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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: writing

Interview with Putrid’s DOG-E

07 Friday Mar 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, satire

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Democracy, fiction, life, politics, story, technology, truth, USA, writing

(AI generated image to this prompt: A Reporter interviews a Martian. The Martian has antennae on its head and a small child draped around its head.)

Reporter: “Mister President, do you have any comment about the explosion of yet another one of your rockets last night? Are you at all concerned it might have caused property damage or injured anyone?”

President Mush: “There was no explosion.” 

Reporter: “Well. Many people saw the explosion and the falling debris in the night sky. How can you say there was no explosion.” 

President Mush: “Easy. I use my mouth. Watch carefully. There was no explosion. See how I did that? I’m a genius. Did I mention that?” 

Reporter: “Here’s a photograph of the explosion.” 

President Mush: “Oh, that! You’re referring to an unscheduled disassembly. It’s a great way to improve things. If you were a genius, you’d know that.” 

Reporter: “Sorry, what’s the difference between an explosion and an unscheduled disassembly?” 

President Mush: “An explosion sounds dangerous and might make people think we’re incompetent. An unscheduled disassembly makes it sound as though our rockets are so smart that they don’t even need to wait for us to tell them to disassemble. They do it on their own through artificial intelligence.” 

Reporter: “So, you are saying AI caused the explosion?” 

President Mush: “No! I’m not saying that at all. I just want to use polysyllabic words people don’t understand so they don’t object. If you’re stuck, in order to get unstuck, it’s sometimes mandatory to deconstruct and disassemble the stasis preliminarily prior to the instantiation of the improved and more efficient and effective state. That’s what we’re doing now with the government.” 

Reporter: “You’re performing unscheduled disassembly of the Federal government? What are the side-effects of that?” 

(AI-generated image to the prompt: Exploding buildings. People screaming.)

President Mush: “I’m having fun. The shady hackers I’ve hired are having fun. Putrid’s happy. I’m finding trillions of dollars of savings so it’s making America great again!” 

Reporter: “You’re firing long-time experts in many parts of the government and that will impact many government services. Will it not? Just to take one example, you’re firing people from the Park Service. That means longer lines, less safety, more crime, more danger of fires. Is it worth it?” 

President Mush: “Why should the Federal Government be involved in Parks at all? The private sector can do it much more efficiently. All Federal property should be turned into profit-making theme parks or used for strip mining or oil drilling. This will make quadrillions of dollars for the wealthiest .001% of Americans and we can pass along at least two bits worth of savings to every US Citizen. I mean, of course, real citizens whose parents are both white and were born in America.”

Reporter: “The US Constitution says quite clearly that anyone born in America is an American citizen.” 

President Mush: “Right. And how stupid is that? When the Constitution says things that are clearly against the best interests of the ruling elite, we should ignore it and do what common sense demands.” 

Reporter: “Were you born in the United States? Were your parents?” 

President Mush: “I was born rich. And my parents were white. And I am rich. And, did I mention I am really really rich?” 

Reporter: “Yet, you don’t pay taxes.”

President Mush: “I’m cutting more waste out of the Federal budget than you pay in taxes. Much more. For example, take the Veteran’s Administration. Do you have any idea how many veterans are no longer serving their country but they are taking advantage of the services of the so-called Veteran’s Administration? If they are no longer going to war for us, why are we giving them any services at all? And, even so, this so-called Veteran’s Administration is wasting incredible amounts of money! Just to take one example, they sterilize surgical instruments, perform an operation and then they want the taxpayers to pay for sterilizing those instruments all over again! What a waste!”

Reporter: “Did you yourself serve in the Armed Forces?” 

President Mush: “I do better than that! I build rockets and satellites and exploding cars! Also, I helped insure Putrid’s victory over the Democrats with my money and by repeating the Kremlin’s propaganda on NaziX until people believed it! That’s a real contribution! The previous administration was siding with Ukraine for God’s sake! How stupid is that? Do you know how many nuclear missiles the Ukrainians have? Zero! Zero! Why the hell don’t we join forces with North Korea and Russia? Then, we’ll have the vast majority of the nuclear weapons! Don’t buddy up with Ukraine!” 

Reporter: “As I understand it, Ukraine did have nuclear weapons but they agreed to give them up in return for security guarantees from America and Europe.”

President Mush: “That’s what I mean. How stupid was that? Why would anyone do that?”

