[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
I love solstices, I love solstice times, and I love solstice related facts!
Here’s a fun solstice fact. Your Union Calendar says winter solstice happens this year on Dec. 22! That’s misleading!
You would think the Union Hotel Calendar would tell you when the winter solstice is going to happen at the Union Hotel. But our calendar is geared to Greenwich Mean Time. The winter solstice in fact happens about 20 minutes past midnight, just barely into December 22, IN LONDON. But Seattle clocks are eight hours behind London’s, so here it happens at 4PM plus about twenty, THE PREVIOUS DAY! Isn’t that interesting?
OK, so maybe that doesn’t shake everybody’s tree. I’ll try to make it up to you by telling a fun solstice-related story of prolonged bureaucratic stupidity. I’m speaking of course of the Swedish switch from the Julian to the Gregorian Calendar.
As you know, the winter solstice always happens about the same time every year. This is no accident. Astronomers and mathematicians put in endless sixteen hour days for 16 centuries, just so you and I could have a modern Gregorian Calendar that keeps solstices from wandering, instead of a crummy old-fashioned Julian calendar that lets solstices drift backwards by three days every 400 years.
The Gregorian calendar was the Metric System of its day. Cool countries switched to it. Spain switched to it right away in 1582. Transylvania switched in 1590. Norway switched in 1700. Sweden HAD to be as cool as Norway. But it would not be.
Like the United States, which has been switching to Metric since the seventies, Sweden decided that switching all at once would hurt too much, so they decided to do it piecemeal.
Doing it piecemeal meant skipping leap days every four years for decades, so that for half a century Sweden would be in synch with no one. Not with the cool countries, like Norway, that had the guts to switch all at once, and not with the uncool countries, that hadn’t switched at all.
But it gets worse. After they put this plan into motion they promptly forgot about it, and didn’t follow through on it. So Sweden not only was out of synch with the rest of the world for years, but at the end of it they still had to get in synch the hard way, all at once, just like everyone else.
Justice!
Friday, December 15, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
The Dirt on the Underground
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
Forty years ago I heard there was a writer guy who wanted high school kids to help excavate something called the Seattle Underground – except that in those days nobody capitalized it.
The writer was Bill Speidel, a Times columnist and Seattle history buff. He wrote about Doc Maynard, famous Seattle founder and drunk. Some people blame Maynard for the weird streets in the Pioneer Square area, which supposedly got that way because he was drunk when he planned them. Actually his plan was neat and simple. It was his sober neighbors north of Yesler who created the mess. Doc Maynard was a drunk, but he had lucid moments.
Anyway, I volunteered to help. A bunch of us volunteers all reported to Speidel’s Pioneer Square office one day and crammed inside for a chat with the author.
Ever notice how offices in Pioneer Square all have bare brick walls inside? That was Speidel’s idea -- to create a look of history. In the 1890s the walls were covered with wood or with plaster and wallpaper. He didn’t care. He was after the LOOK of history.
In those days Pioneer Square was a pit. A lot of it was boarded up. Nobody lived here but homeless people. There were no art galleries, no fancy restaurants. There was no nightlife. By dressing the area up to LOOK historic and showing it off, and by making the Underground famous, Speidel saved the district from the wrecking ball. And he was the first to make a mint off tourists from it.
After our chat we all went down into the Underground as it was then: dark tunnel after dark tunnel of dusty dry dirt. We shoveled dirt into wheelbarrows for hours. We got no hard hats and no dust masks. Our lungs must have filled with the stuff.
I told my Father about all this after the second day. He hit the ceiling. “This guy’s getting you to do this and you get no protection AND he doesn’t pay you? He should have to pay minimum wage! At least, if he’s not going to pay you, he should take care that you don’t get sick or injured! I suppose he didn’t insure himself for liability either, did he?”
My Dad, like Maynard, was kind of a drunk and he could be a real pain, but now and then he had his lucid moments.
Forty years ago I heard there was a writer guy who wanted high school kids to help excavate something called the Seattle Underground – except that in those days nobody capitalized it.
The writer was Bill Speidel, a Times columnist and Seattle history buff. He wrote about Doc Maynard, famous Seattle founder and drunk. Some people blame Maynard for the weird streets in the Pioneer Square area, which supposedly got that way because he was drunk when he planned them. Actually his plan was neat and simple. It was his sober neighbors north of Yesler who created the mess. Doc Maynard was a drunk, but he had lucid moments.
