A Highly Researched and Completely Accurate History of Halloween

Halloween is derived from Sahmain, pronounced Sow min, a Celtic festival celebrating Celtic New Year. So, Halloween is really just Celtic New Year's Eve. 2,000 years ago, back in what is today Ireland, Scotland and Northern France, Celts would get together and bob for corned beef and make candied cabbage in preparation for the coming hard winter of hard drinking.

Eventually, the church stepped in, because, you know, they're the church, and made November 1 All Saints' Day. Later that was changed to All Souls day because saints became fewer and less impressive as the 19th century progressed. At one time to be canonized, one had to heal blindness or speak directly with God. As the age of enlightenment advanced, people became saints just for waiting patiently behind someone in the express lane with 14 items, paying by check.

Meanwhile, in South and Central America, Latin cultures celebrated Dia de la Muerte, another celebration of dead people, in which children and adults alike dressed up as ghosts to blend in with the walking dead in the hopes they wouldn't be recognized as living and dragged off to the netherworld. This festival continues today as the age of enlightenment has not yet hit this part of the world.

As these two cultures converged on the U.S., forming the backbone of our society by becoming the  migrant workers, drug dealers, pimps, busboys, cops, mobsters and wife abusing alcoholics that make our country great,  today's Halloween festival took shape. Traditions once inherent to one culture of origin merged into what we now see as our annual harvest festival. For instance, the Latins brought their unique fruit picking abilities allowing bobbing for apples to replace the traditional bobbing for corned beef.

Costumes, too, became normalized. Instead of dressing in celebratory garb or as a ghost or ghoul, modern times saw the emergence of costumes celebrating our culture's heroes; such as the "naughty nurse" and Richard Nixon.

Children, once the stars of the modern Halloween costume tradition are now often disallowed from dressing up at all. Schools, which only 20 years ago took off the entire day to have parties and parades for the children to show off their costumes now largely ignore the holiday as it has been deemed offensive to the large population of Celts and Ancient Incas still in America, today.

Trick or treating itself is the product of a confluence of ancient cultures. For instance, those crazy Celts called it "souling". Poor children, referred to as "Lambs of God" would wander from house to house, accepting alms in return for prayers and songs in honor of the dead. Mysteriously, many of these so-called Lambs never returned back to the common house after souling and early November's mutton stew was said to be the best of the season and revered throughout the culture.

 This "corpse caroling" evolved into Christmas caroling, where tone deaf people drinking brandy besiege whole neighborhoods singing for handouts. Along with fruitcake and spending time with the in-laws, Christmas caroling is revered as much for its commonly held hatred than anything else.

Meanwhile, Trick or treating morphed into a less somber parade of costumed children racing through modern suburban streets under the protection of parents armed with six-packs of moderately priced beer in an effort to get home before being run down by the texting drivers and serial killers, which have by now become the two most prevalent personality archetypes of modern society.

An increasingly common disguise for the children is that of "the surly teenager". Likely because it costs so little to create, this costume is made up of ill fitting clothes that smell like cigarettes and some peach fuzz or stubble makeup. The children then wander around in a sullen fashion pretending not to enjoy themselves and acting ironically while they beg for candy. Often, the surly teens make several passes at each house, turning their act into a downright menacing routine if they are called out for the repeat visit by the home owner.

Modern fundamentalist Christians take issue with today's Halloween, citing its pagan roots as a reason why the holiday shouldn't be celebrated. This of course ignores the fact that all good things came from pagans, because at one time, prior to 2,000 years ago, everyone was either a pagan or a Jew. Pagans were by far the better partiers being that they eat pork and cheeseburgers and don't only have sex through holes in the bed sheets. There is also no pagan word for "attonement", but there are records of as many as 250 festivals per year celebrating debauchery.

Also, a growing number of Christians and secularists alike don't care for children associating death with joy and happiness, preferring instead to keep death as a mysterious and scary thing to be avoided at all costs if possible. In essence, modern parents often treat talking about death like they treat educating their children about sex - "avoid it if you can... good talk, scooter."