Reporter: “To help reduce the risk of unlimited nuclear proliferation and atomic war?” 

(AI generated image to prompt: Atomic war.)

President Mush: “Yeah, yeah. That’s why I need more trillions of dollars to get humanity to Mars. That way, if we do have an atomic war, some of us—me, mainly—will continue the human race. Mars is perfect, by the way. No atomic weapons and no pollution. In fact, no disease. No large predators. No small predators. No pesky insects. No idiotic trees dropping their leaves. No stupid mushrooms to poison people. It’s ideal!” 

Reporter: “It would be incredibly expensive to populate Mars, wouldn’t it?”

President Mush: “Who cares? We can tax the poor till they remember that they’re poor and were meant to be. All it takes is me and say a hundred beautiful baby ovens.”

Reporter: “Baby ovens?” 

P-Mush: “Yeah. What you woke types slavishly call ‘women.’” 

Reporter: “So, you want the people of earth to fund you to start a new colony on Mars which will consist of you and some young women? Aren’t you sad to leave your own kids on earth?” 

P-Mush: “My human shields? No, they will have served their purpose by then.” 

Reporter: “The rest of us…here on earth…what are your plans for us?”

P-Mush: “No plans. The rest of you are stupid enough to blow yourselves up.”

Reporter: “Does that include your sidekick?” 

P-Mush: “He will have served his purpose as a clownish distraction. So, he should be happy. He’ll get a chance to kill a few hundred thousand people. He’s got Vlademort Putrid to help him. And Rat-Fink Klansman Junior to help him. Maybe he’ll kill a million. Maybe more. A guy that obese can’t live forever. At least his life won’t have been in vain.” 

Reporter: “Because he’ll have been responsible for the deaths of others?” 

P-Mush: “Sure, and have stolen most of their wealth. What on earth is life for except to be the apex predator? If you can’t actually eat people, you should at least ruin their lives. Right? I mean if they’re stupid enough to believe some bull$hit I spew about making things more efficient for them and they swallow that bull$hit, then if I steal every last shred of joy from their life, don’t they deserve it?” 

(AI generated image)

Reporter: “I would say, no. No, they don’t deserve to be lied to and cheated. For example, people paid money into Social Security their whole working lives and now you’re trying to steal the money. I wouldn’t say that’s something that they deserve. In fact, rumor has it that your real reasons for investigating fraud in the government is to plant evidence of fraud on the part of your competitors and squash investigations into your own fraud and incompetence. Is there any truth to that?” 

P-Mush: “Truth is whatever the richest people say it is. You’ll find that out when I call the head of your paper and have you fired.”

Reporter: “I see our time is up. Thank you for your time, President Mush.” 

P-Mush: [Laughs a maniacal laugh]. “Our time? No. Your time is up. Not mine. I’m the apex predator and it’s time for my lunch!”

(AI generated image to prompt: Hannibal Lecter eating lunch. The lunch is a reporter. SIDE-NOTE: Do you want AI driving your car?)

——————

Dick-Taters

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: Labelism

Putin’s Favorite DOG-E

Increased E-Fishiness in Government

The Unread Red

Destroying Our Government Effectiveness

Running with the Bulls in a China Shop

A Day at the HR Department

The Ides of February 

Ohms Come in Many Flavors

Tomorrow’s Dinner

Exauguration Day

FaceGook

Metastasized

The Walkabout Diaries

Travels with Sadie

The Myths of the Veritas

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

The Three Blind Mice

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

Imagine all the People

Life Will Find a Way

The Unread Red

25 Tuesday Feb 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry, politics

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Democracy, poem, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

(AI generated image)

The Red

The Tie

The Long Red Tie

Unread

Uncaring

Under the Pute

Does not Compute

Under the Pute

Of the Uncute Suit 

Who got him put in

His color is Red

Blood Red

Chopped the Roses

Though they have thorns

They’ve flowers too

What a waste

Cut them down

Bleed them dry

Send them away

Pretend save day

He’s Red

Unread

Uncaring 

Unaware

The Tie is long

Not strong

His power’s thin

A string of lies

And hateful ties

Threats for cowards

Easily cowed

The string can break

The mob can spot

The smile is fake

All it will take

To breach the dike

Is acknowledge the real

An empty suit

Thwart his pursuit

The Tie is Red

It’s made of thread

Thread can unravel

It might take travel

It might take pain

It might take many

It might take few

It might be soon

But not too late

The bells are clear

The signs are sure

The traitor is red

He’s out to destroy

He’s not too coy

The cadre of liars

May hide in briars

May bay at moon

May celebrate

A loony toon

May relish the rot 

Of overripe melons

May pardon the boys

The violence of felons

(AI generated image)

