Hey Emmett!

Star C. Foster 1973-2006 [Updated]

Well, this one is going to be pretty hard to write, and might take a while to get through, so bear with me.

I was in a mall tonight in New Jersey when my phone rang, from a number I didn't recognize. It was Tim Ryan, former bandmate and friend. Well, he's not a former friend, but you know what I mean. I was glad to hear from him, and I figured that he was making a general 'Merry Christmas' or perhaps a 'Happy Birthday' call. This was not the case.

He was calling to tell me that my ex-wife had passed away this morning. We'd only been married three years, but we'd been together a long time prior to that. I'm still kind of shocked and more than a little stunned by the entire news; Don't expect my usual cogent and biting writing this time around.

I loved her. Most everyone that met her loved her, or wanted to. When I met her, she was cautious and shy. Recently, not so much. It always felt to me that our divorce was something that needed to happen for the both of us -- For myself, to be who I really needed to be, to be who I was. I suspected the same was true of her, and it appeared as though I were right.

We were doing something one day, and I don't remember what it was. I fired off a brilliant insight into the conversation-space. As she often did, she took my legs out from under me with an incisive comeback. My brain locked up trying to come up with a good retort. I had nothing. Reaching down into my schoolyard days, I did the only thing I could -- Namecalling. Even this didn't work; She decided to take the childish name I'd call her and turn it into an international calling card: Sarcasmo.

Star wanted to be a writer. It's all she ever wanted. She wanted to write, and she wanted people to read what she wrote and be interested, enthralled and amazed at her ability to turn a phrase. It was what she did with every breath; Not just writing, but wanting to be writing. When she wasn't writing on the page, she was writing in her head. Short stories, novels, comics, television shows, movies -- These would fall out of her head and into conversation.

When I started writing online, she would say that it wasn't real writing. Real writing, she said, was in books. She always loved books. Trust me -- If you've ever helped her move (and we did it a few times), you knew she loved books. If you cut her, pages would fly out of the wound. I told her over and over again that writing online was just as legitimate. She would scoff and bring the coffee to her lips again.

She started blogging. It wasn't real writing, she said. It was something she did in order to just keep writing, to not stop. She never approached it the way I did. For me, writing online was a career thing, a job. A vocation. Journalism, opinion pieces, things like that. Star never wanted that. She wanted to find things on the internet, and share them with her friends. While I was lauded for being a 'community figure' for my writing on Linux and Open Source, Star knew what real community building was -- A labor of love; Something to share with her friends.

And friends she had. By the hojillions. People linking to her, her linking back. Her writing about something and thirty other people writing in response. Sarcasmo's Corner was just a goofy little thing she did for her friends -- A goofy little thing that went on to delight, interest, excite and intrigue people all over the world.

I know now that there is no sentient life anywhere else in the universe. If there were, they would have linked to Sarcasmo's Corner.

I hate writing about Star's writing, because if she were here right now, she would tell me that I was being 'too meta.' She would tell me the following things:

I. You are still a dick.
II. Remember -- I want no crying at my funeral.
III. No, I really don't think you should go, even though I gave you all sorts of crap for not wanting to go to funerals. Stay away from mine -- You being there would be drama, and drama isn't what I want at my funeral. I want dancing. See if you can privately arrange a disco ball.

I saw her about a year-and-a-half ago -- Something that thankfully never made it to her blog. I had gotten my driver's license and a big black Cadillac, and I wanted to show it off. I picked her up and we went to get a soda. I wanted to show off my cupholders, too. If I knew it was going to be the last time I saw her, I would have hugged her a little more, a little longer.

I don't miss her yet, but I probably will soon.

Friends of Star, you are hereby put on notice.

Write that book. Sing that song. Dance in the streets. Kiss people. Reject mediocrity and forge your own way. A brilliant woman's life ended this morning, and if she failed to inspire you, so be it. If she did inspire you (and she did, even if you don't know it yet), go out there and live the way she did. When you go to Rittenhouse Square, kiss that frog. She always did.

Addendum

Also? This wasn't the fucking plan. The plan was that we would get a divorce so we didn't end up killing each other, so we could be friends. So we could split up, grow in our own directions and eventually meet up again as friends, in our new and different lives -- To enjoy our company as new people, not two people that had spent the better part of a decade in each other's footsteps.