The people in this movement believe Halloween should be stopped completely, replaced with a fall "Childrens' Festival", because today's children don't apparently have a high enough sense of self-importance feeding their petulance.

Candy corn was created in the the 1930s by the government of the USA. A happy accident, candy corn was to originally be the vessel of lethal drugs for inmates on death row. However, the Supreme Court ruled candy corn to be unconstitutional, saying in effect, "Yes, you can kill a guy, but there is no way you can torture him by making him eat candied corn (as it was called at the time) to do it."

The government went on to produce 400,000,000,000,000,000 of the treats which are still in circulation to this day. No one knows precisely what would happen if one were to be eaten, as it never comes up.

Fully 25% of all the candy purchased and consumed in North America is done so for Halloween, bolstering the strength of the billions of dollar industry. Concerned parents are encouraged to parse out their childrens' gains carefully so as to avoid obesity and gut rot; because after all, the only way to get a candy bar the size of a fart is to dress up in costume and beg for it between the hours of 4pm and 8pm one night per year. The rest of the time, you can only find the full size and king size versions of the same candy which are held in wide disdain and aren't very popular at all.

Our modern festival of Halloween has a rich tradition borne of many customs and norms. As with many societal celebrations, Halloween came from many sources and was mashed, heated, twisted cajoled and, yes, eventually extruded into the candy bar shaped tradition that exists today, which we so richly could totally do without.

Songs in the Key of Life

Have you ever watched an unedited, or raw scene of a movie without the soundtrack? The music in the background of life is of major importance, though we seldom recognize that unless it becomes conspicuous in its absence.

I get disappointed when my life's soundtrack is less than optimal. For instance the other day, Glen Frey's 1980s hit "You Belong to the City", one of the world's worst ever songs was on the radio. I  snapped out of my driving coma about halfway through and changed channels just in time to hear the last three notes of a rare, live cut of Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter", one of the world's best songs.

This proves to a long held determination of mine. I am a radio loser. I obsessively scan up and down the dial in order to find the best song for the moment. Ruminate on that a second. I didn't say the best song. I said the best song -  for the moment.

Have I explained that I know I'm mentally ill?

I scan so much that Emily, on the occasion of traveling with me, brings ear plugs and a lot to do. This somewhat softens the utter annoyance elicited by my irrational behavior. This behavior pays off exactly often enough to keep me doing it - and not one time more. Yesterday right before turning into my neighborhood, I noticed the ominous color of the sky as "Hazy Shade of Winter", by Simon and Garfunkel started as if on cue. "Yes, it is", I said to Msrs. Simon and Garfunkel as though they could hear me.

But mostly it seems as if the only station I get is WEND. That's right, all the ends of all your favorite songs, all the time. WEND, the last word in radio. Ha. Get it?

I scan mostly because I don't want to miss whatever is on the other channel. I have the full-zoot hardcore satellite radio package and while listening to it, I can't help but wonder, "what's on the other channel?" Sure, maybe I'm listening to a good song, but what if there is a great song one or twenty channels away that is more perfect for this moment?

"Carefree Highway", by Gordon Lightfoot is a great song, but you don't want to hear it sitting in a line of traffic. Similarly, "I Want Candy" isn't appropriate for a fund raiser in support of Diabetes research.

Being mentally ill is hard. You should pity me.

I began this post several days ago and sat on it, because to illustrate my point, I had endeavored to make a comprehensive list of songs that I never skip over. That list became approximately 300 songs long and was still so incomplete as to be worthless.

I never even made it to Bob Dylan, incomplete.

It's clear that atop my various and sundry ailments of the mind that I am a hopeless music obsessive. I don't need help, or want it even. It just feels good to admit it.

I attended a funeral today for the grandmother of my friend Dave. I had not the pleasure of ever knowing the decedent; from the celebration of her long life and the people in attendance, I believe that was my loss. The service was typical of someone who had strong relationships, strong faith and strong community ties. There were people from all aspects of her full, rich life.

There were, as you may expect, a few tears; though there was much more laughter and camaraderie. What made it for me was the selected hymns. "How Great Thou Art" and "It Is Well With My Soul".
Everyone knows the former, but for those unfamiliar with the latter, I shall include here the end of the final stanza, which I believe will help you understand.