The tie is Red

The tide will turn

His crowd will learn

And they will spurn

The unread Red

Who seeks to bleed

The nation dry

Who seeks to cede

Our love and joy

Who hides in dark

An undead shark

A putinate boy

A noxious weed

An empty suit

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

A tie of red

The land will bleed

If we let grow

Cancer will spread

Till all are dead

Bursting shells

Poison wells

Tolling knells

The tie is red

The truth unsaid

He knows not you

He knows not me

He knows naught

But nasty thought

The tie is red

He’s out for blood

Turns water to mud

Kills parks and trees

For parking lot fees

(AI generated image)

The tie is red

And made of thread

Thread can unravel

And tyranny flushes

Down the pipes

It’s up to you

It’s up to me

Restore the free

And liberty

Restore the brave

Forget deprave

Pull the threads 

With a mighty heave

The tie unravels 

The good word travels

We see the lies

Remove disguise

Beneath red ties

We all despise

Deadly surprise

Unravel red ties

We all despise

No-one will wear

A golden crown

Certainly not

An orange clown

Remove the red

Unread undead

He’s been caught

Never been taught

A million fought

To build us up

Don’t let red 

Don’t drink the cup

Of poison and lie

Don’t be shy

Shred the tie

————

Where does your loyalty lie?

My Cousin Bobby

The Update Problem

Essays on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

The Ailing King of Agitate

What about the butter dish?

Life will find a way

Roar, Ocean, Roar

The Dance of Billions

Life is a Dance

Take a glance, join the dance

At least he’s our monster

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

The Conned Man

The Three Blind Mice

Drumpf in the Garden

You Bet Your Life

Wednesday

Dick Taters

The Self-Made Man

Poker Chip

Exauguration Day

20 Monday Jan 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

essays, love, poem, poetry, writing

(Image generated with AI)

Sing song think along

Never ever even clever

Do not be the only one to see 

The lies beneath mythology

Large eucalyptus trees in the early morning fog

Lack of love is crack in bell

The golden road that leads to hell

Miss take a lake in sane for break

Take a clue from sneaky snake

Photo by Donald Tong on Pexels.com

The truest gold looks seemingly old

The warmest of aid feels suddenly cold

The wackiest lies seem wisdom and wise

The tritest of cons play as surprise

AI generated and the input text said quite clearly to make it look as though the entire herd was running toward the cliff or already falling over. I also said the bison were to be looking at the "Heaven" sign and their heads should all be pointed in that direction! Nice cliffs though.

Yet, cancer always loses in the end

When history shows a rabid rend

Predicts at times a downward trend

Years or decades or millennia 

Wasted time and effort; greed-o-mania 

And then again we see the upward bend

Humans sees themselves as friend 

Know cancer always loses in the end

The golden sunrise glows through delicate leaves covered with dew drops.

 

Do not be the only one to see 

The lies beneath mythology

——————

Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

Essays on America: Labelism

Essays on America: You Bet Your Life

Essays on America: Wednesdays

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

Cancer Always Loses in the End

Dance of Billions

The Three Blind Mice

Stoned Soup

The Orange Man

Imagine All the People

Travels with Sadie 5 — 2025 is Here

01 Wednesday Jan 2025

Posted by petersironwood in America, nature, pets

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

books, Democracy, dogs, fiction, fog, life, nature, pets, poetry, politics, truth, USA, writing

Happy New Year! 

I hope. 

Anyway, I welcome you to the New Year. Why not?



Fog. 

Our morning walk began, appropriately enough, in heavy fog. No sun. Cold. Damp. A slight but persistent icy wind. 

How appropriate, I thought. No sign of a sunrise. Not near here. 

Sadie, however, seemed oblivious to the fog, the damp, the cold, the politics. Before our walk began, I told her we’d try walking without the shoulder harness but she’d have to do “Good Walking” with no Pulling. She’s strong and pulling hurts my back and knees but especially my ankles and arches. The harness helps prevent her from pulling, but doesn’t really eliminate it. 

She did good walking. 

And I noticed that, up close, she is still as beautiful as ever. No gold or red from the rising sun, but still beautiful. 

