Eclipse Plumage

"hide the food"

TSG jokes that nearly everything is mating display - advertising health, values and resources. Any overt show of wealth, however, is discouraged in this environment of extremely rural law-enforcement. The town aesthetic is frugal theatre, TSG explains, "a plywood and blue-tarp facade." You need only fool the gulls, apparently.

Fine, I'll order tarps.

There's no local police of any kind. The murder of Gene, for example, was investigated by a young officer flown out for a day - no fancy detective. TSG suggests a place needs 500 residents to afford a trained officer full-time. Otherwise the job is so undesirable, he says, that only criminals apply.

In an average year, official statistics include a dozen property and violent crimes, and often one soul reported missing, vanished into the wilderness. At more than double the urban crime-rate, you have a 1 in 20 chance of being included each year.

Last night I had a dream about ice-cream.

I'm seated alone outside a crowded cafe. A guy sets down this ice-cream boat and hands me a plastic spoon. I stare at three bone-white scoops, each molded in the shape of a tiny skull. Then I notice fine head-hairs, and detailed cranial sutures. I pull at the hair in frustrated effort to reveal edible ice-cream, but these are firmly rooted and the skull lifts out. This scoop has visible hammer indentations.

Nocturnal Pest

 

"mythical clogger of vents"

Years ago, there was murder and arson at the satellite station. TSG says Gene was 35, played harmonica, and got bludgeoned to death in his sleep with a hammer. I found his notebook on the bookcase - GENEZARET neatly labeled in large black marker. The last note was dated 04oct94. 

The government had decided not to reopen the station after the terrible incident, so TSG wrote a grant proposal to restore the receiver himself. The deal made himself the director of a non-profit to own and maintain the station - services and data on contract, billed to the government. 

Thought I saw a baby wolf-spider in the window last night. It was perfectly still, just camouflaged as an everyday shadow. Not sure what I was looking at, I came back with the inspection torch. It glowed slightly under the UV light, popped-out a startling length of leg, and left. 

I showed the photo to TSG; he says no, it's a yellow-sac attracted by the pheromone of gasoline. They will build a new nest every day, which pressure-sensors in the vents should detect.

Sac spiders, I was told, are named for silk nest-sacs they leave behind - not the abdomen sac with the butt. Sacs are biologic containers from living things, while sacks are manufactured. If you would put your sandwich inside, it's probably a sack. 

Gelatinous Foam

 

"probably toenails are vegan"

During the phone interview, TSG asked me why I wanted the job. "Photography", I said. 

A previous hire, "the discrete mathematician", had left projects in an unstable state. I told TSG that clean-up should be straight-forward, "white knight rolling-in after expectations were low, and blame had been assigned." TSG laughed, which was good - because this is how I talk. "Don't ever get a phd", he said. 

The mathematician had named the main program "General-Guacamole" - and things got weirder. Where I'd expected to find a database and labels for water, heat, power, etc. Instead the software was formatted as perl poetry - a food recipe complete with ingredients and preparation. 

System variables avocado and sea-salt were given to the function mortar-and-pestle. Lime juice was measured. Jalapeños were diced. Cilantro was chopped. It was beautifully done, and it was currently running all life-support and satellite systems. This nonsense must have taken a long time.

The wiring panel contained hundreds of connections, none labeled. I attached a signal generator to the closest thermostat, walked down each wire at the panel, and checked for a tone. Input #126 beeped, printing it output "61", and a little heat-gun pushed it to "81." In the code this was named "peas" - I search-and-replaced "peas" to "utility-room-temp" in all files.

The Micro Nikkor 40mm lens arrived; it has fantastic close-focus. 

Class characteristics

"it's safe - don't lick anything"

Freight arrives by plane, but the airstrip is generally closed to civilian traffic. Float-planes do super-bucks catering to the wealthy, and hospital emergencies. Pilots are even more respected than Lodge-owners. 

I had decided to get here crossing the bay, because I know a yacht guy. The water was rough, and the boat was slow. The two of us listened to emergency radio - it had one show, about flipped boats. The captain had to row a dingy the last hundred meters to where TSG was waiting. 

In retrospect, that was an obscenely royal entrance.

The entire town consists of 52 households. Within an hour of my arrival, everyone had heard of the new minor celebrity - Red Shirt Guy. A nickname which persisted three hundred wardrobe changes, because Brian was already a dog's name.

I'm printing the lodge doors, and created a stack of failed prints. The FreeCAD design lacks tool-marks, or material character. I think construction adds interesting detail - too interesting in this case. TSG wants legible door numbers, and has me playing with fonts. Later I learned the slicer's "Layers" view-mode can simulate a detail preview. 

Aposematism

 

"too much makeup"

I looked it up - Nikon claims this old DSLR will survive 150,000 photos. The shutter-count is only 8983. TSG says it went in for repair once, after a hard drop broke the flash. Film cameras are holding their value, but folks are selling these DSLRs, and prices are dropping like pianos. He's ordered a 'micro' lens for it.

I found drawer with a hundred plastic forks - individually wrapped packets marked with a bear. After that I started putting fried-noodle takeouts in the work-fridge, hold the forks. It's a way to repay TSG for drinking his beer, since he won't take money. These supplement beans and rice, which he has in bulk-drums. TSG said he gets freight delivered twice a year; that includes two-hundred servings of dried beans! 