                       And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight
                       the clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

                       The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend,

                       even so, it is well with my soul! (Text by Horatio G. Spafford)

A wonderful selection by which to send off a beloved soul to the arms of her Savior.

That's all I'm saying here. Music is a gift of the universe to all mankind. It is a shame to waste our ability to hear and appreciate it on unworthy examples. Good music, like good people is all around you. And just as it is time well spent to surround yourself with good people, it is necessary to have an appropriate soundtrack playing at all times.

That's why I am proud to be born an obsessive scanner and I'll die an obsessive scanner! Maybe literally... you can miss a lot of what's going on out the windshield by looking at the radio too much.

"How do I know a song is perfect for the moment, Bill", you ask? It's the one that when it starts, you reflexively have the physical reaction that you were hoping for... and maybe an involuntary, "Yes!" comes out of your mouth.

In no other way can man feel more in line with the universe.  But don't listen to me... I'm clearly a nut.

Blog title credit: Stevie Wonder

Here Comes the Sun

Richie Havens, bless his recently departed soul, is grating his way through his wonderful, acoustic version of the Beatles' classic, "Here Comes the Sun" on my office speakers. If you aren't familiar, you owe it to yourself to check it out.

Up until this moment, today has been one for the rubbish bin. But, something about this wonderful, classic song, written by the self-actualized George Harrison just may give me a reason to adjust my brightness setting. Havens interprets this song brilliantly. To my ear, there is no better performance of this piece -  not even by the Fab Four themselves - than Mr. Havens'.

Richie Havens was the hero of Woodstock. As the festival's first act, he performed brilliantly. And when the acts to follow were delayed by the sea of humanity descending upon Yasgur's Farm, he continued to perform. And perform. And perform some more for over three hours and many encores - at least some of which were totally ad-libbed.

I wonder if any of today's music idols could do that? Actually, I don't wonder. But for a precious few the answer is a resounding "no."

Not that it should be considered easy. Ever tried to sing a song around the campfire that everyone knows? It seldom goes well. Now imagine that same group following only the direction "follow my lead". Cue train wreck. Performances such as these are art being created in front of the masses, for the masses. That we have the ability to record these, essentially capturing lightning in a bottle is no small miracle insofar as I am concerned.

I don't know where I would be without these magical minutes. On a day where the stress is high, the wind whips around my door and I hear the angry raindrops asserting themselves on my roof, "Here Comes the Sun" isn't just a song. It's a prayer of hope. A praise for salvation. An unrelentingly positive message of faith that cannot be misconstrued.

Today. Right now. You're down. Life is hard. Peace and love hard to come by. The phone will ring and people will darken your door bringing to you news you don't want to hear, tasks you don't what to do, challenges that make you feel impotent.

But, it will be over soon. See? Little Darlin' It's been a long, cold, lonely winter. Little Darlin', it feels like years since it's been here. Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun and I say... it's alright.

Thinking (about the) Inside (of the) Box

The weather here in southwest lower Michigan has been improbably wonderful this early fall. I found myself looking for excuses to leave my office to go outside so I could pace up and down the walk out front to feel the sun on my face while I made phone calls.

I love my office. But for not having a window or skylight it is perfect. My company is housed in a building that used to be an old Hudson dealership from the early 1920s. It has 30'  half-circle vaulted ceilings and is framed by riveted pig iron trusses that span the width of the wide open space in the middle which used to be the showroom and garage area.

My office itself is big with a big desk and lots of storage. There is room for a separate conference table for collaborative work. There are plenty of file drawers so I can stay organized. It has a high, high ceiling. It is right across from the kitchen, which is where we keep the food and the coffee, which are two of my all-time favorite things.

I have wireless bluetooth speakers on which plays music nearly 100% of the time I am in residence. Since my space is a little off the beaten path, I sometimes jam the music. Some songs require being jammed. It's state law.

