Category Archives: story

The Midget of Sines and Wright

A much less insulting transcription than the teenily notorious “Pranque” of “the Beta“, here is a really small newspaper put out by Sines and Wright, two Dayton, Ohio, schoolboys in 1886. The second of them went on, with his brother, to “emulate the great Santos-Dumont” and eventually eclipse him in this part of the world.

Here, though, he and a friend are fussing around with the latter’s little printing press and having some fun.1

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The drudgery of creativity…

…is putting it down in permanent form. I love to imagine things, but to then write them down, is hard.

Some of it I know is the loss of fidelity that comes with moving from the mind outward, but most of it is just the annoyance that it takes time.

This is also why my posts here are scarcer than they should be.

Cycen news

It is warm here, but not too hot fortunately. There is a breeze going.

There hasn’t been much rain, so the Yard is dry and where they have scratched it up, a cracked ground. They have been dusting in a couple of holes there. It’s better than a mud puddle I suppose.

I should explain, the yard has a huge Maple Tree in it that covers almost all of the ground with its commodious Shade in the day. Unfortunately it is also butt up against a lean to shed that it is slowly pushing the roof off of. The tree is too good to lose, so the shed will have to be removed some time. I might try and do it this summer or fall, but the matter inside it will have to be removed to another place.

Honestly there is so much old matter here that it would be enough to give a minor display room at the Smithsonian or a place like that. There are so many articles of old farming and washing here like that. Unfortunately they are just crammed into a small space where no one can get at them or use them or see them really. I hope they aren’t decaying to the point of no use.

The three Cocks are at it againe. The top Cock (the big black Jersey Giant) used to ignore the Faverol, but now runs it off. Likewise it is still hostile to the Dorking. Last night I wanted them in early, but had to chase the notorious Dorking around and around until eventually it went into the partially opened pop hole and I could close it for the night.

Tomorrow I have to go into the citte. If nothing else it will get me out of the house before next week, when I have a job Interview with the Civil Service (another one).

Bloompberg stories

After finding out about the fellow blog “Strange Bloompberg Headlines” I am reminded of my run-in with Bloompberg:

Some time ago I was still in college and received a broadcast Email from the business (school) department that they were going to administer the “Bloompberg Aptitude Test”, which was supposed to be a sort of SAT for business students, but evidently not the GMAT. Or something like that.

Anyway, the test was free for taking and they were trying to incite everyone to take it. I’m guessing this was because they wanted statistical information. Anyway, they invited me to take it so I did.

First point, they claimed you didn’t need to study for it because it was an “Aptitude” test. However I distinctly remember one question that require you to have been following the finantial news to be able to answer.

To register for the test, you supplied your college Email address. This let them be sure that someone who was actually a student or professor was taking the test. I was both a student and a part time hourly employee at the time, so I used my employee address. The difference was in the DNS: one was and the other was . I had been using my staff address in preference to my student one, so I did so this time without really thinking about it.

I took the test and got a decent seeming mark on it, but since I’m an engineer it didn’t really matter, I don’t think. Atleast I’ve never heard anything from anyone about it.

HOWEVER, some time after taking it I started getting Email newsletters from Bloomberg about things like hedge funds. Somewhat confused, I ignored them, but they kept coming. I guessed that they thought I was a business school professor because of my Email address and so kept sending me these things as some sort of professional courtesy or something. Publishers do the same thing with professional review copies of textbooks.

Finally, at the end of the year they stopped coming. Either they got tired of sending them, annually weed their mailing lists, or finally decided that I wasn’t really a professor. This was a little sad to me as I had gotten a little used to reading about high finance.

Swiss Professor Robinson III

The room, my office, was moving!

I could feel it sliding out of its place in the building. The rails hadn’t been cleaned in all the years I had been in this office. I could smell the friction heated dust. At this rate I would tip out of the side of the building and splash right into the lake by the engineering building.

