Deus ex Machina


It’s Latin. It means God From the Machine. It’s usually reserved for bad plots in plays, books and movies. It refers to the crane that used to lower actors playing gods from the heavens onto the stage, where they inexplicably sort out all the affairs of everybody, mostly in contravention of everything that’s already happened.

Don’t do it, Horace said. It’s lame. I agree. But even the best writers do it. Did you ever read A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court? If you haven’t, you should, because Twain explains economics better than ten think tanks could nowadays, by pointing out your wage means nothing, and the only way to measure wealth is by figuring out what that wage buys. At the end, Twain is late for supper, or perhaps gets bored with stitching together his vignettes, and kills everybody and then turns Merlin into the greatest wizard ever, after demonstrating he’s a humbug for the last 250 pages.

It is common to the point of unanimity in everyday life for people to pray for deus ex machina to solve all their problems, and I don’t like it. The sentiment is two mutually exclusive sentiments conjoined. I want peace through violence. I want fairness by rigging the rules. I want to get rich by gambling. I want safe danger. I want to level the playing field by fertilizing the grass on my side of the field with the bodies of my assassinated enemies.

Tom Brady is an excellent, if trivial, example of the misplaced sentiment. Many persons have fervently prayed that he be injured, as his success was surely a sign of perfidy, as most success is characterized now. Now they are exultant, and mistakenly mention hubris, or karma, as the reason for his injury. But they wished for a lightning bolt to strike him because they knew in their hearts that they had little chance to best him in a fair fight. You think it will be your turn to be great if greatness is destroyed. Greatness doesn’t work that way.

All politics is the prayer for deus ex machina now. People confuse my ambivalence about common academic credentials with a disdain for learning. That’s how poorly educated they are.

If you pray for a god to sort out your affairs in an instant, you’d better beware. Lightning bolts are capricious things, and deuced difficult to aim. And the god is just some dissipated Greek actor on a wire, and you’re letting him hurl them.

Unleash The Tiger

If you gave the average music exec a gold brick, they’d have it bronzed and sell it with an infomercial. The music business is the ultimate manifestation of throw it at the wall and see if it sticks. In a way, there is no explaining what catches people’s fancy about one song or movie or another. The greedy, grasping, grabby people that infest the business have learned how to make the wall they’re throwing things at slightly more sticky by applying a thick coat of cocaine and bagman money to it before they throw things at it, but it’s far from a science, even with all the experience they have now.

If it worked once, they try it again in the same way. They think it was the process that worked. I have my doubts. Here’s an example. They were presented with Aretha Franklin once. They said to themselves: I know, let’s make her a Shirelle — or whatever the hell you call the sleeveless tunic dress bouffant haired gogo dancers with the black Betty Boop voices. Boop, Shoop Shoop; whatever…

Why not have her paint your house? It would make about as much use of her talent. Eventually you’ve got to unleash the tiger. If you’re smart enough to know you have one in the first place.

Microsoft = Lame

Microsoft is lame.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing I dread more than clicking on anything and seeing the little apple icon, or god forbid, accidentally launching a pdf. If you read anything on the Internet, Ron Paul is going to be president, Linux is the default operating system, and “Microsoft anything” is the devil. Out in the real world where stuff gets done, you never see anything but the devil.

But Microsoft’s lameness is legendary, and it’s very real. It’s a showbiz venue, the tech biz is, and they’re Shecky Green to the other tech company’s Lenny Bruce. I don’t know why they don’t embrace it. I don’t care whether you like the Apple commercials or not, but if you’re the interviewer for any job in the real world you’d hire the guy on the left every time.

Now Microsoft is tired of being lame. They announce that they’re making a push to be hip. But once a Bodine, always a Bodine. Lame people are lame because they are lame. Hip is superficial, but lame goes right to the bone. If you’re a dork, you unerringly pick out the worst thing in any array. You’re in an Armani store, and your mom (snicker)tells you to pick out anything you want, and you find a Members Only jacket. You can’t help yourself.