The walls are painted a nice, soothing blue; my favorite color. There are pictures of the people and things I love interspersed throughout. Just to prove I am a worldly cosmopolite, there is a large black and white photo of Manhattan's Central Park, pictures of our travels to Europe and some of the more exciting places in our own land, and old-timey maps of famous Michigan locales.

It would not take long for someone to size me up by looking at my office. Or rather, it wouldn't take long to size my wife up. She's the one who put it all together for me. If left to my own devices, I would have no pictures, the walls would be swathed in an indifferent coat of "whatever" and I would be fine. This is because of my unending laziness and indifference.

My journey to a place where I finally had an office is Homeric in scope with many tales, some fraught with intrigue and missteps. Ok, that's not at all true. But c'mon, does it sound nearly as compelling to write that "my career track has been nonstandard and includes many unique circumstances"?

I began working in a corner work station in a conference room. All the managers were there. It was a fun, collaborative environment and we made the most of our times in the office together. We helped each other and formed relationships.

I like it, except that it was our only conference room, which meant that we got displaced when there was a meeting, or a client, or whatever. There was also never leaving anything on your desk, since the room was multipurpose. While I habitually keep a tidy desk, I cannot say there is NOTHING on it.

Then, the desks went away. We struggled, like so many companies in the Detroit area in the late aughts and there was no need for multiple desks - or managers. We went from five to two. I consider myself to be lucky to be one of those two. But among the many consequences of downsizing is there was precious little time to be at the office when you are fighting fires in the field.

I had no perch, nor mooring. My Mercury Grand Marquis was my mobile office. I was as a store bought P.I., with my vaguely cop-car looking, file folders on the front seat toppling, all night stakeout having self. In 2009, I logged 53,000 miles for work. A record for me.

When I left operations and went into sales and marketing, I began principally working from home, though I did work out of one office rather consistently in our St. Joe location when I just had to "go in" to work. Though over time, that office was usurped and used as file storage, so it was back to the conference room for me.

I fondly refer to working from home as the "golden times".  Even though at home, my desk was a girly sort of affair from Pier One in the guest room. It is a nice piece of furniture for occasional use, but as an everyday appliance, it left something to be desired. And there was that fact that whenever we had guests, I was displaced.

Sensing a pattern?

Meanwhile, Emily also worked from home. A few years hence, we bought her a desk that we built in the room like a ship in  a bottle. It is the size of an aircraft carrier. I was so jealous.

We have different organizational techniques, my wife and I. My dresser is littered with things that don't have a place, clothes yet to be put away and other detritus. It is a "transitional" space for me. Emily does not have such a compunction. My excuse is that I live out of a suitcase, so I am kind of in that mode, even when I am at home.

Her desk, unlike mine however, is a vast wasteland of piles. Piles in strata which can be aged by gauging the depth of yellowing of the papers and number of wrinkles of the magazines that form them. Piles on piles between piles next to piles.

And she had the space to do it  on her giant ersatz cherry wood desk, too big for the room or her needs while I limped along on Polly Prissy Pants' "My First Desk".

Emily stopped working from home when her job changed. As such, I had designs on assuming her former office. No need for two home offices taking up both guest rooms. And, frankly since my work was the engine of our family economy, I figured the good, big desk was my right.

It took six months to convince Em of that. And when we finally made the change, we did it grandly. Because nothing can ever be easy, we removed all the furniture, (yes, the desk too), stripped the walls, fixed the plaster, repainted, cleaned the carpet and re-engineered the layout to make it a more functional space, (and masculine), space.

It took a month to do and  I was in the office all of a month before, surprise, my job changed. Working from home would now be the exception rather than the rule. And concurrently with all this, Greg moved in for a spell and that dainty little lady desk is now in the basement along with the disused hideaway Singer sewing machine desk that's probably worth like a gajillion dollars, to make room for him.

So, my office, which used to be her office is now our office. Or, "the office" as we simply refer to it. I finally got a nice, brown, masculine room with manly knick-knacks, (like a Corvette shaped bourbon decanter, a globe and  a chess set), only to lose it, again.

