When Your Truth Is False

Tags

algebra, arguments, Benny Hill

The problem I see with the discussion of sensitive subjects (especially in the cesspool of social media) is that people often declare in the most obnoxious tones, “ABC is RIGHT!!!“

When you ask “Why?”, and assuming the person insisting on “ABC” is not a web-troglodyte who goes medieval on your butt at light speed with a righteously indignant flame war, their argument boils down to “Because of XYZ!!!”.

What they often don’t realize is that their claims of both ABC and XYZ are not universally true. Their statements claiming “absolute right” are often based on an assumption.

Very little in this universe is always true. And under the proper conditions, even simple math is not always right.

Take the mathematical statement,
1=2
Obviously incorrect, right? WRONG.
If you’ll indulge me in a little grade school algebra…

Let’s say we have three numbers that satisfy the algebraic equation,
a+b=c
Then it’s also true that,
2a+2b=2c  (distributive law)
Now reorder the equations,
a+b-c=0
2a+2b-2c=0  (associative & commutative laws)
Now that they are both zero, they can be set equal to one another.
(a+b-c) = (2a+2b-2c)
Factoring out the common root, we get,
1*(a+b-c) = 2*(a+b-c)  (distributive law again)
Now divide both sides of the equation by (a+b-c),
1=2
TADA!

I’ve been playing this math game on people, showing that 1 DOES equal 2, since 5th grade. Of course, it’s actually a trick — an intentional deception. Though it demonstrates that there are indeed times when even our most fundamental assumption about what looks correct is WRONG.

So before you lambaste someone, saying, “My belief is always RIGHT!”, think of how I can “prove” to you that 1=2.
Maybe your beloved sacred cow is dead wrong, because you’ve made the wrong assumption. Like the British burlesque comedian Benny Hill had often said,

“ASSUME makes an ASS out of U and ME.”

PS – if you have figured out the trick behind “1=2“, message me – please don’t spoil it in the comments for the rest!

And of course, what post would be complete without my shameless promotion? My passion is writing stories where the reader’s assumption ain’t necessarily so.
Pindlebryth of Lenland was reviewed as a “masterpiece of deception”.
If I Can’t Sleep is awash with twists on the classic monsters that pleasantly surprised the most seasoned reviewer. Try them yourself!

 

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How Tastes Change

Tags

apples, food, peppermint

I was snacking on an apple this morning, and while crunching away, I also ruminated on how my tastes have changed over the past few years.
My favorite apples as a youth were red delicious. Today, I cannot remember the last time I had one of those – if only because it is impossible for me to predict their texture.
I hate mushy apples.
One thing that hasn’t changed over the decades is — my apples must be crisp.

As soon as four years ago, I adored noshing on Granny Smiths and Honeycrisps. Now I cannot abide them, because they are just too sour for my liking. Though they are both great when cooked. Nom nom!

I hate mushy apples. Oops — did I already say that?
Well, it bears repeating — I HATE mushy apples!
Much as I dislike to waste food, if I bite into an apple, and am presented with a mealy mouthful, into the trash it goes (or the lawn if deer are about). I demand an apple so crunchy, it makes my gums bleed.
My top three favorites are, when I can find them are: Cameo, Ambrosia, and Jazz.
And before you suggest “Have you tried…?” Yes, I have.

Who knows what my favorites will be next year?
I hear the modern-day Johnny Appleseed’s are working on a hybrid based on the Honeycrisp, to be named Laser-crisp. Oh, brother – I hate it already, if only because of the name.

On a non-apple note, I hated spinach and grapefruit when I was younger.
Now I love them – baby spinach in my salads, and pink grapefruit segments. Nom!

One of the more curious changes in taste I’ve experienced (other than my older brother morphing from a Summer-of-Love hippie to a Redder-Than-Fox-News conservative) is my attitude toward peppermint. I used to like it – now I cannot stand it. I loathe it so much, I consider the mixing of chocolate and peppermint an Abomination that merits its own verse in Leviticus.

I even recorded a story about it – “Peppermint Christmas“!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Jest a Minute, You!

Tags

jester, onion, Pindlebryth, politics

Other than the King himself, who held the most important position in the King’s court? The Queen? The Prime Minister? The Exchequer? The Archbishop?
I believe it was the Jester.

It was he who had the unenviable task of being the Conscience of the King.
Depending on the quality of the person holding the highest office of cleric, and on how religious His Majesty was, the Church should have also been risking that dance on the guillotine’s edge. But history shows that far too often the inner workings of the royal court often rendered the Guiding Light that should have been the King’s spiritual leader either totally silent, quite impotent, or even worse, more corrupt than the King himself.