I hated the idea of water that I couldn’t see in. Eutrophicated and murky water filled our little pond and I’m told water snakes and snapping turtles as well. Duckweed to get tangled in if you dived into it. Some student (possibly under an influence?) almost drowned about a decade ago by doing that. There was a fountain in the middle of the lake too (not a big thing, just something to keep the water from breeding moskitoes). I had a deep fear of being sucked into the intake of that. I also wasn’t sure if there was an intake to something else down there. In short, I would rather have took my chances with the blasting steam out in the hall than the cold water of the Sunless Sea below.

The motion of the room was slow enough that I wasn’t panicked yet, although I wasn’t sure how to escape this. I couldn’t jump from the third story down, that I knew. Ever since a desperate mech. eng. student killed himself that way, we always made the freshmen calculate the amount of force that would produce on them if they did it, the compressive strength of tissue, cost of pallative care if they survived, etc. etc.

I knew the steam jet in the hall would burn me to death almost instantaneously. At that temperature it would be well over scalding temperatures and I couldn’t get out of range of it before I fainted from the heat.

The office itself was self-contained, so I couldn’t pop a cieling tile and climb out that way. If I could throw a line across the water to the trees on the other side I might have enough time to—

The office shuddered and jerked out by a fraction of a step. A few papers slid off my plastic desk. I remembered looking in the plenum space once and seeing… two handles on either side: brakes!

At once the idea occurred to me. If I released the brakes at the same time, the steam would force the office off the rails and across the lake. I would have to take my chances falling down, but the woods were thick and I should be able to shelter in place somewhere. Then, even if the office landed on the door, I could make shift to escape and then get whatever help I needed.

Looking around, I decided to use the copious amounts of student papers as cushioning under my desk, so I threw them on the floor and pulled them off shelves to make two mounds on either side where the hard mental drawers formed the sides of the little crawlspace I would use.

Cieling tiles! I could use them too. I climbed up a bookcase and started popping them and pitching them down to the floor. I got as many as I could and was quite dusty quite quickly. The steam was making the inner wall burning hot to touch. I was partially afraid it would set fire to the dust or some papers that I knew must have fallen down behind the bookcase.

Balancing on the frame that supported the tiles, I crawled over to the corner that had one of the brake handles. It was a plastic handle like you would see on a playground. You know the ones where you have to haul yourself hand over hand? It was that kind of handle. I took it and pulled down. No movement.

Was it stuck that badly? I pulled away from the wall to see if that would budge it. Nothing. I tried to calm myself and think, but the heat was seriously affecting me. I pulled desperately in every direction, but it felt like it was welded to the wall. The wall had yellow and black on it, like a warning label. A… warning label?

I had been staring at the wall with my eyes about to come out of my head from the straining, but hadn’t actually parsed it. There was a faded warning sticker: “INSERT PINS AFTER INSTALLATION”

Pins? Wasn’t I trying to remove them?

I wish I could explain how my mind went from being confused to being sure that the pins were safety catches on the brakes. I just happened that I went from not knowing to being sure. I felt along the space between the brake rod and (smoking) wall and found a little dowel like affair. On the other side of the rod was a little loop. I pulled on it and it drew out. The plastic that formed it was starting to deteriorate from the heat. Did the maintenance crew not hear the massive noise it was making?

I pulled the handle down and it instantly released. The entire office shook a little. There was just the one on the other side. I should tie a string to it so I could take cover and release it from there.

Thinking about this in the dim past, I have to wonder how I managed to do all this as fast as I did. I’ve estimated the amount of time it would take that much steam to completely cook the office and its contents and concluded fear must have given me more adrenaline in those narrow minutes that I had gotten during the term of my life to date. Somehow I swarmed up the bookcase, threw down all the tiles, fought with the one brake, set up the other one, climbed down, and walled myself into my desk-fort before I would have been heat-struck.

I pulled pulled the string as hard as I could and felt the brake release.

