Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Tuesday, September 27, 2011 Sorted Out Almost two months ago, I was up at the cabin with M. Edium and my family when I got a text from Trash asking me how many Deathly Hallows there are. "3," I texted back. I didn't hear anything back from her for a while, but when I talked to her that night, she explained that it was for early application for her membership to Pottermore. You've either heard of this and have stopped reading, or you've never heard of it and you're about to stop reading. Pottermore, as I understand it, is some kind of super-special online experience-slash-community for fans of the Harry Potter books. Fans like my wife. I dig the books too, although not at much as she does. And maybe I would have tried to get into Pottermore early during this super-special sign-up window as well, had I not been thirty miles from the nearest Wi-Fi connection. That wasn't really Trash's problem, though, was it? M. Edium and I got home a couple of days later, to find her still excitedly awaiting her password notification so she could join the lucky 500 people who got to go in and check things out early. Or maybe it was 500,000, I could never remember. A week went by. Then another week. Then another. Every once in a while she would bring up the Pottermore notification she was so anxiously awaiting. And I started getting good at teasing her about it. She'd sigh and say, "Where's my Pottermore?" and I'd say maybe her Uncle Vernon had intercepted it. Trash actually has an Uncle Vernon, although his temperament is the polar opposite of Vernon Dursley's and as far as I know he doesn't intercept her mail from his home 300 miles away.Or I'd go outside check the mailbox and come back saying, "Nothing but junk mail and owl bones." Or she'd idly ask me if I'd gotten any interesting e-mails and I'd say, "There's this Pottermore notification. Which is weird, because I don't remember—" "Shut up." She's been biding her time for what seems like forever, eager to get in before the main doors swing wide open to the general public on the first of the month, getting what sustenance she can from previews like a short story about the Weasley twins that made her cry every time she thought about it. "Maybe you should check your spam filter," I suggested helpfully last week. "I did," she said. "Daily." Finally, this morning, it came in, with only a couple of days left in the preview period. As annoyed as she was at the brevity of her early admission, she signed right in and got to work, setting up her account and picking out her familiar and getting assigned a wand (ten-and-a-half inches, phoenix feather core, hard. My question: "How did they know what you're used to?) Eventually, after making her way down the whole length of virtual Diagon Alley and getting through all the other preliminary stuff, it was time to get Sorted. This is what she's been looking forward to for months. Sure, we've all done online Sorting quizzes before, but this was the honest-to-God authoritative no-shit sorting of all time, and Trash couldn't wait to start connecting online with her fellow Ravenclaws. She nervously read a few of the questions and the options out loud to me while I was working and thus only dimly aware that maybe she was doing that so I could hear them, even though I was tuning her out pretty effectively. But then she let out a noise that I couldn't ignore. I got up and looked, and she was staring at her laptop motionless, her eyes wide with shock. "What?" I asked. She couldn't speak. So I walked around to look at the screen, which was filled with the color green and the giant word, "SLYTHERIN." "You know," I pointed out calmly as she tried to remember to breathe, "Harry Potter's son was named after two Hogwarts headmasters--" "I think I'm done with Pottermore for a while," she alt-tabbed. I had to agree. It's really brought her nothing but grief. Well, it and me. But y'all go ahead and enjoy. Grand opening this week, I guess! posted by M. Giant 9:15 PM 3 comments3 Comments:My Pottermore journey was exactly the same as Trash's. Except mine ended in "Hufflepuff". Hmmm.
By Re: the office recap...the novel Daryl was reading was The Help...
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Tell Trash that, if it makes her feel better, I think that the Pottermore houses are based on the usernames, not at all on the answers to the questions. I mean...the top four Slytherins, point-wise, have the words "Blade," "Potion," "Ghost," and "Thestral" in their usernames. Top four Ravenclaws have "Flame," "Mist," "Sky," and "Ash". I got Slytherin (which is fine, because I'm a total Slytherin), and mine has both "Wormwood" and "Midnight". A friend who also got Slytherin has "Nox". So if she has a username that seems...dark, I think that might be what tipped her over.