The plan was a good one. There was comfort, understanding, and much-needed distance. The plan has changed. It is not comforting, it is impossible to understand, and the distance is greater than anyone will ever know.

Of Course It's Wrong.

Here is a quiz:

12.6% of 300 million Americans live at or below the poverty line.

In 2001, 14,488 people were killed in drunk-driving accidents, which is about 41% of that year's automobile-related deaths.

20,000 people die every year from the common flu in the US.

In the city I live in (Philadelphia), there have been no less than 300 murders every year for the past few years, and this is down from 503 murders in 1999.

Just about 5% of all homicides are related to narcotics.

There are about 2,872 dead volunteers from the US military in the past three years, thanks to the War in Iraq.

Michael Richards lost his shit at the Laugh Factory and called a bunch of hecklers 'nigger.'

Imagine that you are in some way reponsible for addressing all of these concerns. Through a magical situation, you are allowed to dismiss just one of them as 'not particularly relevant at this time.' Which one do you pick?

Resorts Blackjack

I have been known from time to time to spend a few hours at the Blackjack table. This is because I love Blackjack. After a number of visits to Caesars in Atlantic City, I decided to poke around online and see where I could find cheaper tables. The minimum bid at a Caesars table on a Friday night tends to be about $25. I was hoping to find something a little less pricey.

And I did, at the Resorts Atlantic City, 1133 Boardwalk. They offered Double Attack Blackjack with a minimum bet of $10. Delightful! As some folks know, I typically avoid all Blackjack variants, but this one at least looked moderately entertaining.

It's essentially the same, except for the following differences: There are no ten cards in the deck. All the face cards are still there, but not tens. The 'double attack' is an additional bet you can play when you see the dealer's first card -- If the dealer shows a six, you'll want to put a bet in your 'attack' box, less than or equal to your original bet. There's also a side bet that you can make, if you feel like the dealer will break in three cards, but this has to be up there with your original wager. Player blackjack only pays 2:1, instead of the time-favored 3:2.

I love playing blackjack. I walked in there, cashed in a hundred bucks, and played on it for about four hours. It was my first night there, and I was playing from right around midnight to just around 4am. I was out much later than I expected to be, and I wasn't looking forward to the bleary drive home on the Atlantic City Expressway. The pit boss asked me if they could get me anything. I said, 'A room?'

He walked off, and about twenty minutes later, he told me that I could check in at the front desk, and my room was comped. I played a little more, and then I went up to sleep. My room was gigantic, had a nice view of the ocean, and had a wonderful huge marble bathroom. You've got to love nights like this.

I drove back home much later in the morning, and I've pretty much decided that if I'm going to gamble in Atlantic City again, it'll be at Resorts. The staff is friendly, and they seem to have avoided the 'Atlantic City' atmosphere. People are fun, friendly, smiling and ready to help you have a great time. It's the only casino I've played in AC that, well, doesn't feel like AC. Playing in Resorts was like playing at the Flamingo Hilton on the Las Vegas strip.

That's all for now. Sorry I haven't posted in a while. My shoulder pain is gone, and I'm back to the gym every day again. I'll try to post something tomorrow about the new toy I picked up on Saturday. :)

Pain/Lush

So, the other day I was in the grocery store. I pulled my shoulder, and at least part of my back. It hurts like a bitch. I wasn't doing anything dramatic at the time. It's not like I was lifting two gigantic sacks of rice, in order to throw them and thwart the plan of Aisle Three Evildoers. I was just walking, and all of a sudden -- ouch.

The pain was bad yesterday, but it subsided quite a bit today. I thought, 'Excellent! I will be in bed on time!' No. It hurts a lot right now, and it hurts when I breathe. It's my right shoulder and a good chunk of my back. If I were an angel, and I had wings, it feels as though my right one has been seriously yanked on in a bad way. Looking back on the previous sentence, I think this is why doctors probably don't like me very much.

So, yes. It's 2:28am, I'm in pain, and I'm hungry. I realize this is the first time I've mentioned that I'm hungry. I didn't even mention food in act one. What's not food but often smells like food, but you shouldn't eat it because it's not food? I'll tell ya -- Stuff from Lush.

Lush is a soap store, which is to say they sell soap, but they also sell a number of things like bath bombs and jellies and 'temple balms' and lip gloss and all kinds of ridiculous items for exorbitant prices. I picked up a few items from Lush's online store (you can Google yourself, can't you? Yes, you can. Good for you! I am so proud.), and I've been very pleased with them.