The lodge color conversation has landed on fashion, which is a four-letter word here. If I understand correctly, TSG believes fashion is a signal of toxicity - attracting false, unreliable people. I can't imagine such a person traveling for days, mud-trail flanked with gravestones, for an Instagram. 

Color Universe

 

"whoa, looks like you been busy"

I'm looking for a lazy universe where I'm not hand-mixing every color. Hobby paints exist in our universe, with colors like German-Panzer-Yellow, and Ford-Blue that match historical objects. And artist paints are available for mixing another universe, like Black 3.0, and DayGlo. TSG suggested we use what we already have.

While thinking about paint, I found a slick tool that generates color variations. I uploaded a quick sketch and computer-generated hypothetical lodges from a hundred color universes. A few were interesting. We have plenty of time to contemplate before we get to paint.

I've had luck with this kind of machine-generated partnership; it's fun. We joke that managers always say, "bring me a rock", and then complain about the delivered rock. Automation never gets tired of bringing rocks - you'll have so many damn rocks. People like choosing from a short list - top six is good. 

One time a manager asked for all the output, "publish everything." I argued that would be very bad, more than anybody could handle. We published nearly ten-thousand computer-generated reports before folks quit the project. I was not popular; that manager was oddly ecstatic. 

Polyetherimide

"what, it's just more wall"

In the morning, I have the compound to myself. The game is to keep quiet. Lighting the stove before backup heat kicks on, I make coffee by flashlight like a coffee burglar - folks out here drink it with a pinch of salt. The stove vibrates slightly when it's almost empty. Power relays make subtly different clicks on and off. Eventually the water-pump announces somebody is awake.

We got one door hinge installed on the lodge; five to go. I'm putting all the hinges on the right, because I don't have to look at it for the next 50 years; TSG is undecided. Can't bespoke all the things, and finish the build by summer. 

TSG was printing wall segments when I saw this reflection in the PEI. He's being patient for photos, waiting for me to help him move the thing. He thought it was weird - taking a picture of a boring wall segment. 

The Ten Second Amendment

SANTA FE, NM - Ain't nobody looking out for nobody on this frontier - less they bandit or pervert. You reading this scrapbook, they done cut my suspenders - goddamn lawman. I figured it this way. That pine box been coming full split.

Got a record at eleven years, 'cause some damn bugger askin' bout a apple peeler. Bag of nails since. Kicked outta schoolhouse on why I beefed a man. They take no account of a child's family ain't got no money.

Between hay 'an grass, I dicker'd for low jobs, 'til word got back on suppos'd felony. Landlords ain't wanna hear heap about it neither. No sense barkin' a knot - learn't to hobble my lip 'an cut stick.

Near ten years now 'an down to the blanket. Cracked men sneaking up 'cause they heard you plumb'd a hill o' beans, 'an they don't take no account of drifters. Ditched and bulldozed in alley court on no charge of livin' among the willows.

Justice ain't but a lick 'an promise. Them tracks was to the boot yard 'an nothing figures for it.

Carousel Incident #342838

The emergency medical team slid the injured woman onto a gurney and wheeled her away, leaving a smear of blood several feet beyond a low metal fence surrounding the carnival ride.

The officer kneeled to take a witness statement, and placed a small notebook on his knee. These two young ladies had apparently seen the entire thing.

"Zebras can't be domesticated", she said. The second girl nodded emphatically.

Lies, Damn Lies, And Business Cards

NEW MOMBASA, KE - If anybody asked, Kobin told them he worked on the popular M12 Warthog Light Reconnaissance Vehicle. That was maybe half-true, but it was short and seemed to satisfy people. This was the flagship product of AMG Transport Dynamics. Of course, nobody ever heard of AMG outside the MIC - they were a white-label defense contractor.

Inside every Warthog was this On-Board Diagnostics that monitored fuel, power, vehicle, and weapon systems - to verify status and flag maintenance issues. It's not really exclusive to the M12, every vehicle had it. But nobody ever heard of the OBD, which was probably why they always had job openings.

In New Employee Orientation, everyone took selfies with the Warthog parked in the lobby. His actual job for the next eighteen months was to simulate and test the 10-Pin Wire Quick-Connect. Within OBD, they said this was considered prestigious since that tiny connector would be on the outside of the box - it would be seen.

At least his business cards said M12 Warthog Light Reconnaissance Vehicle, he thought. They let you put whatever you like on them.

The Cool Club Secret Handshake

TACOMA, WA - How long before we just have to suck it up? Zach figured he was going to fail his second decade - just a bug stuck-in-place. He needed something - he needed out. Zach was seventeen.

His neighbor had this classic car, in a thousand parts, under decayed blue tarps on his back lawn. It hadn't moved in decades until they opened the fence and pushed it across like a poker jackpot. Zach had bet everything on a '71 BMW 2800CS and a service manual.

People who never built a car told Zach the heap in his parent's yard was a terrible idea. They once tried a thing and failed, and that just goes to show you. But Zach also knew guys that had done it, and they had useful stories. That summer he learned some welding, wiring, and who to ask for help.

It was September when he finally got it rolling. Strangers waved and talked to him when they saw it - offered him wads of cash to buy it. They wanted a ride, and they asked his opinions. Folks shook his all beat-to-hell and dirty hands.