By Tuesday, September 20, 2011 Young Renaissance Man I've been to the Minnesota Renaissance Festival three times now. Once when I was about M. Edium's age, once when Trash and I were first dating, and this past weekend, when M. Edium was the same age I was when I first went. I'm not a RenFaire fanatic or anything, but I like to look in on it every couple of decades or so. Our RenFest is weekends only, running from late summer to early fall. It's easy to make fun of how it's not really faithful to the time period. But then, if the "Privies" were really a latrine trench instead of ranks of modern Porta-Potties, and if you couldn't buy your kid a slice of pizza, and if everyone had to wear period costume (and not just the people who want to), nobody would show up. On the other hand, if it took place during the actual Renaissance and the admission price were still the yearly income of a family of four, nobody would show up for that either, so everything's a tradeoff. And there really isn't a better place for people-watching. Of course all the people who work there dress up in costume because they have to, but then there are all the other folks who go to the same effort just for fun. It's tough to maintain one's suspension of disbelief, though, when one is looking at a French chevalier wearing Transitions™ lenses, or a perfectly detailed costume that might have come directly from feudal Japan except for how it's topped by the head of a doughy Scandinavian, or a strolling band of musketeers hanging out together while wearing fashions from completely opposite ends of the year 1638. I will say this about a lot of the costumes, though; I appreciate how difficult they make it for some of those people to sneak up on you. This was M. Edium's first visit, but we met up with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, as well as M. Edium's cousin Deniece, who is one of those people who dressed up (but she's nine, so it's different). For some reason, she's suddenly emerged as a carnival-game ringer, having won a seven-foot banana at the Valleyfair ring toss the day before. "A stuffed one?" M. Edium asked when I told him about it. "Shit, I hope so," I answered in not those exact words. Anyway, she and M. Edium both played a slew of the games. She won him a plastic cutlass complete with scabbard at the dart throw, and at the tomato throw she ignored the human target's threat to kick a puppy (dude had an actual, live puppy back there) and pegged him square in the puss. There's even a midway with rides, but not in the 20th century sense (yes, I know what century it is now, but midway rides don't). They're all run on human power. The swinging pirate ship is swung back and forth by teams of costumed bruisers, the turning swing ride is spun by hand, and the giant rocking horse is powered by two guys hurling their weight from side to side on it. This has obvious advantages in terms of the reduced environmental footprint, as well as near-silent operation that allows the timeshifted carnies to converse with the parents watching their kids on the ride. "Have you seen the new bear yet?" one of them asked us. He told us the story of how one of the landmarks at the Festival used to be a large wooden bear, until it was infested by hornets and replaced. "Now we have a new bear," he said proudly. "Soon to be infested by hornets," his partner added. People seem to do things at the Renaissance Festival that they wouldn't do in every day life. And I can't judge the people who endeavor to maintain an English accent all day or wear Gypsy bikinis in public, because the place even had an effect on me. I certainly can't think of another place where I've allowed M. Edium to throw knives. Yes, there was a knife-throwing game, where contestants are encouraged to hurl heavy, pointed slabs of metal at paper targets on a wooden wall. I'm sad to say Deniece didn't hit anything there but her dad's finger. I understand the bleeding has since stopped. The highlight for M. Edium, other than getting to come home to his mom armed, was a shop that sold actual metal weapons. I thumbed the edges of a few, and while they didn't cut me, it was only because I didn't press hard enough. I was reminded of a stage combat seminar I once attended (don't ask), where one of the moderators mocked wannabee duelers who wanted a sword that "can 'cleave a mighty oak in twain and then shave my chin as smooth as a baby's.' No. Buy an axe, buy a razor, stay out of sword fighting." These suckers looked like they'd split the difference, though. M. Edium wanted to take a closer look at a particularly wicked poniard, which on him would be the equivalent of a rapier. Luckily, I spotted the sign on the back wall that read "You must be 16 to touch or purchase weapons." Another sign nearer the front said you had to be 18. I figured I'd better get out of there before I was too young to look at anything. When we got home, M. Edium told his mom all about it. She asked if he would want to go back (because she certainly doesn't.). His answer? "Yes. When I'm 16 or 18." posted by M. Giant 8:55 PM 0 comments0 Comments:Wednesday, September 14, 2011 Happy Long-Distance Anniversary I've got kind of a lot going on right now, so maybe you could just help me out on getting this started by reading this. I'll wait. Done? Good. Now read this. And now this. You can probably see where this is going. Of course it's natural, on the day of one's honest-to-God-no-shit twentieth wedding anniversary, to look back, to think about how I got