Indeed, the fog shrouds what is distant, but up close? Bright signs of beauty still beckon. If we bother to look. 

Looking more distantly–ominous, if not downright evil.

Even so, the lonely mourning dove coos on her thin wire perch.

Soon, the sun does begin to shine. Darkness, like cancer and greed, always eventually loses. 

We cast a long shadow. 

The bees still buzz their magic.

I look for patterns and they are there. 

I look for color and it is there. 

Thank you Sadie. 

—————-

Author page on Amazon

The Winning Weekend Warrior

Tales from an American Childhood

Fit in Bits

Turing’s Nightmares

Life is a Dance

Take a Glance; Join the Dance

Dance of Billions

Come to the Light Side

The First Ring of Empathy

A Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Tools for Thinking

The Story of Story

The Ship of State

17 Tuesday Sep 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, fantasy, poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

creative-writing, Democracy, fiction, poem, poetry, politics, story, truth, writing

Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

The weirdly bearded long-tongued frog 

The monstrous orange two-faced hog:

To sea they went in pee-gold boat

So heavy lead it could not float. 

Photo by Asad Photo Maldives on Pexels.com

“Who shall we hate today, my Frog?”

“Let’s see ‘bout artists, I say, Mr. Hog.

Or tallish folks from Wichita 

Or working poor from Saginaw!” 

Photo by Rebecca Zaal on Pexels.com

“Let’s tell some lies; they’re dime a dozen.

They eat their babies and do their cousin!”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Melon the Felon.

No matter how nutty, I’m sure we can sell on.”

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

The bearded frog and the orange-faced hog.

They happily planned their hatred when fog

Unnoticed it crept; surrounded their ark.

Then thrashing around them—a sharp-toothed shark! 

Photo by Pedro Figueras on Pexels.com

“Don’t worry weird frog, a battery’s near!

Jump out and place it right by its ear!”

“Okay, Mine Fooler, surely, I’ll do it.”

“I thank you slave, if lethal, I’ll sue it!” 

Photo by Ben Phillips on Pexels.com

The weirdly bearded long-tongued frog

Became the morsel saving the hog.

The pee-gold boat was nothing but sticks.

Hog screamed and flailed and kicked his kicks. 

Photo by JACK REDGATE on Pexels.com

But not for long was shark beside. 

The hog became just chum in tide.

And soon the fog was silent, calm.

It seemed to be the ocean’s balm. 

Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com

But ‘neath the waves the shark felt sick. 

Such poisonous fare killed him quick.

His teeth fell out; his stomach churned.

Intestines burst—his gills all burned. 

Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

The poison greed of hog and frog

Destroyed all like mustard fog.

America woke from hypno-hate.

And all were saved from Nazi fate.

———————-

My Cousin Bobby

Essays on America: The Game

The Ailing King of Agitate

The Stopping Rule

The Update Problem

The Three Blind Mice

The Orange Man

Stoned Soup

Essays on America: Labelism

Essays on America: Wednesday

Listen to my Siren Song

Roar, Ocean, Roar

Dance of Billions

Author Page on Amazon

Somewhere a Bird Cries

20 Saturday Jan 2024

Posted by petersironwood in America, poetry

≈ 28 Comments

Tags

Democracy, Dictatorship, general, life, love, peace, poem, poetry, USA, war, writing

Somewhere a bird cries. 

Perhaps it is a lonely crow. 

Though, in truth, a cawing crow most often brings more crows. 

To scare away a screeching hawk, 

Or share to feast on bits of broken life 

Scattered willy-nilly on the rocks of a crumpled building. 

Stone quarried and hauled and put in place and now in ruin.

Now in ruin.

Photo by Denniz Futalan on Pexels.com

Somewhere a baby cries. 

Trapped beneath the rubble. 

The baby does not know; cannot know

What happened to mommy and her warm milk. 

The She of all that warmth and smile and love 

Inexplicably gone forever. 

Gone forever.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere an old man dies, 

Perhaps of sepsis from the jutting bone 

No-one left to help him hobble to nowhere

For nowhere is exactly where the care he needs persists

Just as likely, he dies of a broken heart; he had hoped

Hoped for a better life for his children and his grandchildren

But he sees that is not to be. 

Not to be.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Somewhere a young woman sighs, 

The gray day’s rain runs in rivers through the ruins 

Of her village and her dreams in streams and she sees 

In the screen behind her eyes the soldiers laughing as they

Ravage her too young body her too raw love that now

Will never come again no more dreams 

Only nightmares.