Anyway, I volunteered to help. A bunch of us volunteers all reported to Speidel’s Pioneer Square office one day and crammed inside for a chat with the author.
Ever notice how offices in Pioneer Square all have bare brick walls inside? That was Speidel’s idea -- to create a look of history. In the 1890s the walls were covered with wood or with plaster and wallpaper. He didn’t care. He was after the LOOK of history.
In those days Pioneer Square was a pit. A lot of it was boarded up. Nobody lived here but homeless people. There were no art galleries, no fancy restaurants. There was no nightlife. By dressing the area up to LOOK historic and showing it off, and by making the Underground famous, Speidel saved the district from the wrecking ball. And he was the first to make a mint off tourists from it.
After our chat we all went down into the Underground as it was then: dark tunnel after dark tunnel of dusty dry dirt. We shoveled dirt into wheelbarrows for hours. We got no hard hats and no dust masks. Our lungs must have filled with the stuff.
I told my Father about all this after the second day. He hit the ceiling. “This guy’s getting you to do this and you get no protection AND he doesn’t pay you? He should have to pay minimum wage! At least, if he’s not going to pay you, he should take care that you don’t get sick or injured! I suppose he didn’t insure himself for liability either, did he?”
My Dad, like Maynard, was kind of a drunk and he could be a real pain, but now and then he had his lucid moments.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Believe It
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
There’s some pictures on floor L I think about a lot. Paul Dorpat, who does the “Then and Now” feature at the end of Pacific Northwest Magazine, gave us the photographs on the walls down there, including the shots of the women at the Union Hotel Laundry posing for pictures around the time of the Spanish Flu of 1918. You’ve probably seen them hundreds of times. They’re posing with happy smiling faces in this one; they’ve all got their masks on in that one, so we can’t tell if they’re still smiling, but I like to think they are.
One of the things I think about is that the Spanish Flu wasn’t from Spain. They called it that because Spain was one of the few countries of the Western World that wasn’t involved in WWI at the time, and they didn’t have wartime censorship. So it was reported heavily in the Spanish press and hardly at all in other places, because the governments at war didn’t want each other to know how sick their people were. Actually it probably started in the United States.
The masks the people in the pictures were wearing were made of gauze and meant to keep infectious microbes from passing through the air from person to person or from a person’s face to their hands. I don’t know if the masks were required in Seattle but I’ve read that some California cities required people to wear them in public. Stanford University has a website that reports this pathetic jingle was posted as a reminder: Obey the laws /And wear the gauze / Protect your jaws / From Septic Paws.
At the time scientists thought the Spanish Flu was a swine flu. Most scientists now think that the Spanish Flu was a bird flu that became a human flu, just like what everyone is worried about now. Many scientists now also think the gauze masks our ancestors wore during the Spanish Flu didn’t do a bit of good, in fact may have made matters worse.
So to put all of this together, the Spanish Swine Flu was really the Kansas bird flu, the laws requiring gauze masks for everyone’s safety were actually for everyone’s harm and inconvenience, and while I’m looking at these pictures and thinking this, every five minutes I’m blasted by sirens that are supposed to be saving lives.
Sure they are.
There’s some pictures on floor L I think about a lot. Paul Dorpat, who does the “Then and Now” feature at the end of Pacific Northwest Magazine, gave us the photographs on the walls down there, including the shots of the women at the Union Hotel Laundry posing for pictures around the time of the Spanish Flu of 1918. You’ve probably seen them hundreds of times. They’re posing with happy smiling faces in this one; they’ve all got their masks on in that one, so we can’t tell if they’re still smiling, but I like to think they are.
One of the things I think about is that the Spanish Flu wasn’t from Spain. They called it that because Spain was one of the few countries of the Western World that wasn’t involved in WWI at the time, and they didn’t have wartime censorship. So it was reported heavily in the Spanish press and hardly at all in other places, because the governments at war didn’t want each other to know how sick their people were. Actually it probably started in the United States.
The masks the people in the pictures were wearing were made of gauze and meant to keep infectious microbes from passing through the air from person to person or from a person’s face to their hands. I don’t know if the masks were required in Seattle but I’ve read that some California cities required people to wear them in public. Stanford University has a website that reports this pathetic jingle was posted as a reminder: Obey the laws /And wear the gauze / Protect your jaws / From Septic Paws.
