I've mapped out the three parts of it, the chapters, the narrative arcs, all of that stuff. Am well-pleased with it. I even cooked up a cipher for a part of it, just having a bit of fun, tossing a puzzle into the book for the readers. Lots of folks use computers to craft ciphers, but the real problem with those is you can't ever get a truly random computer, so patterns can be discerned with computer-generated ciphers. No, the only way to get real randomness in the mix is to do it old-school, pen-and-paper, that kind of thing. Anyway, the cipher in the book is an intricate one, took me awhile to craft it. Just a bit of mischief for the reader. Good times, right? Bahah! It was just something that popped into my head while writing it, something one of the characters would definitely do, so I ran with it... F IIMF PRLBR DOSFKT OX

Lady Winter

Work has been good. Have been doing my thing. I'm tired, though, just juggling plates and what-not (figuratively, mind you, not literally -- although my grandpa could do that; he was good at that kind of stuff). December has stalked into the frame, taking hold of the season, even though it's not officially winter, yet, it's making what's left of Fall its bitch.

Some of the boys' Christmas presents have arrived, which I've stealthily stashed and wrapped. Loving that. They're none the wiser. Muahaha!

Working on some new fiction, am nearly 20,000 words into it after about three weeks. That's going well. I still need to get more organized -- need to give away a lot of stuff to charity, like clothes and toys and books the boys never use, anymore. That kind of thing.

Dreamy

I don't routinely post dreams, because nothing's more boring than reading about somebody else's dreams, but my dreams have been odd, lately, full of celebrity cameos and what-not. For example, I dreamed that I was in some kind of cop movie-type scenario, flying low across the LA River (if you really want to call it a river), with 90s-era David Bowie riding shotgun with me, and offering commentary on the chase. We were cops, apparently, and Bowie was keen to get the bad guys, who were racing down the LA River whatever-you-call it--concrete apocalypse?

Another was an "Avatar"-scaled kind of war movie thing, with massive amounts of lasers and explosions and what-not.

Stevie Nicks. Eyes UP HERE, Stevie.

Another was me chumming around backstage with young Stevie Nicks, who took me on a whirlwind tour of her world (there wasn't any other Fleetwood Mac folks around, although there were shadowy others around, but it was all about Stevie). And, ultimately, there was sex with Stevie Nicks, which both enticed and alarmed me in the course of the dream, because I was thinking "Wow, I'm having sex with Stevie Nicks!" and at the same moment, it was like "Oh, SHIT; I'm having sex with Stevie Nicks -- and I'm not wearing protection?!?!!" But the dream shifted before those thoughts went anywhere.

Still another had me in a protracted dispute with an Indian hair salon owner, who insisted that I owed her $800, and I as insistently pointed out that I didn't owe her place more than $20 for the haircut I'd just gotten, and we were going back and forth, and the stylist was embarrassed that their computer system apparently had no record of my transactions. I was arguing that I didn't have a running tab with the salon, that this was ridiculous. We both stood our ground, and the woman said she'd send me to small claims court, and I said "Fine. See you there!" and then the lady went back to her office and managed to find her financial records that showed that, yes, I had, in fact, paid my bill, and how sorry she was for the misunderstanding, and she wanted a hug to make things better. I was loathe to do so in the wake of the confrontation, but did so, while inwardly grossed out because the woman smelled like patchouli, one of my least-favorite scents in the world. Then I woke up.

Cool Yule

B2 loved that I'd put up the tree. He had run right up to it, and was just thrilled. He gushed about how the Christmas tree was his favorite part of the holiday, and went about rearranging some of the decorations on the tree. I loved seeing him so stoked about it. He would periodically go on about it, just how much he loved it. We set up the boys' GeoTrax train around the base of the tree, too, which B2 enjoyed, too.