I worked from home yesterday. After 45 minutes of shifting piles to carve out enough space for my broad shoulders and little laptop. Emily said, "did I make a mess of your desk?" to which I replied with a cockeyed grin, "It's our desk now."

But the blow is softened a bit as I finally have an office at my office. I got to chose it myself, like a big boy, and Emily and our friend Jenny, (also the wife of the company owner and my boss), graciously painted and decorated my new space. They even took into account my suggestions and wishes, which may be a first in human history. I lock it when I am not there. It belongs to no one else. If you look hard enough, you will find a globe and a bottle of bourbon for one of those "just in case" moments among the other, more sentimental accoutrements. I suppose there is even room for a chess set or 50. It really is a big office.

All this may seem like it should not be a big deal, but is to me. After all, aren't we all just looking for a place to call our own? A place that is home base for our thoughts and dreams and wishes? What if you have a lot of all of those, but no place to ruminate about them grandiosely?

It just never seemed right. But, that's all over now. At least for now. If history has taught me anything it's that I best not get too comfortable with the status quo. For in my life, the status quo is a lot like common sense... it's rare as fine gems and a nebulous as a dream in the middle of the night.

What I Am

Some arguments have no winners and shouldn't be arguments at all. Like vehemently asserting that Leonard Cohen is a better singer than Tom Waits, when we all know it's Bob Dylan who takes that cake.

I find it's good to lead off a blentry with a joke that 7 people worldwide understand and only I will think is funny. It's like I'm wrapping the reader in a warm hug and whispering, "I'm smarter and more cultured than you are and therefore clearly superior..." Who wouldn't think the world of that?

Well, I had one of those the other day. Not an argument, but a phone call from a professional subordinate, (I hate that word, but it's apt in this case, hence the descriptor and caveat "professional"), regarding why I made the decision I made.

"I understand", she said, time and time again. "I just don't understand why."

I admired the chutzpa and told her so. Eventually, I repeated myself in enough different ways that she understood. Or she relented and decided to cut and run. I never am sure which, since when it comes to arguing, I can go for miles.

I have been taking a number of personality inventories lately as part of my goal to find out how best to master each situation I am in by asserting myself without rolling over people. How can I tell you I'm not altogether happy with your results without making you feel like you are a failure as a person? These are good things to know.

One of them is a DISC assessment where each letter represents one broad personality style. No style is right or wrong and no one is completely in one section naturally, and everyone has some ability to adapt to a different style as needed, even if only temporarily.

My classification, of course, is the best one. Again, there are no "bad" classifications, but three of them are clearly subordinate (no caveats there, one might notice) to the one.

I am a mighty "D."

Here is what the assessment has to say about "Ds":
Direct, demanding, firm, ambitious, independent, communicative, outspoken, competitive, strong-willed and motivating.

All good things. The best things. I can't see why anyone would want to be anything else. What a blessing for me to be  a "D".

It goes on to say:

"[He] is demanding and pushy and can be unyielding... He is not a very patient listener."

Well,  this is just a dumb old test, after all. No one is perfect. Or even close. But "Ds" are sure close.

But, wait... I notice that up there where there are words that describe me in all my glorious near-perfection there is nothing about compassion. Or loving. Or, gasp, kind! I don't think I  lack any of those things in my natural state! This test is all a load of hooey!

Which leads to my point, 14 paragraphs in - Take that English professors! There is such a thing as too much self-awareness. It can make your head spin and interject doubt into areas where before you had nothing but confidence.

Everything is shades of gray. There really are no rights and wrongs here, all hubris aside. The important thing from what I can tell in my 38 years of life is simple to state if not simple to do. Make every interaction you have with every person make them feel like a better person and happy to have spent the time with you, every time.

Wow. That is hard. It's especially harder for me the less I know someone. I had a long day yesterday. I have replaced multiple people over my time within my organization; I have those persons' phone numbers forwarded to me so as not to miss calls from valued customers, etc. More often than not, however I am receiving calls from friends, charities, bill collectors, elderly parents who possess neither the knowledge to remove an old number from their files nor the mental fortitude to remember which number is the current one, bill collectors,  drug dealers and/or consumers, people leaving four minute voicemails in fluent, unceasing Italian and bill collectors.