here, to marvel over the fact that I've been married longer than I can remember being single. But I'm not going to do that today, because here's what my wife did. As my Twitter followers are already aware, Trash happens to be in Los Angeles this week for some un-reschedulable business travel. I was understanding and patient about her, and didn't give her a hard time. I ripped her boss a new one, but that was it. So the plan was to wait until she got home and celebrate over the weekend. I had the idea of sending flowers to her hotel in L.A., but she'd only have them for a day and a half before having to leave them. So in terms of doing nice things, I've simply had to content myself with staying home and rearing her child. Except I don't even get to do that, because she arranged for other people to pick him up and take him to karate and stuff. So today, I'm working in what is a very quiet house in the absence of my usual office mate, when the doorbell rings right around lunchtime. Someone's here to clean the house, and she brought me a Big Mac! (In case you don't know me very well, that's good.) Not even done yet. A couple of hours later, the doorbell rings. Nobody's on the stoop when I get there, so I figured the mail carrier had just dropped off a package and rang to alert me. But when I look down, there's a paper bag from the local coffee shop with cookies inside, and on it is written, "Happy Anniversary! Love, [Trash]." Just as I was about to run inside the house and IM, "how did you do that??/?" I saw our friend Bitter skulking back down the street toward her car, hiding behind her coat. I suppose the kind thing to do would have been to let her get away clean. And then! My sister-in-law, who happens to be an internationally renowned florist (shut up, they do too exist) stopped by to drop off one of those flower arrangements she does that that are so bright and beautifully composed they make your flower arrangements look like they came out of the Kansas scenes in Wizard of Oz. During the tornado. And I don't think it's even done yet, because Trash texted me to make sure I was going to be home tonight. Well, I am now. I won't say it's the best anniversary ever, because she'd have to be here with me for that to be the case, but it's certainly the best one we've ever spent apart, even if it's the only one. And look how awesome she is, will you? I could be crabby about her being gone, but right now I'm just excited for her to come home tomorrow so we can get started on the third decade of our marriage. posted by M. Giant 3:51 PM 3 comments 3 Comments:
Awwwwwwwwww!!
By I wish you all the best. However, I can't help wondering what is behind the nick name you chose to give to your beloved wife!
By
Fabulous. And congratulations - what a milestone!
By Monday, September 12, 2011 M. Ovie Reviews: Apollo 18 There are a few hard and fast rules about the "found footage" genre of movies. You know, those movies like The Blair Witch Project where the main characters are also the ones who ostensibly did the filming. I've seen enough of these to be able to go through the rules for you here. 1. There must be a reason for the footage to have been recorded in the first place. In Blair Witch and Troll Hunter, the main characters include documentary film crews. In Cloverfield, Hud is tasked with being the videographer for his friend's going-away party and finds himself documenting an alien invasion. In Paranormal Activity, Micah is a tech-savvy know-it-all tool. So it goes. In Apollo 18, the protagonists are astronauts, who are seem under a mandate to film nearly every moment of their mission. As astronauts do, when not performing calculus in their heads and working with equipment more temperamental than a TiVo. 2. You can't recognize anyone in the cast as actors you know. They all have to be unknowns, to maintain the fiction that what you're watching actually occurred. If they perform under their real names, so much the better. You probably still can't name a single cast member of any of the films I mentioned above, can you? In Apollo 18, the lead actor happens to be on Alphas, but I'll give it a pass because I'm the only person who watches that show (and I get paid to do so). 3. There has to be some way for the "found footage" to have been "found," or "recovered," or "released," or something. I hope it's not giving too much away to say that Apollo 18 doesn't really pull this off. 4. The main characters have to get deeper into their problem and make it worse for themselves long after any intelligent person would have thought better of it. This is fine when most of the people in this type of movie are idiots, as they often are, but it doesn't quite follow when the characters are astronauts, members of America's best and brightest who graduated at the tops of their classes and bested hundreds of other candidates for every mission. Although that might have something to do with why these astronauts were chosen for this mission, now that I think about it. Again, I find myself lured into the theater by a fascinating concept that proves to have a disappointingly low level of imagination in the execution. How awesome is the idea of a secret moon mission? It's like the opposite of Capricorn One. And the fact that weird shit starts going down? It's the ultimate locked-room mystery, with the room 250,000 miles away. The problem, as it turns out, is that you need a suspect, and the movie's solution to that problem on a world with nothing but rocks is…clever, but