Only nightmares.

Somewhere a so-called ‘Strong man’ does not cry;

Does not sigh. His fingers sport a manicure.

He merely issues orders; plans another massacure. 

He spouts his lies and promises and promises and lies

He terrifies the people and the people will believe

He enrages the people and the people scream their hate

He has them rushing headlong into yet another turn 

Of the Wheel of War and the people attack the people

And the game of checks and slays continues on and on and on and on.

On and on and on and on.

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War.

It crushes old and young. 

It crushes hopes and dreams. 

It blackens every sky and even flowers die. 

It fouls the crystal water and the air that people breathe. 

It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War. 

The Wheel of War. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

For everyone loses and no-one wins. 

Except for the manicured man with plastered hair.

Except for the man with the painted face. 

Who crushed the dreams and spun the Wheel of War. 

His victory is gray and shallow and he knows he’s lost 

He’s harmed the very Tree of Life

Because he could not win the game of Love

Because he could not win the game of Life

He chose instead to spin the Wheel of War

That spills and kills; undermines; explodes; crushes. 

He destroys in minutes what took centuries to build. 

What took centuries to build. 

Long after the ‘strong man’ is dead:

Beneath the orchard burned to char,

In broken buildings near and far, 

The Tree of Life sends shoots of spring.

And birds again will take to wing. 

And hope and love will rule the day. 

And no-one, no-one wants to play

The dumbest game—the warring way. 

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

The parasites who prey on fear

Who ruin the rainbow with a jeer

Inside their weakness gnaws and grows.

They cannot see the glow of rose. 

They cannot feel love’s warm embrace. 

They truly fear and hate it all. 

They’re too afraid to play fair ball. 

The only game for them is hate.  

They long ago locked every gate. 

They want to kindle fear in you.

And train you up to hate the few.

Somewhere a joyous chorus sings. 

All the bombs and guns are ground to dust. 

All the people finally feel the shame. 

All the people finally see the sham.

All the people finally know 

What is weak and what is truly strong. 

And the giant Wheel of War 

Falls to shards, never to be spun again.

Never to be spun again. 

Never to be spun again.


The Dance of Billions

All we stand to lose

The Only Them that counts

After all

Only the Crows

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

Essays on America: The Game

Absolute is not just a vodka

Dick-Taters

Life is a Dance

Life Will Find a Way

Author Page on Amazon

About Writing

10 Sunday Dec 2023

Posted by petersironwood in creativity, fiction, pets, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

creativity, dog, fiction, novel, pets, writing

Hello!

I am alive and well. I haven’t blogged for a while. Here’s why: I’ve been taking a year-long course on novel writing. Yesterday, I sent off my book to the instructor for feedback. To me, writing a full-length novel has been more difficult than writing a Ph.D. dissertation. Writing non-fiction requires research, discipline, organization, and being willing to work hard.

Writing a novel requires all of those but it also requires keeping track of the implications of many little decisions. It is not only a cognitive strain but often an emotional one as well. It’s a never-ending series of choices. Science is often, but not always, a series of choices where there is an agreed upon better answer. Even when there isn’t agreement, there are a much smaller number of choices.

To me, writing non-fiction is like taking a long trip on existing roads. You may certainly face unanticipated difficulties such as construction zones, flat tires and bad weather.

Writing fiction is more like bushwhacking. No-one has ever trod (or will ever trod) your exact path. You may learn something by discovering or following the paths of previous writers. You might, for instance, discover that some writers go over logs that lie across their intended path. Others, may crawl under. Still others might go around the fallen log. Others might choose to back-track until another path is found. What should you do?

It depends.

And, that’s the nature of fiction. It all depends. It depends on what else happens in the book. How you choose to construct and describe one character depends on the others. Even what you name them depends on the other names. What happens in character development interacts with the plot. The plot interacts with the landscape and the mood. The mood depends on the tempo. The tempo, if it’s dialog must be consistent with the character who’s doing the talking.

Our dog Sadie and I have been co-creating and co-evolving games from the days she first came to live with us. Currently, we are playing a variant of “fetch.” Here’s how it works. One of us (most often Sadie) finds a squeaky ball. At some point, I get a squeaky ball from somewhere in the garden and say, “Get up on the deck! I’m going to throw the ball on the deck.”