Fortunately, they opened a location right here in Beautiful Philadelphia! It's on Walnut street, and I don't remember what was there before, but I know that whatever was there probably needed to go, so I could have my local Lush store. Yes, yes, I know. Things suck downtown. I didn't used to think this, but ever since I started driving, I have learned that Philadelphia is not a good place to drive, especially if it's the aforementioned downtown. However, this store is right around the corner from a parking garage which makes Lush look like a Dollar Store by comparison.

At Lush I can spend ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculous items, but that pales in comparison to paying ludicrous amounts of money to let some guy drive my car into a faceless garage and park it somewhere within its concrete bowels. That doesn't actually cost anything -- The real money is in the retrieval of said car from said automotive crypt.

Lush reminds me of a store called 'Soapbox' that I went to at least three different lives ago. Soapbox was honest, real, forthright and awesome. I loved the place. Lush is a little more hippie, a little more flashy. Walking into Soapbox made me feel like I was walking into a local bar, and all my friends were there. Walking into Lush is kind of like walking into an Apple Store. They play techno, young beautiful women glide me from section to section, having me sniff beautiful fragrances. You can substitute 'efficient GUI' for 'fragrances' if you want -- Lord knows Steve Jobs probably does. Lush doesn't feel fake, it just feels like a cult. Probably because it's a cult.

Number of Lush Products I am using on a daily basis: Four. Ambrosia shaving cream, Cosmetic Lad aftershave/moisturizer, Happy soap and Cynthia Sylvia Stout shampoo. Some people rock out like eight different Lush products in a day. I think I'm going to keep it to four or five. I might try their toothpaste.

Hasn't this just been positively scintillating? Yes. (No.)

Onion Rings, Secreted

It has been mentioned that I have not been 'blogging' every day, so I will endeavor in the coming week to actually 'blog' every day. I found an interesting link to some site that has questions. Questions that you can answer on your blog! Research is my life!

So, here's a question:

What was the last thing you used a microwave for?

A difficult one to answer. I don't actually remember the last thing I've put into a microwave. On the other hand, on a visit to my mother's house within the past six months or so, she has used a microwave on my behalf to re-heat something she'd purchased at Whole Foods. I seem to remember thinking that it was some kind of soup.

Which kind of feeds into something else entirely. There's a bit of a running joke when it comes to my mother and the preparation of food for her darling boy. My mother is not a good cook. She's a much better cook than she used to be. Last fall she was big on making some chicken thing she saw on television, some kind of hearty deep-bone sausage and chicken medley. Whatever the hell it was, it was awesome.

Lately, I've been so busy that when I get to check in with Mom, we'll just go out to dinner at Roman Delight, an italian place in Abington. My mom worked there when she was in nursing school -- Hell, I worked there for a little while, too. Which leads to the running joke. When mom was in nursing school (a situation that lasted for most of my childhood -- she took the long way around by becoming an LPN and then movin' on up to RN), she'd go to school every morning. Every night, she'd work. When I was in elementary school, mom would roll in around 1am.

The running joke is my mother, coming in around 1, unbelievably tired from work and school, opening the door and saying, 'Hey, are you hungry?'

Then I say, 'Yeah, definitely.'

Then she says, 'If you're hungry, I think there's some onion rings in my purse.'

It never happened, of course. It was just a theatrical set-piece to remind us of the era. Whenever my mom asks if I'm hungry, I ask if there were onion rings in her purse. We're such characters.

For the record, I don't think that microwaves are all that great. They are fantastic at making microwave popcorn, and that's about it. Occasionally I'll see them in a department store, and think, 'Hey, I could re-heat something in this. This could be really good.' Then I remember that I'm essentially looking at a popcorn machine. This didn't stop me from wanting a bread machine.

Bread machine? Maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow.

Mission Control - 1:14am

It's nearly totally dead at Mission Control right now. Just a few people around. I am assuming they're on IRC.