This Christmas will be much better than last year's, thankfully, although I'm still being very prudent about what to get the boys, trying to pick things that they'll really want, use, and enjoy. There's nothing worse than facing some "must-have" toy that they play with for about 15 minutes. On the bright side, since we never watch commercial television anymore, the boys lack that hardwired consumerist instinct so many kids cultivate. So, I have it comparatively easy.

As ever the Christmas commando, I pride myself on being able to get gifts into the apartment without the boys seeing -- Exene already had B2 spot a present she'd bought; I don't know how she talked her way out of him tearing into that one! What amuses me is that, thanks to my good hiding places, neither boys are the wiser for it -- B1 would never think of doing it, because he's so honorable; and B2 doesn't suspect that I've got various niches and hidey-holes for presents. If he knew where they were, he'd totally ferret them out! This is the kid who, at 3 years of age, would methodically pull a chair into the kitchen, climb atop it, and then climb atop the sink in an effort to get something sequestered atop the fridge.

I'm figuring on four gifts per boy -- I think that's more than sufficient. And that doesn't count anything I put in their stockings, which are hanging from the windows, so Santa can see'em -- they loved that, too. B2 was already grilling me about a present, like "Will you get this, or will Santa?" and I said "I don't know, yet. We'll see."

Hugo (2011)

I saw Martin Scorsese's "Hugo" last night, after work. I'm a big fan of his, love his directing style, so I saw this one with much anticipation, and was disappointed -- not in his shooting of it. It's compellingly shot, of course, as I would expect from Scorsese, who can probably shoot movies in his sleep at this point. But I found the story lacking. Without wanting to go into spoilers per se, the movie is sort of deceptive -- despite the title, the title character really isn't the main driver of anything, so much as he's the catalyst. The movie is really about another character, and the boy is just a means of delivering some kind of creative absolution to that other character. I found the characterizations to be lacking, and the tone to be strongly sentimental and nostalgic, and Scorsese's own intense love of film-making to derail the story, itself. If it wanted to be a movie about movies, it needed to be that -- but there are other things thrown into the mix, and the result is that the movie doesn't convince or persuade -- at least it didn't do that with me (I say that because some folks applauded when it was over). In terms of the shooting of the movie, it was fine -- but in terms of the story, it was wanting.

They likely crafted the story of this cuter, cornflower-eyed waif boy in the train station to sell the real story, which was less marketable -- namely, this old film director who has, for some reason, lost his will to create movies. Again, because of the lack of deep characterization, the whole exercise felt less than convincing.

The movie will likely coast to some kind of Oscar nominations, but it's likely simply because of Scorsese's justified status as one of America's Last Great Moviemakers. It didn't work for me, however -- I didn't feel it exceeded the sum of its parts.

Holidays

Got the tree up last night. I love Christmas trees. The boys will love seeing it when they finally return, of course, they'll be wondering where the presents are. All in good time. I'm tickled that both boys still believe in Santa, and that I've been able to successfully carry out Santa operations in my apartment without the boys being the wiser. Daddy the Christmas commando!

Fort

I made a nice fort for the boys in their room, having cleared out the storage space where the Christmas decorations boxes have been. I made a nice fort in the corner of their room. They are loving it, are both in there. Forts are always fun!

Exene's family is in town, doing their usual "Thanksgiving for Exene" thing they do, where they drive up, cook the bejeebers out of a pile of food, watch the boys, and Exene partakes of it and then goes running. The boys'll at least enjoy seeing their relatives, and Exene will enjoy the repast that they serve up for her.

Me, I think I'll catch "Hugo" at some point. I work tomorrow, so I don't have a superlong weekend or anything.

Pepper Pike

I admit I am amused about the whole "Cop Casually Pepper Spraying Everything" meme that cropped up in reaction to the UC Davis debacle. There's your 15 minutes of fame (or infamy), Slick. Some people are known for inventing things, or creating works of art, or writing, or any number of other things; you're known for casually pepperspraying protesters in the face (I wonder if he went to Pepperdine?)....