At the time scientists thought the Spanish Flu was a swine flu. Most scientists now think that the Spanish Flu was a bird flu that became a human flu, just like what everyone is worried about now. Many scientists now also think the gauze masks our ancestors wore during the Spanish Flu didn’t do a bit of good, in fact may have made matters worse.
So to put all of this together, the Spanish Swine Flu was really the Kansas bird flu, the laws requiring gauze masks for everyone’s safety were actually for everyone’s harm and inconvenience, and while I’m looking at these pictures and thinking this, every five minutes I’m blasted by sirens that are supposed to be saving lives.
Sure they are.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Field Tripping
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
Today I want to use this space to put in a plug for more Union Hotel field trips.
So far I’ve been on field trips to the Russian submarine, the Seattle Aquarium, the Volunteer Park conservatory (twice), the Seattle Art Museum, the Arboretum, and a couple of parks. My favorite place that I haven’t been to was the Volunteer Park cemetery, which Sara Marckx didn’t take us to, because she ran out of time. That was really awesome (I didn’t get to see Bruce Lee’s burial plot!)
I’ve also been to some places where I could spend small amounts of money. The best one of those was the Deseret Thrift store out on Aurora. I got a rice cooker for $5 there. I would like to go back as I’m sure I could find something else I might have a sudden need for once I saw it.
When I try to think of things that I might need if I only knew they existed, I think mainly of toys. Here is a short list of things I can think of needing: Wind-up Hopping Lederhosen, A Bacon Air Freshener, Evil Clown Nesting Dolls, Nihilist Chewing Gum (“Slogan: We Don’t Believe in Flavor”), Devil Duckies, Wall Hanging Tiki Mask, Pope Innocent III Action Figure, Carl Jung Action Figure & Sigmund Freud Action Figure (I could make them dispute each other), Marie Antoinette Action Figure, Deluxe Nerd Glasses, and of course the Classic Rubber Chicken. I’m not making any of these up; they’re all in the catalog of the world famous Archie McPhee & Co. store in Ballard. Even if I could only afford one or two items I would like to go see them all.
I was going to mention some other great places to go, like the Lusty Lady (for the art, THE ART), or the Blue Moon Tavern (for THE POETRY READING, THE HISTORIC AMBIENCE), but I’m running out of space so I want instead to suggest a field trip to some place that wouldn’t cost money. At 28901 NE Carnation Farm Road in Carnation there’s a statue of Segis Pieterje Prospect, World’s Champion Milk Cow and “Foster Mother of the Human Race.” I can’t believe I’ve lived in the Seattle area for most of my life and I’ve never seen the Segis Pieterje Prospect statue. Charlene?
Today I want to use this space to put in a plug for more Union Hotel field trips.
So far I’ve been on field trips to the Russian submarine, the Seattle Aquarium, the Volunteer Park conservatory (twice), the Seattle Art Museum, the Arboretum, and a couple of parks. My favorite place that I haven’t been to was the Volunteer Park cemetery, which Sara Marckx didn’t take us to, because she ran out of time. That was really awesome (I didn’t get to see Bruce Lee’s burial plot!)
I’ve also been to some places where I could spend small amounts of money. The best one of those was the Deseret Thrift store out on Aurora. I got a rice cooker for $5 there. I would like to go back as I’m sure I could find something else I might have a sudden need for once I saw it.
When I try to think of things that I might need if I only knew they existed, I think mainly of toys. Here is a short list of things I can think of needing: Wind-up Hopping Lederhosen, A Bacon Air Freshener, Evil Clown Nesting Dolls, Nihilist Chewing Gum (“Slogan: We Don’t Believe in Flavor”), Devil Duckies, Wall Hanging Tiki Mask, Pope Innocent III Action Figure, Carl Jung Action Figure & Sigmund Freud Action Figure (I could make them dispute each other), Marie Antoinette Action Figure, Deluxe Nerd Glasses, and of course the Classic Rubber Chicken. I’m not making any of these up; they’re all in the catalog of the world famous Archie McPhee & Co. store in Ballard. Even if I could only afford one or two items I would like to go see them all.