Now matter where she is when she hears that, she sprints to the deck and awaits my throw. She sprints with spirit! I love to watch her run, not only for her grace and speed but even more so, for the whole-heartedness with which she runs every single time. I throw the ball up and she catches it in the air more than half the time. Even when she misses, she’ll scramble after it and proudly perch on the spot on the deck where I can see that she’s caught the ball. After elaborate and genuine praise, she sprints down the stairs to the lawn near me. Then, she will lie down with the squeaky ball in her mouth. After a time, she’ll move the ball away from her some distance. I walk over casually, as though I am not trying to “steal” the ball from her. When I get close to the ball, she quickly re-grabs it. After she’s had a few “successes” she will start hanging out farther and farther away from the ball. At some point, I’ll grab the ball and announce, “I’ve got it!” At that point, she again sprints up the stairs to go the deck where I will throw the ball up to her.

The part of this scenario that I think is most like writing the fiction is the part where Sadie is judging how far away the ball should be from her buzz-fast jaws. If it’s too close, I won’t even try for it. If it’s too far away, I’ll immediately grab the ball. Similarly, as an author, I want to keep the reader interested. If my writing is too predictable, it might be clear, but it will be uninspiring and dull. The reader will quit before they get to the end of the story. On the other hand, if I write too far from the reader’s expectations, they will quit because they cannot grab the threads of the narrative.

To me, the benefits of co-creating with Sadie (rather than “training her” to play the game in a particular and predetermined way) include that I can learn a lot by observing her. Another benefit is that it keeps both of our minds more flexible and more engaged (just as does good literature). Of course, there are two of us in this exercise and that is also true in the reading of fiction. Every author, including me, will make miscalculations about how far to stray from expectations. But whether you can follow across those miscalculations is not only a measure of my skill as a writer but is also a measure of your skill as a reader.

In the past, I’ve self-published my books on Amazon. These are mostly non-fiction, but one of them is a collection of fictional short stories. This time, I think I will try traditional agent/publishing. I am also thinking of putting together several more books, using the blog posts here as the seeds.

After a year long writing course, the single most important piece of advice I can give is:

“Get a dog.”



Don’t get me wrong. We have six cats and we love them dearly. The cats are smart, and I can certainly empathize with the cats. But their ability to empathize with me is either very limited or, as I suspect is more likely, they really don’t give a damn. On the other hand, Sadie is a pleasure to co-create with because she intuitively “gets” cooperation and collaboration. We accommodate each other and neither of us has any idea how the game will evolve.

By the way, I would feel I would be remiss not to share my secret of Holiday Gift shopping. There are literally millions of possible gifts! It makes choosing nearly impossible. Instead of putting yourself through that agony, simply go to my author page on Amazon and choose which book is most appropriate for which gift recipient. It’s fast, it’s easy, and you’ll have the thanks of at least on person which cannot be said for any other gift idea. And, in many cases, you’ll have two grateful people.

Author page on Amazon

Autobiography and Essays

Scenarios about AI

How to work more fun and exercise into daily chores

Sports Psychology

Sunday Sonnet: Promise Me Prom

19 Sunday Feb 2023

Posted by petersironwood in design rationale, fiction, poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Design, fiction, life, poem, poetry, sonnet, story, writing

Here’s the context of the sonnet below. It is written by a sixteen year old fictional character who is nerdy, smart, and a bit on the Asperger’s spectrum. He’s also not a very experienced poet. But what I try to show is that he improves a little as he goes, falling back to teenhood toward the end of the poem. Why doesn’t he just keep improving? Because when he gets close to the true nature of love in lines 7-11, he realizes if he keeps going with this, he will be changed forever. He’s giving up partial control of his life to someone else. And it scares him so he backs off from that and just tries to show off how he can write a sonnet and be cool and funny. 

Ultimately, I may or may not include the poem in the novel. If I do, I’d be inclined to add the inner dialogue of the Main Character as he’s creating the poem. I can see it getting too tedious for the reader. By the way, Edgar Allan Poe wrote a lengthy and detailed design rationale for “The Raven.” Notwithstanding that fact, there are many other folks who have a different interpretation. That’s fine. But it does remind me that if I do write a design rationale, it’s not as though everyone will say, “Oh, well that’s that then. The author has gone and told us what he meant and why he did what he did. What more to be said?” 

And, of course, people do go on and there is more to be said because we know intuitively that none of us knows our complete design rationale. Others see patterns in our behavior that offer quite different hypotheses about why we do what we do. It doesn’t mean that they are right and we are wrong, but it does offer an opportunity to learn—about them as well as ourselves.