I got nine rapid fire calls from a Kentucky number, the last finally culminating in a voicemail. "Hi, Bill, I'm looking for ___________. If you know how I can get a hold of him, will you please call me back at ___________."

Each time she called, she got my "Hi, this is Bill," voicemail. Did she think she misdialed exactly the same way each time eight times, finally on the ninth time coming to grips with the fact that repeating her behavior wasn't going to connect her to _____________ ?

I did not return the call. I'm a busy man, being a "D" and all. Flash forward to dinner time. That's right, after 13 hours, I gave up work for 45 minutes to have dinner and watch the Tigers game, which was a fustercluck of the highest order that bears not the dignity of further discussion. Wouldn't you know it, just as the pizza rolls and chicken strips were ready to come out of the oven, the phone rings.

It's Kentucky. I picked it up, mad. Acting mad. Sounding mad. Being mad. A sweet southern voice on the other end, a woman sounding about the age of my own dear, sainted mother, and not the same voice as the woman who left a message earlier, said, "Hi, with whom am I speaking?"

To which I responded in a loud voice which betrayed my anger, "Who is this, you called me?"

I was expecting a bill collector. Even though I am not in love with the memory of some of the people whose phones I now have, I am not a dirty person... no way am I going to be nice to a bill collector.

The nice, motherly, southern lady on the other end stammered something about calling to get a reference for someone who had applied for a job and was looking for _______________ and she said, (now through what I think may have been the quavering of tears), "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

I couldn't switch gears so fast. So I said I was sorry to be short, that I'd had a rough day, and I was annoyed by all the phone calls for someone else and... and... and. But I said it in the same nasty, staccato voice I answered with, which must have been humorous to watch, had it not been so heartbreakingly rude and sad.

And this in the midst of my goal to, how was it that I put it earlier? Oh yes, "Make every interaction you have with every person make them feel like a better person and happy to have spent the time with you, every time."

Maybe the old slogan for Virginia Slims cigarettes should have said "You've got a long way to go, baby." I know I do. I'm just sorry I had to remind myself of that at the expense of some matronly southern woman who innocently walked onto a green field only to step on a mine.

Tangled Up in Blue (and Maze)

By my nature, I was reluctant to go, because I don't like the stress of crowds and I didn't want to see one of those games where the big team beats up on the little team so mercilessly that you begin to feel embarrassed. But, when good friends asked if we'd like to have a day trip and go See U of M play Akron, we knew we would have a good time in spite of it all.

And it was a beautiful day. Traffic getting in to Ann Arbor was a non-issue. We sat on the roof deck of the parking garage in the morning sun having a nice tailgate smorgasbord and listening to '80's music.

The sea of humanity wearing maze and blue was truly a spectacle. Each and every one, filing in past parties in the houses on each side of the street marching toward their purpose. Beer pong. Beer drinking. Gorgeous co-eds with blessedly high self-confidence beaming. All moving steadily and surely toward "the Big House" like a wave of confidence.

That same wave of confidence makes me not a natural Michigan fan. It's too easy. Like rooting for the Yankees or Manchester United, or I don't know, the Red Wings.

With the exception of the Red Wings and the Tigers, I pretty much root for the underdog. It seems like I am drawn inexorably to the underdog. The scrappy fighters who seem to always lose. Except when they don't lose, which creates an unstoppable wellspring of positive energy that can last for days. When that slot pays off, it's almost seems worth the years of struggle and tenacity it took to get there. Never mind you lost your house and family in the process. You won!

When the big guys win, it's satisfying. Like a steak at Ruth's Chris, it had better be good. But if you had that same steak at Denny's, you'd talk about it for months.

Since U of M varitably killed my alma mater CMU 59-9 only two weeks hence, I didn't think the Akron Zips, a fellow MAC team to my Chippewas would fair well, either. Which would have been fine with me, as I bear no allegiance either way. It would be easy to "hail hail" half my heart through one game.

