(Fri, Apr 01, 2005)
I'm sad: the Pope isn't funny anymore. I feel like a vital part of me has been ripped away. Hopefully the new Pope will be funny.
(Wed, Apr 06, 2005)
These days it's growing impossible to maintain the carefully cultivated Peace-and-Quiet Bubble my important work has come to depend upon. A new brood of children, awakened by the Spring thaw, has spread itself around the Complex (like those flying yellow stinging insects so fond of fronds and flowers), celebrates its verbal capacity as the storm with all its thunder, erupts cacophonous from the playground (Ground Zero) and spews its ejecta of bicycles, scooters, skateboards, and sneakers past my window.
Meanwhile, packs of wild dogs have been forming out around the perimeter, and some have taken to patrolling, marching, drilling for unknown future conflicts; they have effected a forcefield from bone and gristle, incisors and wagging tails. Beefy Lou's dog has recently joined the wild ones, and so he mopes about complaining of Froofy's loss. ("Froofy" is my name for the animal: while Beefy Lou does have the audacity to name a thing Froofy, the dog's real name is Sir Winston Churchill, and I'm sure it's the one the dog uses when standing at dignified attention with the rest of the guard dogs.) The mixture of Beefy Lou's lament and the gruff chatter of the canines adds a dissonant melody to the noise problem. It's all like an alarm directed inward toward my desk.
But the bell of this giant, noisy trumpet is the new Amish work party that has recently been contracted by persons unknown to construct what now appears a Barn of vast proportions in the entire northern section of the Complex. Previously undeveloped, this area -- Coventry Hill -- once accommodated the overflow of construction materials used long ago to build the Complex: wood and stone and sand and fiberglass (which the Amish now eschew, and stack along the perimeter as a sort of defilade for the militaristic dogs). Each morning -- six a.m. -- comes the clip-clop squeak-squeak of horse-drawn carriages up the access road, the random honk and screech of swerving automobiles barely avoiding this black medieval train, then the prompt tumult of boards and their saws, of hammers cracking across the chill morning air in glorious reverberation upon my window.
The purpose of the Barn can only be surmised; Beefy Lou insists it is not intended to contain noisy children (although I retain my hopeful vision of a pied piper to herd them all into it, and a giant ogre to seal the doors and stand guard upon them). Jack Rot is sure it's meant to house a large aircraft, perhaps a long range bomber or several F-16s given the Complex Authority for not buying oil from Iran. The access road, he says, ignoring the downward slope starting from the Barn entrance, would make a perfect runway. My own dark suspicion is that the Barn itself is camouflage for the cupola constructed on its apex. From that high vantage point a sniper could target any place in the Complex, including my front window. What a racket that would cause!
I've therefore commissioned Dr. Jones to construct bullet-and-sound-proof glass for the Map Room. He insisted that the real threat is from energy weapons, and recommends installing a scintillator panel over the window made from the same material coating the body armor he's been lounging around in lately; but I believe I've managed to convince him that the Authority is a traditional sort of organization, and that means high-powered ballistics. Hopefully it will also cancel out the rest of the new noise around here.
Meanwhile, packs of wild dogs have been forming out around the perimeter, and some have taken to patrolling, marching, drilling for unknown future conflicts; they have effected a forcefield from bone and gristle, incisors and wagging tails. Beefy Lou's dog has recently joined the wild ones, and so he mopes about complaining of Froofy's loss. ("Froofy" is my name for the animal: while Beefy Lou does have the audacity to name a thing Froofy, the dog's real name is Sir Winston Churchill, and I'm sure it's the one the dog uses when standing at dignified attention with the rest of the guard dogs.) The mixture of Beefy Lou's lament and the gruff chatter of the canines adds a dissonant melody to the noise problem. It's all like an alarm directed inward toward my desk.
But the bell of this giant, noisy trumpet is the new Amish work party that has recently been contracted by persons unknown to construct what now appears a Barn of vast proportions in the entire northern section of the Complex. Previously undeveloped, this area -- Coventry Hill -- once accommodated the overflow of construction materials used long ago to build the Complex: wood and stone and sand and fiberglass (which the Amish now eschew, and stack along the perimeter as a sort of defilade for the militaristic dogs). Each morning -- six a.m. -- comes the clip-clop squeak-squeak of horse-drawn carriages up the access road, the random honk and screech of swerving automobiles barely avoiding this black medieval train, then the prompt tumult of boards and their saws, of hammers cracking across the chill morning air in glorious reverberation upon my window.
The purpose of the Barn can only be surmised; Beefy Lou insists it is not intended to contain noisy children (although I retain my hopeful vision of a pied piper to herd them all into it, and a giant ogre to seal the doors and stand guard upon them). Jack Rot is sure it's meant to house a large aircraft, perhaps a long range bomber or several F-16s given the Complex Authority for not buying oil from Iran. The access road, he says, ignoring the downward slope starting from the Barn entrance, would make a perfect runway. My own dark suspicion is that the Barn itself is camouflage for the cupola constructed on its apex. From that high vantage point a sniper could target any place in the Complex, including my front window. What a racket that would cause!
I've therefore commissioned Dr. Jones to construct bullet-and-sound-proof glass for the Map Room. He insisted that the real threat is from energy weapons, and recommends installing a scintillator panel over the window made from the same material coating the body armor he's been lounging around in lately; but I believe I've managed to convince him that the Authority is a traditional sort of organization, and that means high-powered ballistics. Hopefully it will also cancel out the rest of the new noise around here.