problematic. That's not to say that it isn't a fairly decent bit of filmmaking. It gives you some good, hard jumps, and it makes good use of the claustrophobic setting. For the vast bulk of the film, the astronauts are sealed inside something, whether it be a spacesuit or the interior of an equipment-packed LEM the size of a pup tent. But one does get tired of all the bursts of visual static and audio interference, which are relied on too often to produce scares all on their own. Static isn't that scary now, and it was even less scary in 1974 when you and your siblings used to argue about who had to stand next to the TV to hold the antenna. The claustrophobic setting must be why the actors don't really stretch out much. The guy playing the mission commander has a good glower that never seems to go away, while Warren Christie scrunches up his otherwise blank, ill-shaven face every once in a while to connote anguish like he does on Alphas, although here he does it with increasing frequency as things go increasingly pear-shaped. They also become less believable. I'm not a xenobiologist, but I've done enough reading about NASA history to know that deviations from mission profile like we see here can make things go wrong even faster and more irrevocably than they do in Apollo 18. I admit it left me with that lingering sense of curiosity that is probably the fifth rule of found footage movies. I did try to access the companion website, LunarTruth.com, and maybe I'll even see a couple of the first Apollo movies. 13 was pretty good, so some of the others probably are as well. posted by M. Giant 6:53 PM 1 comments 1 Comments:Apollo 18 seems an interesting movie. After reading your post I find this movie is full of curiosity and suspense. I quite like the 4 points you mentioned in your post.I haven't seen the movie yet but surely going to watch it.
By Tuesday, September 06, 2011 On the Hook When I went up to the cabin to meet M. Edium a month ago, he'd already been there for a few days. He was excited to see me, running up and giving me a hug and a kiss, but as is often the case, he was bursting with news. While I was trying to say hi to him, and my parents and my sister, he was all but shouting in my face, "I caught six fish!" We're all familiar with the concept of traits skipping a generation. In my case, some traits seem to have skipped a generation so thoroughly I didn't think they'd land on the next one. My dad loves fishing, and used to take us out on the boat as a family all the time. I think I was into it for a while, but eventually I lost interest in the waiting and the baiting, and instead took to bringing a book to read under the bow. So that's how I spent a lot of those voyages. Fortunately, Trash does like fishing, so she was happy to go out on the lake with him during our trips to the cabin after we got married, and thus she became the son my dad never had. If that sounds bitter, it's not meant to be; they each have someone to fish with, and I don't have to. I didn't think M. Edium would get into fishing, really. Sometimes, when he's over at my parents' house, my dad will take him across the street to fish in the river, but I can't imagine they spend much time down there. M. Edium barely has the patience to sit through his favorite movies, let alone the time it takes to get a bite on a fishing line. So then I got there and he tells me about having caught so many fish in one outing that the level of the lake had gone down, and he drags us all down to the dock so he can show off his catch in the live well of my dad's boat, and how it was all about using the right lerr (that's how he pronounces "lure," as "lerr"). Obviously he's been bitten by the fishing bug. Or, since we're talking about fishing, by the fishing disgusting, slimy invertebrate that some people like to carry around in Styrofoam containers full of dirt. I was worried that I was going to have to take him tackle shopping. I've been tackle shopping once before, as a result of a bizarre series of tragic circumstances that even I can barely remember through a haze of humiliated confusion, and I'm not eager to repeat the experience. The whole rest of the time we were there, M. Edium kept reminding me we'd have to stop at the sporting goods store in town on the way home to buy an exact replica of the fishing lerr he'd been so successful with. I said I'd look for it, and I did, but I also didn't turn around and drive back through town again when I wasn't able to spot it the first time through. But that was okay, because it wasn't like I was going to take him fishing before my dad, who after all still had the original. Since we got home, M. Edium's passion for fishing has abated somewhat, although this weekend when he heard that my parents were out on the boat near their house with my younger sister, he all but grabbed the phone to make sure no one else was using his lerr (since they were still tied to the dock, nobody was). I'm sure he'd still love it if he could make fishing a regular thing. Am I going to have to learn about all this? All the arcana and esoterica involved? Will I have to one day buy a boat? If I do, I'm going to make sure it's really comfortable under the bow. posted by M. Giant 3:26 PM 1 comments 1 Comments:I am regular follower of your blog. I like your post. I like your approach to handle things. This post is personal and thus I want to thank you for sharing your experience with us. Keep writing such wonderful thoughts.
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