I was going to mention some other great places to go, like the Lusty Lady (for the art, THE ART), or the Blue Moon Tavern (for THE POETRY READING, THE HISTORIC AMBIENCE), but I’m running out of space so I want instead to suggest a field trip to some place that wouldn’t cost money. At 28901 NE Carnation Farm Road in Carnation there’s a statue of Segis Pieterje Prospect, World’s Champion Milk Cow and “Foster Mother of the Human Race.” I can’t believe I’ve lived in the Seattle area for most of my life and I’ve never seen the Segis Pieterje Prospect statue. Charlene?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Groping for Answers
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
I am fascinated by the Universe and Space and Time. I call myself a space-time cadet. I am alert to news about the space-time continuum and its disturbances.
For example scientists have recently learned that there is more deuterium in our galaxy than expected. Deuterium is that freakishly heavy hydrogen used to make H-bombs. Finding too much deuterium in space is like coming home and finding six large pizzas when you hadn’t ordered one. You never called a pizza place, you never saw a deliveryman, and nobody else has a key to your room. Or do they?
Or take this afternoon. Adam, who works at Real Change, said, “Thanks, Wes.” I said, “What are you thanking me for? I didn’t do anything.” And Adam said, “Oh.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough of a disturbance in space-time, I said to Adam, “What are you planning to do, move to New Zealand and never return? So that you have to wrap up all your personal affairs by thanking everybody you know whether they deserve it or not?” Then just ten minutes later I found out the front office had a fifty-pound donated box of New Zealand apples! Coincidence? Or rift in the space-time continuum?
Last month I was living my life in all the normal ways I always live it – I did nothing at all different from usual! I went to all the same meetings, watched all the same TV, read only the newspapers I always read and none of the newspapers I never read. I watered Spartacus, the house plant pet I keep at my window, exactly as often and as much as I always water him, not watering more, not less, not more often, not less often. His long tendrilish stems as always groped gently upward, thrusting tenderly but firmly into my books, exploring their secret closed pages.
Until, one Friday, I came in and found his long tendrilish stems sagging! Sagging to the floor! “Poor Spartacus,” I thought, “what has become of you? What strange disturbance of space-time has done this to you?”
The following week I had the answer: The painters had raised my window an inch from the outside to better paint, moving Spartacus by accident.
Thank you painters. Thank you Union Hotel for keeping me informed, eventually.
I am fascinated by the Universe and Space and Time. I call myself a space-time cadet. I am alert to news about the space-time continuum and its disturbances.
For example scientists have recently learned that there is more deuterium in our galaxy than expected. Deuterium is that freakishly heavy hydrogen used to make H-bombs. Finding too much deuterium in space is like coming home and finding six large pizzas when you hadn’t ordered one. You never called a pizza place, you never saw a deliveryman, and nobody else has a key to your room. Or do they?
Or take this afternoon. Adam, who works at Real Change, said, “Thanks, Wes.” I said, “What are you thanking me for? I didn’t do anything.” And Adam said, “Oh.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough of a disturbance in space-time, I said to Adam, “What are you planning to do, move to New Zealand and never return? So that you have to wrap up all your personal affairs by thanking everybody you know whether they deserve it or not?” Then just ten minutes later I found out the front office had a fifty-pound donated box of New Zealand apples! Coincidence? Or rift in the space-time continuum?
Last month I was living my life in all the normal ways I always live it – I did nothing at all different from usual! I went to all the same meetings, watched all the same TV, read only the newspapers I always read and none of the newspapers I never read. I watered Spartacus, the house plant pet I keep at my window, exactly as often and as much as I always water him, not watering more, not less, not more often, not less often. His long tendrilish stems as always groped gently upward, thrusting tenderly but firmly into my books, exploring their secret closed pages.
Until, one Friday, I came in and found his long tendrilish stems sagging! Sagging to the floor! “Poor Spartacus,” I thought, “what has become of you? What strange disturbance of space-time has done this to you?”
The following week I had the answer: The painters had raised my window an inch from the outside to better paint, moving Spartacus by accident.
Thank you painters. Thank you Union Hotel for keeping me informed, eventually.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
A Spoonful of Gallimaufry
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
Joe Martin is a cool guy. He embodies the Pike Market Medical Clinic, he’s a real live Leprechaun, he’s in fact so Irish he should be kissed continually all year round, he’s the nicest conspiracy theorist you ever met, and he frequently writes for and to Real Change. When he writes he likes to use arcane words that I would never use, but that’s always been OK, it’s part of his charm.
