A letter to the Secretary of the Smithsonian has given me renewed hope that our government can’t be bought out by just any old special interest party. The House of Representatives Committee on Appropriations has negatively addressed the secret deal made with Showtime to let them have first right of refusal, essentially an exclusive contract to the holdings of the Smithsonian.

The Subcommittee requests the Board of Regents to immediately review this contract to determine whether it violates the spirit if not the letter of the Smithsonian Trust and to consider changes to the contract which would fully guarantee that its terms are limited to a narrow set of programs and not a bar to other legitimate commercial filmmakers who we believe have the right to reasonable access to the collections and staff. The Subcommittee requests that this matter be brought to the attention of the Board of Regents at its May 2006 meeting and that a response be provided to the Committee regarding these concerns within 90 days.

In addition to our concern about this particular contract, we would be concerned about any future agreements that are negotiated in secret, without Committee consultation, which commercialize Smithsonian resources or which appear to essentially sell access to Smithsonian resources. While the Committee recognizes that budget shortfalls, in particular the need for funds to repair and maintain an aging infrastructure, require the Smithsonian to be aggressive and imaginative in its fund raising, these actions are often controversial and raise the risk of damaging both Congressional and public support for the Institution.

Previously addressed here:

It’d be a good show indeed if the American people actually won out in this case, that the treasure not end up in the hands of the well monied, big business, special interest juggernaut.

Earlier today I was playing a little guitar. Both literally and euphemistically. I have a small guitar that I played for a short while. Get it? Anyways, I did so not realizing the full impact of the notes I was choosing. Silly me, I thought I was just having a bit of jazzy improvisation but I didn’t realize just what I was conjuring up.

Despite a small bit of musical education and a fondness for Black Sabbath I had completely forgotten about the Devil’s Interval! And here I was playing it quite extensively too. Sure I know the note by it’s sound, I had just forgotten what a dangerous thing it was until later reading the article! It’s probably where the sulfuric smell came from that wafted through. The gates of hell were cracking loose!

The particular note in service to the dark master is one that I generally consider to be half way between the octave more so than being a flattened fifth or sharp forth. But names are more relative to what you’re doing in terms of the music theory behind it. For me it’s just a handy sound to have and when I play I think sound, not theory. It causes a very unstable sound but easily resolved one step up or down as the two notes next to it relate very squarely back to the root note of what ever key or chord you’re playing. So one step of change takes you from hell straight back to the pearly gates of consonance and smooth harmonization.

That flattened fifth is a dangerous note! The leaders of the day said so back in the middle ages, back when they might not known much about science but were pretty straight up on all matters religious. The note was in cahoots with Satan himself. And with my appreciation of dissonance in music I was practically having a musical black mass with flattened fifths flying around left and right like rabid bats on Samhain.

The idea that this note was basically banned back in the day is crazy! It’s just a note, not a religious invocation. But much like jazz itself in the early days, when it was considered a music of wanton rebellion and moral decay, the flattened fifth had its share of detractors. Every society and time has its evils, rational or not. Thankfully it’s neither the 1920s or the middle ages, though I’m sure I’m doing plenty that’ll upset someone today only to have their children or children’s children snicker at their prudishness in years to come.

Sleep came at 12:30 and left at 4. Three and a half hours isn’t enough. I’m having a bit of anxiety about the upcoming end of the month and am stressing about all the things that need to be done. Not to mention the minor non-stop freakouts about becoming a nomad and worrying about how that’ll work out!

Yesterday I spent the entire day packing, sorting, selling, cleaning, moving and storing. Will I be able to get the important stuff into storage? Will I be able to sell the other stuff for a fair price? How many trips to my sister’s house will I need to make at $20 in gas per round trip to bring garage sale stuff out there? Already I’ll need to clear at least $40 to make it a worth while venture but I’m doubting I can justify many more trips. And that’s not even taking into account the value of my time either. I’m seriously considering just calling a charity to come take my excess away and cut my losses early. Most of my stuff just isn’t that exciting or valuable so I’m not sure if I can recoup on the venture.

After waking I took a shower. This was perhaps not the best thing to do as my anxiety increased a bit when I realized how much I appreciate a good ol’ fashioned unlimited duration hot water shower. Things will be far more rustic in the van and “real” showers will be at truck stops and camp grounds. This is a far cry from a home, anyone’s home, and the piece of mind it gives. No need to wonder who all has been in that shower, the million and one diseased lepers who showered before you. No, the people who own that home based shower and the nice people that let you into their home. You know them, they know you and there’s a bond of trust. Not so with random camp grounds and truck stops. Those showers are used by pus dripping gangrenous perverts with halitosis and bunions.

