Re: The Hammer & The Feather

From: Seymour Grass (daddio45_at_yahoo.com)
Date: 01/19/05 

Date: Tue, 18 Jan 2005 20:14:25 -0600

"Androcles" <dummy@dummy.net> wrote in message
news:koiHd.173810$Z7.96205@fe2.news.blueyonder.co.uk...
>> Boring uncreative idiot troll.
>
>
> LOL! He's a fucking sight less boring, a whole lot more creative and far
> less miserable than you, jealous ***!
>
> Androcles.

Roar, lion, roar! 

--
From: "Seymour Grass" <daddio45@yahoo.com>
Subject: {Story} House of the Rising Ophiuchus {1,208}
Date: Sunday, January 09, 2005 3:16 AM
--
It was a whale of thing to try and keep unfolded and spread out in the mind, 
a whole sky full of stars all at once, and much as I'd tried, I couldn't 
hold the entire view of it, so I had to go to the Gypsy Woman--what I've 
been calling her anyway, even if she is mainly Cajun French, with maybe a 
dash of Afro-Cuban and a pinch or two of Creole sprinkled in for some real 
spicy good gumbo; and my, what a dish with that curly black hair, those 
sparkling eyes and big gold rings--some fine kind of gris-gris come to 
Chicago here from some little town down on the bayou around Baton Rouge.
I found this doll, name of "Mirabelle" working out of a little boutique up 
on Wells street a few blocks south of the Lincoln Park hotel. She has that 
whole Zydeco Zodiac thing down pat and has been making her living by drawing 
up charts of people's horoscopes in her parlor there, where she also does 
some dealing in potions and herbs, Voodoo dolls and I don't doubt but that 
she's got a brisk under-the-counter trade in all kind of hoodoo, if maybe 
you got you a two-dollar bill as the fixings for some of that *John, the 
Conqueroo* to be mixing for a mojo of red, green or blue, whether its a 
piece of tail, piece of eight, or peace of mind you might kind of crave, 
could be she'd have some of that down in the dark somewhere under there, 
too.
But as to the reason I needed to see her, well, if you knew the name of the 
newspaper I work for, then you'd know they aren't fussy when it comes to the 
hire of a science editor like me who still has something to learn about a 
difference between Astronomy and Astrology.  Even so, it wasn't hard to 
bluff my way into the position when the guy who held the desk before me got 
too drunk to keep sitting up behind it.  I mean, I was available, being just 
one desk over which pretty much eminently qualified me above all other 
comers. But as to a good solid background in science to justify moving my 
stuff over to Joe's old desk?  Well, I did have a couple years of night 
courses at Northwestern under my belt, including one in General Physics for 
Math Dummies (that's the actual title) and another called, "Star Gazing for 
Amateur Astronomers."
So, that being pretty good for government (or journalism) work, I got the 
Science desk. It's meant a minor boost in pay to move up from being a lowly 
police beat reporter, to a full fledged editor, but since I'm the only 
reporter working under me, the only real change is the desk, and yes, the 
slight increase in pay--about fifty bucks a month. Of course, I'm rubbing 
shoulders with a lot of real scientists all the time, got a rolodex full of 
their office numbers, plus the phone numbers of some of their girlfriends in 
case they weren't in when I tried to get them--I don't really have too many 
of those, but a few, from the two or three professors I've managed to get 
cozy with over cocktails. And come to think, it was by way of Dr. Reuben 
Schlitzquirt's main squeeze, Meredith Swanson that I got the lead on this 
Cajun Astrologer dame--and who else but her, Meredith Swanson, I mean? 
Certainly you don't suppose Schlitzquirt himself, a well-tenured full 
professor of nuclear particle physics, that such as he would know anything 
about tea-leaves, the little known 13th House of Ophiuchus, and High John 
the Conqueroo, do you?  No, I suppose you most earnestly do not--I'll give 
you that much anyway.