As we walked in, we were astride the huge and impressive U of M marching band. They form into ranks like a military caisson might have back in revolutionary war days. The drum line unceasingly vamping its long cadence while the band marches and chatters something about being awesome, only a few words of which I could understand. Most of those were, Michigan. Fight. Kill. Destroy. Victory... you know, football stuff.

It's a long walk into the stadium, but it was made short by the joviality of mood, the awesomeness of the band and the peculiarly gorgeous fall Michigan weather. Good seats. Good friends. Good weather. All was in place as I awaited the boring game in which we would leave somewhere in the third quarter because it would be over like eggs in a diner.

Not so, sayeth Akron who came to play. And they did play, delivering a true nail biter that had the over 100,000 fans in attendance on their feet. Many prayed. Some couldn't watch. You would expect noise, but the silence was deafening as the game literally came down to the last play. Time stood still and one could suddenly feel the theory of relativity in practice as the collective inhaling of massive humanity sucked the air out of the giant bowl and time-stood-still.

The roar of the crowd when the pass fell incomplete and Michigan had won the game was something of a magnitude my mere words couldn't possibly explain. If only out of bald entitlement, rather than any demonstrated talent, Michigan won. And I found myself hugging and high-fiving and shouting "yes!".

No, I am not especially a Michigan fan. I won't be after this game, either. But I sure did have a good time watching Akron bring it to them. And I enjoyed them hanging on, persevering and emerging victorious. I got the game I wanted to see. A game. A real, hard fought game replete with suspense, drama and unremitting concern over the outcome until the last second dripped away.

And I formed a respect for the Akron Zips who punched in a higher weight class and very nearly pulled off the upset. I hope their bus ride home was a good one because they had nothing be be ashamed of. They fought hard. They fought like I wish my Chippewas had just a couple weeks ago.

I knew we would have a good time. I knew we would be in good company. The local news media had assured me we would enjoy fair skies. What I didn't expect was how, by the end of the game, my half-hearted "hail, hail" became fully punctuated and forcefully issued "Hail!" "Hail!" as though somehow, I had actually come to mean it.

...The Final Frontier

I read just now that the spacecraft Voyager has broken through the heliosphere of our Milky Way, the galaxy, not the candy bar and is in interstellar space. I doubt most of us have any comprehension of the magnitude of this fact, even if intellectually we understand what the term interstellar space represents.

Our galaxy is a pinwheel shaped affair. It is not especially large by galactic measure, it is indeed pretty average, but for the fact that humanity in its total exists there. This fact, depending on whom you ask may very well make our galaxy below average. But, I digress.

We are located well out of center of the mass. It's easier to see a picture, so thanks to Ecology Global Network (www.ecology.com), I have one.

Voyager embarked in 1977. It has been out there for 36 years, traipsing our solar system from Earth, out past the planets and is quietly beeping away to no one and nothing in particular in the vast blackness of space.

I remind you, this is not the space we see from our night sky. This is not the deep black between the stars of Orion's belt, or the void that is being scooped by the dippers.

This is the void of space. This is space between galaxies. This is the space between space.


The nearest galaxy to where Voyager is now is 2.5 million light years. Imagine that next time you have to park in the last row at Wal*Mart. Voyager is 1.25 million light years away from the middle of nowhere. The sign warning of last gas was billions of miles and 36 years ago.

To further enhance your understanding of the scope of distance, or your to make your mind explode, a light year is the distance you travel in one Earth year if you are traveling at the speed of light. Voyager is not traveling at the speed of light. Voyager is traveling at a little over 38,000 mph. Not bad! That would cut down the old commute for sure. The speed of light, however is 670,616,619 mph, or thereabouts, meaning Voyager is traveling at .00005666436742 % of the speed of light. In other words,Voyager is the Prius of interstellar space travel. Built for distance, not speed.

How does NASA know where Voyager is? Well the sensors aboard the craft that measure plasma density broke 30 years ago. Of course they did. My plasma density sensor was barely out of the box when it broke. That was a bad Christmas morning, but I digress. And since there are no warranty centers out there in the universe, Voyager forged ahead without them.