Normally a shower is a relaxing respite. This one however was not so calming. I was running through my list of things to do. There’s so much to wrap up before the end of the month. It’s just crazy! This non-stop laundry list of actionable items was the secondary stream falling on me in my shower. But unlike the water these droplets didn’t roll off my back and are now weight on my shoulders.

This is how the homeless roll in Palm Springs. Just look at the whip this baller rides!

Stolen from: Palm Springs Life

Maybe my van getting about 10.5 mpg city and 14.5 mpg on the highways isn’t so bad after all. It’s nearing 200,000 miles it’s still going and probably will for a good many more. I wonder what the total energy cost will be for it in the end. CNW Marketing Research Inc. tallied up the total energy impact of various vehicles and if they’re to be believed the hybrid cars now out there will ultimate cost more to the environment than the standard versions they replace.

This supports my long standing hypothesis that hybrid cars are not the answer. When they first came out I looked at their mechanical complexity and saw the high cost of engineering those new components and the environmental costs of machining them and wondered if the net result is worthwhile. According to CNW, it’s not.

Car and Driver has a nice wrap-up about it.

And while many consumers and environmentalists have targeted sport-utility vehicles because of their lower fuel economy and/or perceived inefficiency as a means of transportation, the energy cost per mile shows at least some of that disdain is misplaced.

For example, while the industry average of all vehicles sold in the U.S. in 2005 was $2.28 cents per mile, the Hummer H3 (among most SUVs) was only $1.949 cents per mile. That figure is also lower than all currently offered hybrids and Honda Civics at $2.42 per mile.

“If a consumer is concerned about fuel economy because of family budgets or depleting oil supplies, it is perfectly logical to consider buying high fuel economy vehicles,” says Art Spinella, president of CNW Marketing Research, Inc. “But if the concern is the broader issues such as environmental impact of energy usage, some high-mileage vehicles actually cost society more than conventional or even larger models over their lifetime.”

Personally, I’m waiting for completely alternate fuel vehicles that leave gas behind in the prehistoric age like the dinosaurs that made it.

I’m soaking up some of my free cable TV while I’m still housebound. Mostly by watching movies. The person I’m living with is a huge fan of TV and we have all the movie channels. I’ve long since written DVD rentals out of my budget so I’m normally catching up on Hollywood.

But at the moment I’m watching a fishing show. It seemed like a good idea as I have a fishing pole now and might be able to glean some info off it. But, instead I’ve been dismayed with what I have gotten myself into.

It’s a Babe Winkleman show and he talks about fishing, then when it comes time to cook the fish they turn to his wife. Oh just smack them all down! Did some exec at the station say, “you know, babe, that name is a little too effeminate. We have to reassure the viewer that you’re a manly-man so all the cooking needs to be done by your wife. The gender stereotypes must be preserved.”

Maybe I’ll need to paint my fishing pole pink so that I can fit in and get a guy to do all the yucky stuff like skewer the worm, remove the hook from the fish and clean it. Then I’ll cook it up, prepare him a plate and fetch him beer all night. Maybe I can even get pregnant and eschew shoes too.

For our own safety we should all just go live in our vans. Homes equal death. As recent news indicates living in traditional housing is clearly a very dangerous proposition. Living in that home of yours could very well cause your death and I’m sorry, you’ve been warned and I’ll not feel sorry for you. I’ll be sitting pretty in my van while the earth sucks you right up!
The article is shown in full below:

It was like a scene from a horror film: A 27-year-old man plummeted into a gaping hole that suddenly opened beneath a house, trapping him beneath foundation rubble and killing him.

Authorities say the home, built in the 1980s, may have been sitting atop a decades-old underground mine. Recent rains could have softened the ground under the home, in an isolated area near Lake Alta.

“It’s unbelievable,” Placer County Sheriff’s Department spokeswoman Dena Erwin said. “From the front of the house, it’s absolutely normal. Then, in the middle of the house, is this enormous hole.”

The victim was awake and on the ground floor about 9:30 p.m. Friday when the concrete foundation near the kitchen gave way, sending him plunging into to the ground, Erwin said.