Until last week. That was when Joe used the word “ugsome” in a letter to the editor. That drove me over the edge.
Of course I thought I knew what it meant. “Ug-some” as in “ugly - (and then) some.” But I didn’t trust my guess so I looked it up. It doesn’t quite mean ugly-ish, it means “disgusting, loathsome.” But what really got me is that it’s not a word he made up, it’s Medieval.
He’s gotten so arcane he’s gone Medieval on us!
It’s time for an intervention. The whole thing has gotten out of control. I should have stepped in back when he used the word “parlous” to mean “perilous.” I should have realized the man was troubled then, because “parlous” is exactly synonymous with “perilous” -- it’s just a variation dating from (you guessed it) the Middle Ages! The only reason to use it is get all arcane up in people!
I should also have known Joe needed help when he wrote about a “tocsin call to awareness and action.” A tocsin is a warning bell. Of course it calls to awareness and action! That’s what warnings do! But besides that, show me more than twenty people in all of Seattle who will say they know the difference between a toxin and a tocsin, and I’ll see if I can’t pick out the 17 or 18 liars from among them.
Perhaps it’s pervicacious -- oh no -- of me to ask that Joe be quotidian, to drop the farrago -- what’s happening to me -- of medieval vocabulary; my tendentiousness is my turpitudinosity, of Sodom, of --
-- oh no, it’s CATCHING!
-- now I’M doing it! I’M MAKING MYSELF VERTIGINOUS -- SAVE ME, I’VE FALLEN INTO A GALLIMAUFRY OF LANGUAGE AND I CAN”T GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Joe Martin is a cool guy. He embodies the Pike Market Medical Clinic, he’s a real live Leprechaun, he’s in fact so Irish he should be kissed continually all year round, he’s the nicest conspiracy theorist you ever met, and he frequently writes for and to Real Change. When he writes he likes to use arcane words that I would never use, but that’s always been OK, it’s part of his charm.
Until last week. That was when Joe used the word “ugsome” in a letter to the editor. That drove me over the edge.
Of course I thought I knew what it meant. “Ug-some” as in “ugly - (and then) some.” But I didn’t trust my guess so I looked it up. It doesn’t quite mean ugly-ish, it means “disgusting, loathsome.” But what really got me is that it’s not a word he made up, it’s Medieval.
He’s gotten so arcane he’s gone Medieval on us!
It’s time for an intervention. The whole thing has gotten out of control. I should have stepped in back when he used the word “parlous” to mean “perilous.” I should have realized the man was troubled then, because “parlous” is exactly synonymous with “perilous” -- it’s just a variation dating from (you guessed it) the Middle Ages! The only reason to use it is get all arcane up in people!
I should also have known Joe needed help when he wrote about a “tocsin call to awareness and action.” A tocsin is a warning bell. Of course it calls to awareness and action! That’s what warnings do! But besides that, show me more than twenty people in all of Seattle who will say they know the difference between a toxin and a tocsin, and I’ll see if I can’t pick out the 17 or 18 liars from among them.
Perhaps it’s pervicacious -- oh no -- of me to ask that Joe be quotidian, to drop the farrago -- what’s happening to me -- of medieval vocabulary; my tendentiousness is my turpitudinosity, of Sodom, of --
-- oh no, it’s CATCHING!
-- now I’M doing it! I’M MAKING MYSELF VERTIGINOUS -- SAVE ME, I’VE FALLEN INTO A GALLIMAUFRY OF LANGUAGE AND I CAN”T GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Mmm, Time-Spaghetti
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
Last month Anitra had a little Refrigerator Problem. I’ll use it to explain fractals!
At first glance the event called “Refrigerator Problem,” or “RP” for short, forms a simple straight line. One day Anitra realizes her frig is not working. She informs the desk; she’s told to keep the door closed and “help is on the way.” Then, eight days later, she has a new refrigerator. Ha! What could be simpler?
But reduce the resolution of the event to half a week, and it looks like this: Sunday, broken frig. Thursday, no maintenance has checked it yet! Shelby says a temporary replacement will come that afternoon! It doesn’t come! Four days later there’s a new one. No loaner ever came!
Note how the event turns at the smaller scale. Were we to plot the RP at this scale in time-space it would look like an eight-day wide W.