It was therefore left to the the humble Jester to be the King’s conscience, his better self, his thorn-in-the-side.
A dangerous task, to be sure.

It still is today.
While I don’t place myself in the same arena as our current spate of late-night talk show hosts, political comedians/comediennes, and parody news sites (I lo-o-ve The Onion!) who skewer and lambaste those who so richly deserve it, I am thankful they are there, and admire the work they perform so adroitly.

To be sure, I have my own share of sarcastic and sardonic wit, though I marvel at the professional Jesters’ speedy and laser-accurate assessments of our politician’s foibles, hypocrisies, and outright blatant sins. It is truly a shame that like the Kings of Old, our leaders still hold the Jester with a disdain stronger than Drano, and ignore their sage advice.

The modern equivalent of The Jester certainly irritates those who have voted for these corrupt and/or brain-dead political flunkies. How else can it be explained that I find myself the target of wrath when I chime in with The Jesters? Time and time again, I have been blasted with the withering sanctimony, “He/She holds the office, he/she deserves your respect, so shaddap!”
Sometimes the name of God is also invoked by those same flapping lips.

They need to understand one thing about myself — and hopefully I speak for the professional Jesters as well — It is precisely because I respect the Office, that I lambaste the waste of protoplasm that infects said Office.

Needless to say, some of this acerbic attitude and witticism is bound to show up in my writings.
My epic fantasy, Pindlebryth, has its share. Take a peek and see for yourself!

What’s in a (Nick)Name?

Tags

nicknames

I seem to collect nicknames.
Many people loathe the paltry one or two they gather over a lifetime.
I, however, have long since embraced the dozens I’ve earned over the years, and made peace with the rest. I don’t allow them to define me, but they do serve their purposes — they recall to mind some of the good times, or remind me that there’s always room for improvement.
Here’s a few of the more notable ones I can share:

Uncle Christmas
I have been adopted by several of my good friends’ families, becoming the “Uncle” to their offspring. However, one family’s children gave me this name, mainly because I most often arrived with birthday gifts, holiday fun or Christmas presents. They’ve all since grown up, and don’t call me this anymore — More’s the pity.

Uncle Death
This one stuck, mainly because the Parental Units of another adoptive family still occasionally use it, long after their kids’ developing soft palates could properly pronounce the triphthong that starts my given name. That is, the ankle-biters tried to say “Uncle Chris,” and this came out of their tiny mouths instead.

Squiffer
A circle of friends and I were enjoying several rounds of “Balderdash” when this word came up as the word in play. We had a good laugh, because no one believed the game defined this word as “organist,” which in fact, is one of my vocations!
After the game’s conclusion, we looked it up in my friend’s multi-volume Oxford Unabridged Dictionary with its custom magnifying glass. (My friends have one, don’t yours!?)
Sure enough, “organist” was the 3rd definition. However, I was a mite red-faced when we also discovered the primary definition was… “drunkard.”

Dr. Death
Hmm…. my second “Death” nickname. Should I be worried? Nya-a-ah.
This gem of a nickname I picked up at AT&T Bell Laboratories, during my stint as a software tester. During my tenure in that position, I carried the honor of finding the most high-severity bugs each year. Needless to say, I began to get a reputation of sorts.
Though my coworkers appreciated that it was far better that I find these problems instead of our customers, and despite dispatching my duties without crushing the egos of my fellow coworkers**, many feared my knock at their door.
One fine day, I chased a software developer to ground in his cubicle, during which his wiseacre Brooklynite officemate blurted out,
“Uh oh! Here comes Dr. Death!”
And it stuck. I wear it proudly!

Kurt Russell from “Overboard” 

** – with one or two notable exceptions. Like when I had a heated argument with two Ph.D.’s in mathematics, who somehow didn’t understand the 6th grade math of percentages. Grrrr!

Mr. Koyl
This one’s a name that a girlfriend had given me. (Long after our break-up I still occasionally refer to her as “She Who Must Not Be Named.” But that’s another story!)
This name she bestowed upon me was an acronym for “King Of Yellow Lights”. Apparently, I had the aggravating knack — and still have — of turning almost every traffic light I approach yellow as I enter its “Stop or Gun it” zone.

This penchant for nicknames tends to show up in my writing. “The Mask of Jyestha” and “No Children Aloud” in my book “If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep” contain prime examples.

Rah Rah SisBoomBah! Get Your Fake News Here! Ta-dah!

Tags

ancient Rome, circus, olympics, sports

Think ‘fake news’ is a recent development?
Wrong – this insidious canker on an informed society has been around for thousands of years. But not in the form we tend to think of today.