Rescuers had trouble reaching him because the ground began to shift, creating an unsafe situation for work crews. Authorities returned to the home Sunday to try and remove the man’s body, though geologists were still testing the house’s soundness.

The man’s identity hadn’t been positively established.

Unfortunately there are no photos showing up at this time, but you can check google news here for updates that may have pictoral evidence.

Niece: I don’t know how you can do that.
Me: Do what?
Niece: use power tools like that.
Me: It’s easy, far easier than using  a hand saw.
Niece: But what about cutting your fingers off, aren’t you afraid?
Me: Terrified actually.
Niece: Then why do you do it? Why not use a regular saw?
Me: I’m afraid because I’m aware that I can cut my fingers off and therefore am hyper vigilant about being safe. As such, I don’t expect I’ll ever cut my fingers off.
[silence]
Niece: I don’t care, I’d never use one…
Me: Your elbow and shoulder must really hope that you’ll never need to cut anything.

I’ve had numerous people ask about my safety and are concerned for me while living in my van and being a homeless drifter. One has even broken into tears over possible harm to me. Another friend even gave me a can of some fancy police issue pepper spray she got from her brother the cop.

But mostly, I’m not concerned.

As I’ve lived in some ramshackle neighborhoods since 9/11 I’m used to dealing with the realities of high-crime neighborhoods. I’m used to hearing gun shots. I’m used to hearing screams. In one apartment I’d actively avoid going out after dark, especially after about 10pm. And if you live in a big urban area crime isn’t totally uncommon in the so called “safe” neighborhoods either! You need to live smart, reduce the opportunities for harm and know how to dial 911–if not for your sake than for the others around you.

Know the danger, respect the danger and avoid the danger. It doesn’t mean burying your head in the sand, it means moving ahead smartly. Complacency and ignorance is the most dangerous thing of all. Fear is a good thing! It’s your way of knowing to pay extra attention to something and make some smart choices.

Yes, I’m worried. But I’m not a risk taker, I practice risk management.

Of the video tapes I’m getting rid of I’m finding things that I recorded a decade or more ago and thinking, “oh, I should play this while I’m cleaning today…this was a fun movie.” Then I pop it in and hear this muddled sound and fuzzy, blurred picture and think, “what the hell were we thinking back then. The quality of the recording is unwatchable crap!”

My expectation of picture quality has changed radically. I haven’t been much of a television watcher since the 1980s, but still enjoyed movies and certain programming. But gosh, I can’t believe how easy we have it in the digital age! Pictures are razor sharp, the audio doesn’t require acute attention to decipher what is being said. This video tape was the audio/visual equivalent of eating overly hydrated tapioca. All mush, no substance.

The pre-recorded ones aren’t so bad. I might even watch one of those later tonight. But the ones I taped off cable are amazingly useless today. Out of curiosity I might have to pop in one of the tapes my brother gave me. It’s third generation dub recorded originally from an off the air broadcast of a BBC program. It’ll be curious to see if I can even make out an accent or the bad teeth.

My heart is totally, utterly and completely broken. Today I sold my most prized possession ever.

Back in the late 1980s I walked into a guitar shop with no intention of buying a guitar. But while waiting to talk to my salesdude I was checking out their latest additions to the used area. Low and behold, there it was. Looking every so curious I plucked the strings while I beamed at me from its hanger on the wall.

From that first touch I knew it’d be mine. I played it for a couple minutes and I realized this was one very special guitar. It played so easily and it sounded magnificently. By the time my salesdude was free I told him to write it up. This guitar was a fluke. I’m not prone to impulse purchases, ever. I’m the type to research and compare and price shop. Years ago, in the most direct comparison, it took about four months to buy a bass because I wanted to see what the market had to offer. Once I settled on a manufacturer and model I drove around finding every example I could find to pick the best one.

I know nearly nothing of the history of it. This guitar was pieced together from various parts. Back when the work was done the only way to get a guitar with these features was to have it built or have an existing one modified. The pace of the the market changes were racing ahead of the manufacturers. Now that it’s out of my hands how will I ever find another 30-something year old guitar like it? Especially one that sounds and plays like it? Answer? Never, and that’s just killing me right now.

This guitar was magic. Everyone who played it was in awe and I swore I’d never, ever sell it. It’s been my musical companion for 20 some years and I thought it’d be with me until my death.

…and then fate steps in.