But now look at it with a resolution of one day: Sunday, broke frig. Monday, Anitra allowed use of community room frig. Tuesday, Shelby first promises a loaner. Regarding the absence of maintenance, Shelby says, “I’ll put a tickle on the bug.” All day Wednesday, a bug screams hysterically on the Lower Level. Thursday, no frig, no loaner, no maintenance. The desk person has to unlock the common frig whenever Anitra wants cream in her coffee. Friday, she’s told maintenance will come at 11am. They come that afternoon, admit defeat. Saturday, no loaner. Second Sunday, no loaner. Monday, a new energy-inefficient “Magic Chef” arrives.
At this scale, the plot of the RP would look like spaghetti!
At smaller time-scales, the event twists and tangles more. Just look at it hourly on Friday: 10am: “Maintenance will come at 11am, be ready.” Noon: “Get ready, they’ll come by 2.” 2:30pm: I haul the rest of the food to the common frig. 4:30pm: Maintenance says it really IS broke.
That’s what a fractal in time looks like.
Last month Anitra had a little Refrigerator Problem. I’ll use it to explain fractals!
At first glance the event called “Refrigerator Problem,” or “RP” for short, forms a simple straight line. One day Anitra realizes her frig is not working. She informs the desk; she’s told to keep the door closed and “help is on the way.” Then, eight days later, she has a new refrigerator. Ha! What could be simpler?
But reduce the resolution of the event to half a week, and it looks like this: Sunday, broken frig. Thursday, no maintenance has checked it yet! Shelby says a temporary replacement will come that afternoon! It doesn’t come! Four days later there’s a new one. No loaner ever came!
Note how the event turns at the smaller scale. Were we to plot the RP at this scale in time-space it would look like an eight-day wide W.
But now look at it with a resolution of one day: Sunday, broke frig. Monday, Anitra allowed use of community room frig. Tuesday, Shelby first promises a loaner. Regarding the absence of maintenance, Shelby says, “I’ll put a tickle on the bug.” All day Wednesday, a bug screams hysterically on the Lower Level. Thursday, no frig, no loaner, no maintenance. The desk person has to unlock the common frig whenever Anitra wants cream in her coffee. Friday, she’s told maintenance will come at 11am. They come that afternoon, admit defeat. Saturday, no loaner. Second Sunday, no loaner. Monday, a new energy-inefficient “Magic Chef” arrives.
At this scale, the plot of the RP would look like spaghetti!
At smaller time-scales, the event twists and tangles more. Just look at it hourly on Friday: 10am: “Maintenance will come at 11am, be ready.” Noon: “Get ready, they’ll come by 2.” 2:30pm: I haul the rest of the food to the common frig. 4:30pm: Maintenance says it really IS broke.
That’s what a fractal in time looks like.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Writing by Exhaustion
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
Wes here again. Room 303. This month my goal in writing Out of My Mind is to convince myself that the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived.
Theorem: There has never been such a great place for me, Wes Browning, to live.
Proof: By the “Method of Exhaustion.” That means I must demonstrate that all the other places I have lived have been worse.
Step 1: No place that I ever lived with my parents was even remotely as good as what I got here, for the very reason that my parents were there, cramping my style. ‘Nuff said.
Step 2: Didn’t Omar Khayyam (two “y”s?) say, “Man doth not live by bread alone?” No wait, no, that was that “bread, a jug of wine and Thou” business. Make that Moses to the Israelites, when they were whining, “O please dear God give us manna” (two “n”s?) Anyhow, man DOTH not live by bread alone, for sure. Man doth require the jugs n’ thous. Therefore, any times I have lived in isolation were decidedly worse than the Union, where I have friends and such. Especially such.
Step 3: Steps one and two have ruled out, as possible counter-examples to our Theorem, all but two other places I have lived. I lived in places where there were no parents but plenty of jugs and friends. To complete my proof that the Union is the best place I have ever lived, I need only prove to myself that those places were inferior.
I can do it! Those places didn’t have inspections every month. In fact they never had inspections at all! Good God! I might have done incredible harm to myself, by, for example, not leaving a three-foot path to my window! It’s a wonder I survived!
Therefore, QED, the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived!
Wes here again. Room 303. This month my goal in writing Out of My Mind is to convince myself that the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived.
Theorem: There has never been such a great place for me, Wes Browning, to live.
Proof: By the “Method of Exhaustion.” That means I must demonstrate that all the other places I have lived have been worse.