And if you are a sports fan, you’re part of the problem.
A typical sports fan fritters away dozens of hours a week glued to the tube. Some of the more insane of this curious lot think nothing of spending hundreds of dollars on cheap foreign-made merchandise just because it sports (pun intended) their favorite team’s logo. The most extreme cases upend their wallets, spending thousands of dollars on season passes.

Who first called out sports as ‘fake news’?
Go back to ancient Rome, where the satirist Juvenal coined the phrase “panem et circenses“ or “bread and circuses.” He was referring to the practice of annona (grain dole) which parceled out food and entertainment as political rewards. This practice was an amazing success. Consider that annona began in 123 BC under Gaius Gracchus, and was so fiscally successful that Julius Caesar rebuilt the Circus Maximus half a century later, and Constantine grew it to its current bloated size in 400 AD.
But it was Augustus Caesar who turned ‘bread and circuses’ to a fine-edged political tool — it allowed him to be elevated to pagan godhead while ancient Rome barely blinked.

Sports fandom draws its historical roots from a word meaning insanity.
Consider the word “fan” – short for fanatic. In ancient Rome, this pejorative term implied the person was unreasoning and off his rocker. It was often applied to people who idolized the gladiators, fanatically following the exploits of their favorite circus warrior. They collected figurines of their hero, emblazoned their homes with mosaics and scratched graffiti of their hero’s name on public buildings.
Sound familiar?

In short, professional sports is, and always has been, a diversion to keep people from focusing on the problems of society. It is a drain on the economy, it huge waste of time, and a gigantic money-making diversion that keeps the populace distracted.

To this day, every television news program, every newspaper (that still exists), every news service, devotes one-quarter to one-third of their precious time and energy to sports. Not to mention those media channels devoted exclusively to sports…

Why does News do this?
What real news is there in teams’ scores, the latest triumph or failure, the latest record broken? With the possible exceptions of the Olympics or the recent uproar over “taking a knee,” when did any sports victory affect the world in any significant fashion? What treaty was signed, what genocide was averted, what disease cured, what famine avoided, because Team ABC defeated Team XYZ?  Oh, and don’t get me started about the blatant lunacy of paying sports figures millions of dollars when firefighters, police, nurses, soldiers, teachers — the real heroes of every stripe — are paid paltry sums.

Nations going to war, economic entities making decisions that affect all of our
lives, genocides, atrocities of every ilk — all going unnoticed because News panders to those who consider devotion to a sports team more important. That is the REAL FAKE news, and the real tragedy.

Do you know what would I would consider unique in the world of sports news?
If some sports mega-star, paid gazillions of dollars, fessed up on camera, “Our team lost because I just didn’t give a rat’s rear-end. I phoned my performance in. Hey, I get paid whether I win or lose, so why should I give a rip? Turn off ESPN and get a life.” Or if the billionaire owner of a team let slip a truth during an interview, “Thanks for the free stadium, chumps.”
That would be real sports news.

Don’t get me wrong about sports — if you like to play sports, go and do!
Athletics is part of what makes us human. It is necessary for a healthy body and sound mind.
It is the glorification of professional sports that is the sickness.

Dirt, Dogs, and Digs

Tags

Autumn, books, cleaning

Autumn is almost upon us, and the signs are everywhere.
Leaves falling.
Ripe nuts and fruit dropping from almost every tree in the neighborhood.
Add to that the usual lawn detritus of grass clippings and fiendishly concealed animal droppings, and it all quickly builds into a noxious pile of organic matter that finds its way into my home.

I cringe every time I step on one of those marble-sized bombs, consisting of a bumper crop of crab-apples, Japanese dogwood berries, pygmy pears, and who-knows-what-else.

During this benighted time of year, I am forced to clean my walkway, my dog, and mudroom on the average 3 times a day — the walkway before I walk my dog, my shoes, the dog’s paws, and linoleum afterwards. And we still somehow manage to track in grass, leaves, mangled corpses of squished fruit, and whatever crud their juices sponge up onto my shoes.

I am by no means a demigod of domesticity, despite the fact that throughout my formative years, I was allergic to everything – dust, mold, mildew, animal dander, and more. My poor Mom had to clean-clean-clean when she wasn’t exhausted from holding down two jobs. Fortunately, my dog was one of those breeds that doesn’t shed, otherwise I think she would have bleached the pooch.

I thank God I have outgrown my allergies and asthma, otherwise I would be forced to continue that unfortunate tradition. These days, I break out the vacuum cleaner once a fortnight (or less), resorting to bucket and mop when I must — far less often than my Mom ever did…
But these Fall invaders of muck and mire have me cleaning far more often than I care to think about.