<nasagrrl> dude its so quiet in here
<apollo11> totally, you want a twinkie from the vending machine?
<nasagrrl> naw I have granola bars
<mercury> yo, get me a jolt
<apollo11> you never paid me for the last one
<mercury> c'mon dawg im thirsty
<nasagrrl> drink from the vaporizer
<apollo11> lol
<mercury> ill pay you back, srsly
<apollo11> O RLY?
<nasagrrl> lolololol
<apollo11> mercury: I gave your jolt to the astronaut, they said it was hot
<nasagrrl> lololol
<mercury> u suck
<nasagrrl> its hot up there
<mercury> did u leave yet?
<nasagrrl> go yourself
<mercury> cant rite now
<nasagrrl> y?
<mercury> about to lvl up in WoW

Luck Be A Tribble - Part II

So, I'd contacted the seller about the book. She didn't know who Asimov and Theiss were, and she told me over the telephone that she never saw it -- And if she did see it, she wouldn't know what it was, anyway.

It turns out the seller (a woman named Sheila Vaden) was selling the paperbacks on eBay because they were doubles. She was buying large lots in order to build a complete collection of Star Trek and Star Wars books for South Cumberland Elementary in Crossville, Tennessee. There are 650 students there, and only one librarian. The kids like Star Trek and Star Wars books, so why not?

Needless to say, I've got a book signed by Isaac Asimov and William Theiss, and I just don't feel right having spent 75 cents for it. After all, they're not reproducible -- Both Isaac and William have shuffled off their mortal coil.

I asked Sheila if the library could use donations, and she gave me an emphatic yes. I'll be sending a check in their direction in her name. If I find a few extra bucks now and then, I'll be donating on my own behalf. In case anyone else would like to donate, here's the address:

South Cumberland Elementary School
3536 Lantana Road
Crossville, TN 38572
Attention: Toni Akers, Librarian. 

So, there you have it. The story of the autographed book. See you soon.

Luck Be A Tribble

Being in the position of coming to the last of the James Bond books, I decided that I needed more paperbacks around. Last week, I finished up a lot of work on production of Star Trek books for Audiofy, and it reminded me of how much I liked a lot of the older Pocket Books series.

I found a woman on eBay who was selling big lots of Star Trek paperbacks. I asked her if she would be willing to just send me a big box of Original Series paperbacks for a flat rate. She was, and today I received a big cardboard box of books.

I opened it and grabbed the first book that interested me -- A production guide and story of 'The Trouble With Tribbles,' written by David Gerrold. I opened the inside cover, and I found signatures. Specifically, the signatures of William Theiss (who designed the costumes for the original series) and Isaac Asimov.

Not a chance, I thought. I quickly hit eBay looking for other Asimov autographs, and from my untrained eye, it seems to be a match. This seems to be a legitimate signing. From my best guess, it seems that both William Theiss and Asimov were guests at a Star Trek convention in 1976. This could have been signed there. I also know damned well that people get all kinds of ridiculous things signed at conventions -- About a decade ago I had a guitar (that didn't belong to me) signed by a couple of Trek actors.

I've contacted the original seller. I have no idea what to do from here. There's no way she knew what she sold me, and I want to at least let her know so we can work something out.

Pandora Jones

Pandora Jones is a science-fiction serial I'm writing, set just about 300 years in the future. The idea behind Pandora is to play around in her universe, getting the feel for the characters and the storyline and how it plays out. The serial in itself holds a certain amount of story arc together, but takes place over a very limited space of time, probably no more than a year.

Eventually I would like to take Pandora into a trilogy of novels, but that's too far ahead of my schedule at the moment to consider. I intend on writing one short story a month in the Pandora-verse, and I'll be happy to post it here. If I manage to put out a new Pandora story every month, I may anthologize them and self-publish.

Lurking behind the cut is the first 900 words or so of the first installment. I'll re-post it again when it's done, but you get a little taste now.

Welcome to 'Hey Emmett!'

Once again, I'm 'blogging' on a 'blog,' though I suppose that sounds like you could 'magazine' for a magazine, or 'underwrite a palimpsest.' I don't like the word 'blog,' nor do I like the word 'weblog.' Web logs are kept in /var/log/apache.

What I'm really doing is writing. Actually, I'm typing. I'm typing in a rectangle and later on this will be transferred (uploaded, or to remain utterly buzz-worthy, published) to a site accessible via port 80. The whole technical business of what is or is not writing and what is or is not 'blogging' is an exercise in ridiculous semantics, so I shall drop this ball presently.

Anyway, I'm back. Welcome.

For those not catching the reference above, my full name anagrams to 'The Rampant Stem Cell.'