Face it, this recent Tsunami disaster has caught the whole world of science 
with its pants down, and it's really been tough knowing where to turn to get 
down on it from the science angle of the thing.  As science editor, it's not 
my job to be getting the tear-jerker angle on all the misery, the 
flotsam-jetsam of wrecked lives and villages, so tragic as all that is, if 
not to me personally--then not. The heart-rending stories of obliteration, 
the vaporization of whole Islamic terror training camps--I'm not paid to get 
all wet and gooey over that. No, it's the natural causes for such an event 
that a science editor/reporter is after--not the divine, or 'spiritual', the 
emotional, if you will.
So, anyway, one day, I got a call from Dr. Sigurd Nielsen over there in the 
Geology department at the University of Chicago, and he reports to me that 
he's got this guy who's been bugging him almost daily at his office with a 
bunch of calculations he's made which according to his claims, are showing 
that this is only the beginning of a whole lot more of a big she-bang going 
on, geophysically and astronomically, in terms of further trouble on the 
way.  The guy had been given the gate over at the Physics department, which 
is why he came over to Geology where the professors are a just little easier 
going--hale, hearty outdoor types that they are.  So, Nielson says to me on 
the phone that day, "He may be just another kook with a crank theory, but 
unlike most of that sort, as he presents himself, his face isn't jumping 
around from all kind of tics, he isn't sitting there with his hands 
vibrating in his pockets, eyes bugged, and breathing loud; he's better 
groomed than most of my students, and there seems to be a certain logic in 
what he says."
I'm going, "Oh, yeah?"
"Well, put it this way," says Nielsen, "I'm not finding any holes in what he 
says."
"Nothing like those big black hugely radiating X-class sunspots we've been 
seeing of late?"
"No, nothing like that, but those are part of his considerations."
"So why do you send him to me?"  I mean, I had to ask him: "Why aren't you 
rocketing his theory off to the professional journals?"
His answer? "It's too risky. We're not going to stake our own scholarly 
reputations on some anonymous layman's calculations, which could be screwier 
than a green-tailed bacterial flagellum--know what I mean?"
Well no, I didn't but I said, "You bet I do!"
"You got it," said he.
"Yeah," I said. "Because if somebody's theory doesn't have the imprimatur of 
that Ph.D. stamped on it, then it might as well be somebody's raggedy old 
Green Arrow comic book, right?"
He said, "Well . . ."
I said, "Sure, because you got to have that brand recognition, else who will 
buy it? And if it doesn't come from consecrated hands in the priesthood of 
the black square hat and tassel, forget you, right?"
After some ponderous silence, I got this through the horn: "Look here, 
McCoy, I'm saying that there may well be something to the stuff this guy's 
got, and you're the one who is in a position to bring it to the attention of 
the scientific community, by reporting it as news to the public. I believe 
the man may have something. I'm doing all I can, here."  He hung up.
Imagine that. He actually hung up on me, the Science Editor for a major 
cosmopolitan newspaper? Yes, he did.  So then, anyway, next thing I knew, 
the morning following, my intercom is dinging me with the jingle bells 
(they've always got that on there around the Holidays--and it's like, some 
people never get around to taking that Christmas tree down); it's the 
receptionist telling me there's some guy named Grassman here with a letter 
of introduction from U.C. wanting to see me on a very urgent matter. Fine. 
Urgency is my main métier.  So, what do I do?  I tell her to send him right 
in.
From: "Seymour Grass" <daddio45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Re: Do You Mind If I Smoke?
Date: Tuesday, January 18, 2005 2:37 PM
--
Graszmann came in and we talked; he had just a few things to say concerning 
this recent flooding in California, the Sumatra tsunami--and, okay, then he 
mentioned something about "Sunspots."
When he saw me looking at him kind of funny, he started squinting his eyes 
down real narrow-like; so I put on my best smile and said, "Well, 
sunspots--which ones exactly?" I hadn't known that we'd been having any 
notable outbreaks of those just of late, so I mentioned that as I looked 
down to sort through some copy on my desk.  Hearing nothing further from 
him, I glanced up and, oh my, did this guy have a look--it was halfway 
intelligent, or so it might have seemed, I mean if the look that makes you 
look like an idiot, can by contrast make the other guy look smart, then 
yeah, he looked intelligent, but since he wasn't answering my question, I 
asked him again, "What?"  And that's when he asked me if he could smoke.