Umbrella Man

Having forgotten my umbrella today, and, correspondingly, getting spritzed with rain (thankfully wearing my squall jacket, so only my slacks and shoes got reasonably wet), I saw this short film in the NYT, on this 48th anniversary of the JFK assassination...

The Umbrella Man

Which is pretty good, worth a watch!

Randroids. *scoff*

Reading an article about something else, I saw this good piece on Ayn Rand from a few years ago...

http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books/2009/11/how_ayn_rand_became_an_american_icon.single.html

Ayn Rand is one of America's great mysteries. She was an amphetamine-addicted author of sub-Dan Brown potboilers, who in her spare time wrote lavish torrents of praise for serial killers and the Bernie Madoff-style embezzlers of her day. She opposed democracy on the grounds that "the masses"—her readers—were "lice" and "parasites" who scarcely deserved to live. Yet she remains one of the most popular writers in the United States, still selling 800,000 books a year from beyond the grave.

She was nuts, too, apparently...

Her diaries from that time, while she worked as a receptionist and an extra, lay out the Nietzschean mentality that underpins all her later writings. The newspapers were filled for months with stories about serial killer called William Hickman, who kidnapped a 12-year-old girl called Marion Parker from her junior high school, raped her, and dismembered her body, which he sent mockingly to the police in pieces. Rand wrote great stretches of praise for him, saying he represented "the amazing picture of a man with no regard whatsoever for all that a society holds sacred, and with a consciousness all his own. A man who really stands alone, in action and in soul. … Other people do not exist for him, and he does not see why they should." She called him "a brilliant, unusual, exceptional boy," shimmering with "immense, explicit egotism." Rand had only one regret: "A strong man can eventually trample society under its feet. That boy [Hickman] was not strong enough."
It's not hard to see this as a kind of political post-traumatic stress disorder. Rand believed the Bolshevik lie that they represented the people, so she wanted to strike back at them—through theft and murder. In a nasty irony, she was copying their tactics. She started to write her first novel, We the Living(1936), and in the early drafts her central character—a crude proxy for Rand herself—says to a Bolshevik: "I loathe your ideals. I admire your methods. If one believes one's right, one shouldn't wait to convince millions of fools, one might just as well force them."

And a manifest authoritarian, too, a cult leader...

Her heroes are a cocktail of extreme self-love and extreme self-pity: They insist they need no one, yet they spend all their time fuming that the masses don't bow down before their manifest superiority.
As her books became mega-sellers, Rand surrounded herself with a tightly policed cult of young people who believed she had found the One Objective Truth about the world. They were required to memorize her novels and slapped down as "imbecilic" and "anti-life" by Rand if they asked questions. One student said: "There was a right kind of music, a right kind of art, a right kind of interior design, a right kind of dancing. There were wrong books which we should not buy."

Rand had become addicted to amphetamines while writing The Fountainhead, and her natural paranoia and aggression were becoming more extreme as they pumped though her veins. Anybody in her circle who disagreed with her was subjected to a show trial in front of the whole group in which they would be required to repent or face expulsion. Her secretary, Barbara Weiss, said: "I came to look on her as a killer of people." The workings of her cult exposed the hollowness of Rand's claims to venerate free thinking and individualism. Her message was, think freely, as long as it leads you into total agreement with me.

A fitting end...

She never really recovered. We all become weak at some point in our lives, so a thinker who despises weakness will end up despising herself. In her 70s Rand found herself dying of lung cancer, after insisting that her followers smoke because it symbolized "man's victory over fire" and the studies showing it caused lung cancer were Communist propaganda. By then she had driven almost everyone away. In 1982, she died alone in her apartment with only a hired nurse at her side. If her philosophy is right—if the only human relationships worth having are based on the exchange of dollars—this was a happy and victorious death. Did even she believe it in the end?

I would say that "Atlas Shrugged" is the "Mein Kampf" of American fascism, truly.