But, the men and women of NASA and JPL, (the jet propulsion laboratory), don't let a little thing like total failure of a component to stop them. Anyone remember when they had to train those guys from Lenscrafters to be astronauts and go fix the Hubble telescope? What they did was time Voyager's distance from two known cosmic events. These events, in the form of solar flares, made an impact that could be quantitatively sensed from Voyager. Based on the time we know they happened and the time they hit Voyager, we have an approximate dead reckoning of where she was. Also, there was a shock to the craft that NASA presumed (rightly it turns out), was the zone where the solar wind became subsonic, out to the fringe of the galaxy.

This was all back in August of 2012 and NASA guessed Voyager had broken through. But, that wasn't good enough. This is NASA after all, and "guessing" isn't so much in the vocabulary, though they are prone to rounding errors, (see Hubble reference). In fact, they may be the only governmental organization that can actually look you square in the face when they tell you something without snickering... I know, digressing.

So, how then did they determine that Voyager was no longer in our galaxy? There are antennae that vibrate at a certain frequency due to the density of plasma that the craft travels through. They measured the vibrations of the antennae and voila no vibration = no plasma. "Straightforward" one NASA scientist said while he cooly realized he was the smartest man ever.

Conclusive was the evidence. Voyager is out in the infinite of infinites.

An unfathomable distance from here on this planet, is a spacecraft that weight about as much as a 1977 Volkswagen Rabbit and could fit in a 12' X 12' box, excluding those vibrating antennae. It silently swoops through the vacuum of space off to its destiny, forgotten or never known by many. All the while it maintains something akin to wide-eyed wonder, reporting back all it can capture using all its sensors.

It does not know that it left behind genocide, war, hatred, greed, the corporate rape of people and riches, scarring of the land, the last episode of The Sopranos and whatever other cataclysm wrought by humanity tugs are your particular heartstrings.

Nietzsche said that God is dead, murdered at the hand of humanity. If I had to learn to spell his name before graduating kindergarten I might have a negative outlook on life, too. But here we are, with our foibles and shortfalls, still quietly endeavoring to not just solve the mystery of our place in this universe, but to learn what the mystery even is.

The whole thing reminds me of Star Trek. And why wouldn't it? According to Wikipedia, the bastion of truthiness and unassailable know-it-all of the interweb, the plot of Star Trek, the Motion Picture (1979) is as follows (with some additions by the author):

...At the heart of the massive invading ship, V'Ger is revealed to be Voyager 6, a 20th-century Earth space probe believed lost, like Cubs fans hopes of winning a pennant. The damaged probe was found by an alien race of living machines that interpreted its programming as instructions to learn all that can be learned, and return that information to its creator who would store the information somewhere in his attic and get to it after Breaking Bad ends. The machines upgraded the probe to fulfill its mission, and on its journey the probe gathered so much knowledge that it achieved consciousness... it finds its existence empty and without purpose, like every fast food worker, ever. ...V'Ger insists to meet the Creator in person, which is akin to a human screaming 'why God, why?' and expecting an answer. The machine wants to merge with its creator, because, you know, the writers needed and ending. Decker [played by the Dad from Seventh Heaven] offers himself to V'Ger... creating a new form of life that disappears into another dimension, because you know, the writers needed an ending. 

In other words, "Holy Sh*t, that Sh*t is coming true." Which may mean that someday soon, man is no longer cruel to man. Like Star Trek. And that man has united to overcome the greatest shortcomings of humanity and attained a higher level of being. Like Star Trek. And that anyone can sleep with a totally hot bald alien lady if he wants to. Like Star Trek! And that fat people in the future will be accepted for their bodies and wear lycra onesies as proof of their self-confidence. Like Star Trek!

I said to Emily at dinner the other night, "I think I'm glad I won't be around for 'the future'. I don' think I'd like it." Knowing that our future has been unquestionably foretold by a movie produced in the same time period as Voyager itself, which as I write is probably now meeting up with the alien machines and learning all it needs to know becoming compelled  to come home to daddy, pissed off and disillusioned and ready to hurl blue balls of energy destroying anything in its path, is enough to make me want to try to stick around.

Beside that, I rather like the feel of lycra on my body.