Shocked by the very suggestion, my editorial assistant who happened to be 
coming through the door, turned to look down on him like he was one of those 
poisonous little green tree toads of the Amazon jungle; she informed him 
that he most certainly could not smoke; that if he even so much as tried it, 
he would be tasered by the nearest security guard, put in plastic wrist and 
ankle restraints, and be delivered down to the Chicago Police Department 
rolled up in a drab green piano mover's quilt.
Whoa.  Look out. I watched as this guy rose slowly out of his chair--and you 
know how the Frankenstein monster looks when he's going after somebody? 
Well, if a look could go thudding across the room on ten pound boots with 
its arms stiffly outstretched, that's how the ice green glare in Mr. Seymour 
Graszman's eyes went reaching across to throttle the throat of poor Ms. 
Melba Tostquist, right there where she stood--it was such a look! From her 
shaking hands, she dropped that copy to my desk and backed out of the office 
never taking her eyes off that man for an instant.
I had to grab my hat and coat so we could go out and find some other place 
to talk, off the premises . . .
From: "Seymour Grass" <daddio45@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Hammer & The Feather
Date: Tuesday, January 18, 2005 3:22 AM
I was watching the floor numbers flash in descending order when to my dismay 
I felt a jab to the ribs. I turned to see Graszman there at my right beaming 
an aggressive looking grin that caused me to take a step beyond range of any 
more of that! "Tell me, McCoy," he said, closing the distance between us all 
the more, "what do you think would happen if in a few seconds from now, the 
cable on this thing were to snap?"
I braced against my body's downward momentum as the car had abruptly begun 
slowing to a stop at the 12th floor. We stepped back to admit an elderly 
woman; the spot on my ribs was yet throbbing from that unwelcome familiarity 
of his and he was still at me, still talking:
"I'm talking about your feet?" He was pointing toward my shoes. "Would they 
remain in contact with the floor as we went down, or not?"
I thought it rather an inopportune moment for such a discussion, considering 
especially that we now had company, and I said so, but soon felt reason to 
regret it as there appeared something in the stance he was taking, even so 
slight as he was by comparison to my height of 6'1", and weight of 195; a 
bearing he had that was oddly intimidating for someone who from the look of 
it would hardly turn the scale past 150, nor stand any higher than 5'10" in 
those high-heeled cowboy boots of his.
"I don't know," I said, lowering my voice for his ears alone. "My guess is 
that we'd soon drift upward toward the ceiling and stay there until the car 
came down on that spring at the bottom of the shaft." I shrugged at the 
sardonical look he was now giving me: "Well, that's my guess--for what it's 
worth."
At the 9th floor, two twenty-somethings of the female flavor had boarded; 
their laughter not being entirely left echoing behind in the corridor as the 
doors slid to a close. "Well, you ought to know better than that, McCoy," he 
was saying. "I thought you were the science editor for this . . ." he raised 
a hand to indicate the surroundings, ". . . glorified producer of bird cage 
liner and fish wrap."
To the somewhat distraught expressions of insulted esteem on the other faces 
about us, I managed a smile of apology for the character of my company. "Of 
course I'm the science editor, Graszamn.  What of it?"
"Then you ought to know that since our bodies inside this car would not be 
falling, like the car itself, against any resistance of air, our rate of 
acceleration would be the same as for the car."
Now that he was mentioning it, I did have a glimmer of recollection, having 
to do with Galileo, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, some feathers and a 
cannonball.
The elevator had gone past the Mezzanine and was slowing to a stop at "L" 
for "Lobby". Just as the doors were opening, Graszman was still going on: "I 
suppose you must recall that they proved it on the Moon."
We were going across toward the expanse of doors leading out of the 
building. "I'm sorry," I said. "Proved what?"
"Holy Christly Night!"  He stared in disgust, as he went out ahead of me 
into the cold of what was in the proximity of five below zero.  For a time, 
after descending the stair, we strode along huffing our vapors in silence. 
He bore on his head a tweed stingy-brim cap, and about the neck, a bright 
red woolen bulky-knit muffler tucked into a Navy surplus "P-coat".  As we 
were nearing the Purple Angus, perhaps the nearest place with a cocktail 
lounge where smoking was permitted, I suggested we cross at the coming 
corner and get on over there.