I can just see the meeting where the nerds at Microsoft say: We’ve got to get hip! That Seinfeld show is just the bees knees!

To paraphrase George Costanza, Seinfeld is just an old man sending soup back at a deli at this point.

A million years ago, in Internet years, anyway, Microsoft had the best commercial on television. Beautiful, a little strange, engaging. Remember Bill Plympton?

Kliban’s dead. Hire Plympton again, you dorks. Seinfeld will be too busy playing shows at the Melody Tent for retirees to make your commercials much longer, anyway.

Something Something Else Happens

I cannot find out much of anything by looking at traditional media.

At least not by looking at it straight on. You can put it through a sieve and reconstitute it into information, but it’s a lot of work and it generally yields results I’m not looking for. Not one person in the traditional media is in the slightest way interested in what I am, except to denigrate it.

I’ve explained here that Something Else Happens. I am not immortal, and I get real bored real fast, so I have no use for listening to people who have never been outside during the daytime, holding a microphone and speculating about how such-and-such a thing is going to affect the future. I can’t imagine tuning into the same programming you’d see in an empty nursing home rec room to watch men with pedicures and women with poison shot into their faces that don’t have the slightest inkling how the world is right now. How could they possibly tell me how it’s going to be later?

The world moves forward in fits and starts, pausing here and there to be overrun by Panzers and commissars, but human beings are clever and keep pushing. The only incurious people in the world work for the newspaper and the TV and the government. Everybody else is always looking around for ways to improve their lot.

Much of this tinkering with the quotidian details of daily life goes unremarked. The average person adopts it, the ivory tower crowd ignores it or execrates it. But whatever it is, it’s a fact. It’s real. Academics, entertainers, politicians and writers do not live in the world of reality, and show a studied disdain for the trappings of the average person’s life.

If you are not in a position to be harmed by the actions you champion, you should be very circumspect about suggesting them, never mind agitating actively for their implementation. I don’t give a fig if Warren Buffet thinks taxes are too low. All he’s saying is that he’s so rich and so old that he can afford to purchase a tax increase on me with the influence his money can bring.

The big ideas are all worthless, because they trample the little ideas. Make something better, right now, offer it to the public, and have it accepted without coercion. Then you’ve done something.

Billions of people you never heard of are making the world better for everyone right now, most without knowing it, and they stand on the shoulders of billions of others dead and gone. Even with the ebb and flow of reactionary politics and out-and-out barbarism, we go forward, but hardly notice. Let me give you an example.

I used to paint buildings for a living. I worked for people that were decidedly old school, even for then, which is now pretty old school itself. We still used wooden extension ladders with round rungs and fiber ropes. The credential that such painters have, or had, mostly, was shown on the trucks as a license number. People mistook it as a license to apply coatings. It was a “Rigger’s License.”

The test for a Rigger’s License looked like FDR typed it himself. You had to know all sorts of mathematics about how much strain various ropes could handle, know about block and tackle and various other things that would have the guy behind the counter at the Rent-a-Center laughing and going: Dude, the scissor lift is over there for $200 per day.

So there were knots. Lots of knots. I did some boating later, and there were more knots. There is nothing more contrary than a knot. They were always slipping and dumping stuff on the road. People fumbled and argued over them. A lot of time and trouble goes into something as mundane and invisible to the general public as a knot to fasten down cargo.

Someone clever stamped two pieces of steel into a shape.

That tools is a rudimentary and elegant as a wheel or a lever. A talking head on the network news wouldn’t know if it was any different from an infomercial for Hits from the Seventies eight tracks. It cost 7 or 8 bucks. I feel as though I’m a Cro-Magnon man and a feller walked up to me and said: This stuff from the lightning strike is hot; maybe we can use it for something.

New Logo

Here’s Sippican Cottage Furniture‘s new logo:

I have a larger one, too:

That is to say: if you don’t hate it.

Update: Gerard’s handy to have around:

Month: September 2008

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