Promise me Prom

I really love the way you always smell

Like soap and flowers, pie, fresh bread.

Your sweat itself smells swell and sweet.

Which proves I think you’re competently bred. 

Your hand is warm—I want to gently hold

In mine and you will feel my love is true.

We each will be both molded and be mold.

Your grip is gentle breeze upon the blue. 

Your grip is strong and long and steady steel.

Your eyes are portals to the worlds-to-be

I want to know it: what you know and feel.

I want to be yours for eternity.

Let’s you and I become both ROM and COM

I’d love to have you date me for the PROM!

————-


Sonnet on Sadie

Sonnet on Shadows

Sonnet about Sadie

Alito and the Egg

Sonnet about the Extreme Court

Sonnet about V. Putrid

After All

Dance of Billions

The Power of the Unbrella

10 Thursday Feb 2022

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

creativity, Design, essay, HCI, power, prepare, umbrella, UX, writing

Photo by Dave Colman on Pexels.com

Yay! Yay! Today’s Umbrella Day! 

Hold your umbrellas high and … what? 

How do we celebrate Umbrella Day? Put up an umbrella tree with little paper umbrellas we’ve collected in a lifetime of drinking fruit flavored nerve poison? Hey! Here’s one way we could celebrate: get rid of the necessity of a nuclear umbrella and while we’re at it, why not get rid of war altogether? It benefits very few of the people involved. Look it up. 

No, I suspect that how we are really supposed to celebrate “Umbrella Day” is to buy more umbrellas. Buy more umbrellas? That sounds right. No doubt, this was something cooked up by manufacturers of umbrellas. I doubt the raindrops lobbied for it. A group of consumer fans who just happen to love umbrellas to an inordinate degree? Possible, but extremely unlikely. It’s not the umbrella’s fault; it’s that an umbrella addresses a miserable problem: getting wet when you don’t want to get wet. And, the umbrellas never do a perfect job. They wet the interior of your car and home. They pinch your fingers. People use them! I use them. They are useful. But I don’t think people love them enough to spontaneously beg their government for Umbrella Day. You can call me a cynic; it’s okay. I’m pretty sure it was the Umbrella Manufactures.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

That doesn’t mean I won’t appropriate Umbrella Day for my own purposes which are to have fun writing and to entertain some folks out there. Whenever I think of umbrellas, one of the first things that comes to mind was a “QUALITY” meeting all managers in an anonymous telecommunications company (ATC) were required to attend. We listened to talk after talk, many with exciting PowerPoint pie charts and bar charts. No fewer than seven members of the audience were carried out on stretchers for tachycardia brought about by the sheer exuberance of the final slide showing the PILLARS of ATC QUALITY. 

At the conclusion, to make sure that the excitement we all feel when sitting for non-interactive presentations all day didn’t somehow dissipate when we walked out the door, each manager was presented with an ATC QUALITY umbrella of our very own! 

Whether ATC management arranged for the downpour that hit the city the moment we left the meeting or whether it was sheer happenstance, I don’t really know. In any case, it was a fortuitous event from the perspective of the quality folks because now we would instantly see just how important quality is in our daily lives. 

The raindrops came down.

Photo by Aline Nadai on Pexels.com



The umbrellas went up. 

The umbrellas broke. 

Yes. 

Immediately. 

Photo by Terence Koh on Pexels.com

The umbrellas served their purpose: they showed just how much top management cared about quality. 

(By the way, there really are useful approaches to the important topic of quality. This wasn’t that.) 

The umbrella is a device that can be used in many situations. In the summer between my Junior and Senior years in college, I worked as a child care worker at a psychiatric hospital for kids. I lived in a tiny basement studio apartment in the “Little Italy” part of town. My cheap bed had a line of broken springs so my umbrella served as a brace so that I didn’t sag onto the floor. The umbrella bent but did not break. I was much lighter then.

On one occasion, one of those tiny non-human vampires some might call “a bat” broke into my tiny room and flapped endless noisy loops inches from my head.