At a table near the window looking out on Randolf Street, we sat in the 
Mahogany Lounge of the Purple Angus over two steaming mugs of coffee, 
waiting for the Reuben sandwich for him, a pastrami with Swiss cheese on rye 
for me. As we talked for those first few minutes, I brought up the fact that 
according to what I'd heard from Dr. Nielsen, he, Graszman was in no 
position to talk when it came to scientific credentials, and so who was he 
to sit there in judgment of me? I further suggested he keep in mind that 
nobody in the Physics department over there had as yet set the dogs on me. 
Well, that humbled him well enough and as he began to show some sign of 
contrition, I reminded him that I was about his only chance to be heard. Of 
course, he knew this to be true, and apologized for treating another guy 
just as he hated to be treated himself. I was finally starting to like him a 
little, so I took a chance: I swore him to secrecy and told him of the 
extent of my own "science education".
Surprisingly, that seemed greatly to please him, he had a good laugh on the 
thought of it and then surprised me to confess that he'd pulled a like scam 
once when he got his first job teaching for an accredited music school in 
Oak Park, explaining that when he'd first applied, he could barely read 
music, which was a problem since five or six of his students were advanced 
far beyond him; even so, he'd managed to keep them dazzled by showing them 
lots of fancy *** Dale and Chuck Berry riffs, while he took the time to 
cram like crazy to catch up to their places in the books.
By the time our sandwiches had arrived, we were happy to raise a toast, my 
pastrami and cheese to his Reuben, upon my pronouncement that there was no 
hurdle a man could not surmount in this world if he had the acting skills to 
pull it off, and a will to do the catch-up work to make it look good, as 
ever it could.
A little later, after our cups had been refilled, the conversation had 
turned once again to that scary business on the elevator and I was saying 
that now as we were on the subject, I did recall how Apollo 15 had proved 
Galileo's theory true, what with the whole thing on film, the feather and 
the hammer falling together only to hit the dust at the same time.
Then he said an odd thing: "But, you see McCoy, scientists who can play only 
by the book and not at all by ear, they just don't hear in the fall of that 
feather and the hammer, what silent awesome melody is being played to the 
mind."
I had to shake my head. "Could you try to be just a little more obscure, 
arcane and full of metaphorically dangling conversation, there Seymour?"
He took a big bite from the Reuben, and some of the sauerkraut got out.
I was waiting: "Help me out a little, here."
After a slug of coffee, he said, "You could go to the Moon, you could build 
yourself a Leaning Tower of Pisa up there, you could drop from the top of 
it, at the same time, a grand piano and a hair from the head of--okay, 
Veronica Lake, you should be so lucky as to find one of her hair-brushes on 
Ebay?"
I don't know what I'm hearing but I say, "Alright."
"You drop that platinum blonde hair of the Hollywood starlet and the grand 
piano, and they both hit bottom--at the same time? That needs to be telling 
you something. There's a song in it, that science has a head too full of 
jangling facts to hear."
I didn't know about that, and said so: "Well, as I recall, it's all pretty 
well explained by Newton's laws, something about how the amount of weight in 
the grand piano as opposed to what's in the hair of Veronica Lake, is like, 
cancelled out . . . or, how's it go?"
"Yeah, they would explain that it's harder for the piano to get moving, to 
get over its own inertia than it is for the hair with far less inertia."
I set down my cup: "There's more inertia in the grand piano."
"Yes and no. There's a problem in that thinking, which is part of the reason 
we're here talking about all this."
I had to consider that over a bite of my sandwich, and when my mouth was 
almost empty enough, I said, "I would ask what you mean."
-- 
John  http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"Once when Sir Isaac Newton--a mere lad--got over into the man's apple
orchard--I don't know what he was doing there--I didn't come all the way
from Hartford to q-u-e-s-t-i-o-n Mr. Newton's honesty--but when he was
there--in the main orchard--he saw an apple fall and he was a-t-t-racted
toward it, and that led to the discovery--not of Mr. Newton (who got back
over the fence quick enough) but of the great law of attraction and
gravitation." --Mark Twain (if any bowdlerizing parenthesis may be pardoned
or ignored)