This season, with nature relentlessly dumping its dirt upon us, reminds me of a pithy bit of humorous wisdom a co-worker imparted, during a tour of a Silicon Valley clean room, where super-clean “bunny-suits” and air-purifiers abounded.

“There is no such thing as ‘perfectly clean.’
There is only the level of dirt you’re willing to tolerate.”

OK — I admit it. I can’t think of even the most tenuous segway (segue) from the subject of cleanliness to the topic of my books. So here’s this blog entry’s blatant bit of self-promotion…
Buy my books!

 

 

Self-Made Million-Aire-Heads

Tags

hubris, milliionaire, self-made

I have to remind myself on a weekly basis — sometimes on a daily basis — that all that I have, all that I’ve done, all that I am, is not solely due to my efforts. Many times I am forced to recognize that all these things are due to immeasurable amounts of help from my faith, family, friends, co-workers — and sometimes even enemies — to get where I am, and where I hope to go.

Consider the phrase “self-made millionaire.” Isn’t that, on the very face of it, a laughable thing? If a person claims their achievements are because of their — and ONLY their — efforts, they are one of three things:
ignorant, delusional, or a liar.

Did they construct the roads on which they (or their chauffeurs) drive?
Did they build their Rolls-Royce’s from scratch?
Did they launch the satellites that predict the weather, around which they plan their junkets?
Did they engineer their towering edifices, or school the engineers who designed them?
No.

Yet so many of our captains of industry and politics, as they become bombastic buffoons spiraling into their ego-driven power trips, pound the podium while declaring their state is brought about by the might of their will and intelligence, and theirs alone.
Hogwash.

Sir Isaac Newton, physicist, mathematical genius, and spiritual Renaissance Man, said it best: “If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants.”

That sense of interconnection is part of why I write my stories I do. Borrowing a laurel bestowed on me by a reviewer – “there’s a moral center there (ie virtue rewarded, or the reverse).”

Visit www.christopherdochs.com to see for yourself!

I Am a Boiled Frog

Tags

change, life experience

And in all probability, so are you.

We’re all familiar with the adage that if you drop a frog in boiling water, he’ll immediately jump out. The flip side of the story tells us if you put a frog in tepid water and raise its temperature slowly enough, he’ll stay there ’til he’s cooked.

I am reminded on a weekly basis (sometimes daily) about the person that I am — and how I bear little resemblance to the person I was, or even the person I thought I would turn out to be. A long series of small changes leads to a big difference.

Today, that moment of realization occurred when I had a glass of milk. It was a glass of 2% — I normally drink and cook with 1% milk. After a single sip, I remarked on its fatty taste and texture.

I immediately flashed back to my youth, when my family struggled to make it through our weekly budget. One of my cornerstones of my childhood diet was powdered milk. If you dislike today’s fat-free milk, I guarantee you will be revolted by that loathsome bilge of sky-blue fat-free powder-and-water mixture. I have never had that vile Carnation concoction since I finished high school, and hope to never allow it past my lips again.
Time, tide, and tightening belts (due to dietary restrictions, not financial), now have me at the 1% mark. And I prefer it. How times and tastes have changed!

I’ve noted several other changes in my tastes – for example, I now love spinach and grapefruit, foods I could not tolerate until a mere five years ago.

On the non-gastronomical front, things certainly have taken paths I never could have guessed at. As a child, I wanted to be an astronaut veterinarian. My actual career path was solidly grounded on earth, wending through organist, physicist, electrical engineer, software systems analyst, animator, to arrive at my current vocation — writer.

About the only thing that has been constant through that journey is that I have been blessed, allowed to do the things I love to do.

On the subject of being blessed, my belief system has had a similar multi-directional slog through the spiritual multi-verse — from Moravian, to Jesus Freak, to sullen agnostic, finally re-embracing being born again. My stint as a church organist put me in a unique position to sample all that is right (and all that is wrong) over a wide spectrum of denominations. As a result, my belief system is one that both Catholic and Baptist would shake their collective heads at. The feeling is mutual, friends. My best advice is to remove the log from your own eye.

I don’t say that to condemn, but rather to urge you, dear reader, to try something new. Life is change. Perhaps you should have a try at being boiled. Maybe you already are, you just don’t know it. A moment of reflection, and we all can learn something.

When I Can’t Decide to Laugh or Shriek

Tags

creepy, humor, twilight zone, warm & fuzzy

It is rare that a book, television program or film successfully combines “creepy” and humor. Many have tried, many have failed.
Those few that have succeeded rank high on my list of favorite videos/films, witnessed by the fact I have watched them over and over again.