Photo by Miriam Fischer on Pexels.com



Slowly, I eased my way out of bed. I slid the umbrella out of its place and when the bat was at the far end of my cell, I opened the umbrella and slowly worked my way toward the door end. My left hand held the umbrella shield before me, much like a muggle version of a Patronus Charm. I slid my right hand over and opened the door. The next time the bat approached the door, out they went. Yay! I like win/win solutions even with mini-vampires. Bats, incidentally, are really cool critters! They are useful to us for a number of reasons, and that’s pretty nice. But they are also just cool in their own right. Their “bat-ness” is every bit as marvelous in its own way as our “human-ness.” The point is that we can use the umbrella in ways the umbrella manufacturers probably never envisioned. 

Now, we turn to the one of the most powerful umbrellas in the world.

The “UNbrella.” 

For several years, my wife and I attended the Newport Folk Festival — a wonderful outdoor concert with two score of the very best folk performers. One of the reasons I like outdoor concerts is so that I can dance. I mean by that that I can dance the way I want to and not get ejected from the venue.

The Newport Folk Festival was no exception. Typically, we had very good luck weather-wise, but one year, it poured. It wasn’t a drizzle. It wasn’t a sprinkle. Nor was it short, hard summer shower that lasts a half hour and then the sun comes out and the rainbow comes out and everyone’s clothes dry in the sun. Nope. This was a constant downpour. 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We knew it “might” rain so we came prepared with rain clothes and large umbrellas. The stage was protected so the performances went on as scheduled. I, like most, huddled under layers of clothing and beneath an umbrella. 

I was cold. 

I was not dancing. 

I thought to myself, “I came here to dance. I am going to dance.” So I did. I shed my clothing save for my bathing trunks and I traded in my UMbrella for an UNbrella. 

Four hours later, it was still raining. But the mood was completely different. Now, half the crowd was dancing in their bathing suits. Everyone was happy! All thanks to the power of the unbrella.



Speaking of vampires and werewolves…

“Beware when you wear ware that you are aware that it is merely ware you’re wearing. You are not your wear.”

Remember the power of the UNbrella. 

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

——————————-

Author Page on Amazon

Index to Tools of Thought

Fifteen Properties to consider in Design

The Sound of One Hand Clasping



Index to Pattern Language for Collaboration and Cooperation

Rejection Letter

08 Thursday Oct 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

fiction, politics, rejection, writing

Like all writers, I’ve had my share of rejection letters. I happened to run across this (fictional) rejection of a proposal for a TV sit-com based on Presidential politics and set early 21st century America. 

————————————-

“Dear Dr. Thomas, 

Thank you for sending your intriguing outline for your proposed TV sit-com, “The Mango Mussolini.” While there are some clever lines, the entire concept is way too fantastical for modern audiences. We don’t have the time or frankly, the motivation, to point out all the times you’ve broken all bounds of credibility, but here are a few.

1. The idea that an American President would openly ask for help from the Russian government   is completely unbelievable. None would be that stupid, but if they were, he or she would soon be impeached and out of office — no more episodes!



2. Why would the Republican Party choose one of the most failure-prone businessmen in US history as their leader? The Republicans are well known for supporting business. They might nominate a successful businessperson, but not one with a long string of failures. Yes, of course, it is ironic and, to an extent, funny. But at some point, it becomes too unbelievable for the audience. And, then, as though the joke was not unbelievable enough, you doubled down and had your main character also be sued for a fake university and a fake charity. Come on. Seriously.

3. Imagining the Mango Mussolini as a sexual predator and pervert despite (or perhaps because of his obesity and repulsiveness) seems like a cheap trick to get more obese old guys to tune in. That aspect, as well as the fear, hate, and lies that spew out of his mouth make it unsuitable for prime time network fare. “Grab them by the pu$$y”? No-one even talks that way.  Even if we could overcome the other issues, we would have to rate this R. 

4. We did find the notion of a pandemic intriguing, but why on earth would a President near the end of his first term lie about it when simply telling the truth, showing empathy, and putting experts in charge of the manufacture and distribution of PPE, masks, testing, and contact tracing would have guaranteed an easy win?



In summary, some nice contrivances, but no-one will believe characters could be so evil, inept, and without redeeming qualities. And, even if they were that evil, why wouldn’t they simply be deposed by their own party?

Keep trying. Try to make it more realistic. 

Sincerely,

The Editor”

—————————

Try the Truth

The Ailing King of Agitate

Essays on America: The Stopping Rule

Essays on America: The Update Problem

How did I get here?

Essays on America: Poker Chips

Essays on America: My Cousin Bobby

What about the butter dish? 

The Primacy Effect and the Destroyer’s Advantage

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic 

Author Page on Amazon

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