Step 1: No place that I ever lived with my parents was even remotely as good as what I got here, for the very reason that my parents were there, cramping my style. ‘Nuff said.
Step 2: Didn’t Omar Khayyam (two “y”s?) say, “Man doth not live by bread alone?” No wait, no, that was that “bread, a jug of wine and Thou” business. Make that Moses to the Israelites, when they were whining, “O please dear God give us manna” (two “n”s?) Anyhow, man DOTH not live by bread alone, for sure. Man doth require the jugs n’ thous. Therefore, any times I have lived in isolation were decidedly worse than the Union, where I have friends and such. Especially such.
Step 3: Steps one and two have ruled out, as possible counter-examples to our Theorem, all but two other places I have lived. I lived in places where there were no parents but plenty of jugs and friends. To complete my proof that the Union is the best place I have ever lived, I need only prove to myself that those places were inferior.
I can do it! Those places didn’t have inspections every month. In fact they never had inspections at all! Good God! I might have done incredible harm to myself, by, for example, not leaving a three-foot path to my window! It’s a wonder I survived!
Therefore, QED, the Union Hotel is the best place I have ever lived!
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Caligula Was Exceptional, Too
[The subsidized apartment building I live in is called The Union Hotel. It's run by DESC, Seattle's Downtown Emergency Service Center. All the residents have been homeless. I write a column for the monthly building newsletter. The column is called Out of My Mind. I'm posting them here, properly dated, because I can. -- wes]
[This was the first one.]
Hello. My name is Wes, I live on the third floor and sometimes I get ticked off.
For nine years, from 1990 to 1999, I had a Green Singing Finch named Zino keep me company in the various places I lived. I was even able to keep him when I was homeless because Tim Harris, the founder of Real Change, let me keep him at the Real Change office. Green Singing Finches, in case you don't know, are 3 and 1/2 inches long from beak to tail, originate from Africa, around Mozambique, sing, and belong to one of the subspecies of faux-finches that were used to breed canaries.
So did anyone ever complain about Zino in all that time? Of course someone did. Tim Harris complained. His desk was ten feet from Zino's perch and from time to time he was heard mumbling something like, "Chirp, chirp, @#$%-ing chirp."
But Tim Harris is the exception, and, let's face it, so are or were Charles Manson, Fabio, Pee Wee Herman, Howard Hunt, and Caligula. Are we going to live our lives according to the views of exceptions like these? Of course not.
I want a bird and the Union and DESC won't let me have one unless I get a psychiatrist to say I need a 3 and 1/2 inch companion animal.
Because I am honest, and because I won't say that I need a companion animal when I have an Anitra Freeman, who also lives here, to keep me company, weird exceptions like Tim Harris, Pee Wee Herman, and DESC's [Director] Bill Hobson get their way, and normal honest people like me and like you, the reader, never get what we want.
That's the way things are, and that's why sometimes I have to let
things out.
[This was the first one.]
Hello. My name is Wes, I live on the third floor and sometimes I get ticked off.
For nine years, from 1990 to 1999, I had a Green Singing Finch named Zino keep me company in the various places I lived. I was even able to keep him when I was homeless because Tim Harris, the founder of Real Change, let me keep him at the Real Change office. Green Singing Finches, in case you don't know, are 3 and 1/2 inches long from beak to tail, originate from Africa, around Mozambique, sing, and belong to one of the subspecies of faux-finches that were used to breed canaries.
So did anyone ever complain about Zino in all that time? Of course someone did. Tim Harris complained. His desk was ten feet from Zino's perch and from time to time he was heard mumbling something like, "Chirp, chirp, @#$%-ing chirp."
But Tim Harris is the exception, and, let's face it, so are or were Charles Manson, Fabio, Pee Wee Herman, Howard Hunt, and Caligula. Are we going to live our lives according to the views of exceptions like these? Of course not.
I want a bird and the Union and DESC won't let me have one unless I get a psychiatrist to say I need a 3 and 1/2 inch companion animal.
Because I am honest, and because I won't say that I need a companion animal when I have an Anitra Freeman, who also lives here, to keep me company, weird exceptions like Tim Harris, Pee Wee Herman, and DESC's [Director] Bill Hobson get their way, and normal honest people like me and like you, the reader, never get what we want.
That's the way things are, and that's why sometimes I have to let
things out.
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