Many devotees of the Twilight Zone point to “Mr. Dingle, the Strong” as Rod Serling‘s best funny/creepy work. I disagree, and point to TZ’s “To Serve Man” as his best tongue in cheek work. (Although written by Damon Knight, Rod’s editorial hand is all over the script.) The late Richard Kiel as the super-intelligent Kanamit with the permanent “duhhhh” look plastered on his face is classic. He was obviously enjoying mugging for the joke.
Did you know TV Guide in 2013 gave this episode the honor of “Greatest Twist of All Time”?
Also, Owlswick Press printed a gag version of the book “To Serve Man” in 1976, including a recipe for Cowboy Stew (ingredients include 1 large cowboy).

This and the following entries embody the ideal of “mirthful macabre” I steep into every one of my stories, especially my latest book, “If I Can’t Sleep, You Can’t Sleep“.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer – “Hush”
This episode of Joss Whedon‘s juggernaut series won an Emmy — and rightfully so. It’s sheer inventiveness and bold stroke to have a full 1/2 hour of NO DIALOG is an astounding and spellbinding accomplishment. Not to mention the (spoiler alert) scene where some poor innocent cannot scream as he suffers one of the most painful deaths imaginable, is a cinematic moment that will make your skin crawl.
And yet, peppered amid the horrors perpetrated by baddies (“The Gentlemen”), are a bevy of sight gags that are rip-roaringly hilarious.

The Fifth Element
A rocket-fast trip into the future. The tongue-in-cheek humor comes non-stop at a lightning pace, so that you almost dare not laugh because you’ll miss the next visual/verbal/physical jibe.

Big Trouble in Little China
Not true horror, but a few nice creepy moments (it is from John Carpenter, after all.) Kurt Russell as the smart-ass trucker is casting perfection. I find myself quoting this film quite often.
My favorite line –
Jack: “Hey Egg, how did you get all the way up there?”
Egg: “It wasn’t easy!”My favorite scene – Wang’s and Thunder’s final fight scene. It is a perfectly executed example of what I call “implied comedic violence”.

Shaun of the Dead
The first of many films pairing the creative and acting talents of Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Can you spot the Cornetto in all the “Cornetto Trilogy” films?
My favorite line –
“There is nothing of the man you loved in that car!”
(Zombie Philip turns off radio.)

Cabin in the Woods
Another one of Whedon’s wonders. The man just seems to have the knack to combine bone-chilling horror and humor spanning the spectrum from cerebral to “inside-joke” to slapstick.

I’m sure, given time, I can come up with more.
Please comment, and let me know your favorite chiller/comedy.
If I haven’t seen it, I want to!

Whistle While You Kraftwerk

Tags

King Crimson, Kraftwerk, Liparulo, music, Rick Wakeman, Soma FM, Triumvirat, WMUH

As a kid, I did all my homework while watching TV — usually Star Trek reruns
— much to the chagrin of my parents.  During my college days, I graduated to listening to music while I worked on my physics and math problems.

The refrains of my unusual musical tastes were loud enough that I couldn’t hear the mumbles, comments, complaints and curses that I’m sure my fellow academicians were voicing in their offices and dorm rooms next to mine.
Since I was a church organist, and an enthusiast about all things keyboard related, my speakers were constantly blaring the sounds of Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Triumvirat, Kraftwerk, Chick Corea, Patrick Moraz, Walter (before he became Wendy) Carlos’ synthesized masterpieces, Rick Wakeman and Yes, and of course King Crimson featuring their magically hypnotic mellotron.

In the workaday world that came after college, my cubicle was void of tunes, until I was promoted to an office where I could play my music — albeit at much lower volumes. I also tuned to college radio, so that I could enjoy a variety of music, and not cheese off my office-mate. See? I can be taught to be considerate!

Actually, that was only half the reason for lower volumes.
I found I enjoyed the music so much that it distracted me from efficiently performing my work.

These days, I wonder how I accomplished any work at all.
I shake my head in disbelief a how many of my peers work with loud music. For example, Richard Liparulo told me he often plays music conducive to the genre he’s writing – e.g., playing star-opera movie sound tracks while writing sci-fi.

I now most often work in silence. The noise, dialog and movie rolling in my head when I’m writing is enough and incredibly fragile. My budding efforts are entirely erased if music intrudes. That is simply intolerable to my muse.
On those rare occasions that I can tolerate music — usually when I’m doing light editing — I seek refuge with my old favorites. Though lately I tune into internet radio, streaming my old college radio station WMUH, or  Soma FM’s 70’s, 80’s and Secret Agent channels.

So, what do you whistle while you work, or listen while you lurk?