POP is the only onomatopoeia I can think of that describes the sound I felt as the office let loose. The gushing steam in the background died away within seconds. The unaerodynamic outside of the modular office set up a horrible spin. The room fell end over end at what felt like 15 RPM. In other words, a complete spin every 4 seconds. Fortunately I hadn’t eaten my lunch or I would have lost it. I have only the vaguest memory of being curled in a ball with my eyes shut and moaning.

That memory doesn’t feel like it happened between ejection and landing though. My memory arranged itself so that instantly after I loosed the brake, I woke up.

Note to readers from the author: I will continue this later, but the last sentence does not mean this was all a dream. The story will directly continue from this point.

Swiss Professor Robinson, II

The continuing story of the accidentally exiled professor:

I knew they were working. I knew what they were working at. They thought they knew what they were working at.

While I was in my office, upstairs in the so-called mechanical pent house, the doughty maintenance crew was at work on the building steam lines. Summer vacation is of course when all the major but postponable work on a college gets done by the physical plant. We – meaning humans – could swelter more safely than we could freeze. Even in the heat of the summer, the buildings wouldn’t get as dangerous as they would in the depths of winter.

The steam worked last winter, but I knew the distribution looked like spaghetti upstairs. You know how cables and cords get scrambled in a networking closet, or even behind a PC on a desk? Their hoses did the same thing over time, somehow, and now the physical plant decided to fix them for good. I had seen the planned new manifold of pipes and valves on paper and agreed that it would be much safer.

Many people don’t know that high pressure steam is one of the best ways of moving energy around. In some places, like factory complexes or prisons, the buildings would have no heaters themselves, but used steam from a centralized source. The country called Iceland is notoriously heated that way, almost completely, from their volcanical steam. Our campus buildings and sidewalks were all heated via steam in pipes. The steam would be split into smaller lines, and smaller ones, and these would heat fins that had air blown over them. In the summer, chilled brine or glycol would be used to cool the air.

At least, most places would do that. We didn’t have a central chiller, the engineering building had an underground storage tank called the Anbar that water was allowed to settle in and cool off in before being pumped up. Nice bit of engineering. The hole in the ground was an old storage room that we then flooded. That was decades ago, when I first was on the staff.

Since my office was on the third floor, underneath the “pent house”, I could hear some sounds. The heavy or the loud filtered through the floor and ceiling.



And then, a scramble. I don’t know how I could tell through the sound-deadening layers of concrete and steel, but something had happened upstairs.


The atmospheric pressure dropped suddenly. They – I’m guessing now – had accidentally let off a live steam line that somehow aspirated air out of the building. That is my only explanation for the sound and the pressure change. Someone probably got fired because of that. Somehow the steam into the building wasn’t turned off and locked out, which is a complete contravention of every safety rule.

My door slowly swung shut and latched quietly, like a student had just left my office. Click-chunk I could hear the shouting upstairs much more clearly now.

“It’s stuck! I can’t move it!”

“Then vent it! Open all the other lines!”


Then came a series of hissing sounds from different parts of the building. Evidently they were trying to take as much pressure out of the line as possible by feeding steam to everything that was hooked up to take it. You and I are probably wondering why they didn’t have the central plant cut the steam line off now, or for that matter, before they started working on this. I don’t know. I’m not in a place where I can ask them.


Out in the hall, one of the radiant heaters overhead failed and a huge blast of steam started shooting down at the floor. Instantly student posters on the walls started soaking up the moisture. The ink ran so fast I watched in fascination. I should have been calling Security over this, but really, I was too caught up in it. I suppose I can’t blame the maintenance crew for letting their excitement take over their minds.

What I can, and do, blame them for is getting the compressed air and steam lines mixed up earlier on. The building has compressed air service for experiments and laboratories, and also to operate the modular offices. Each office is a little self contained module that is inserted into the building frame. Power and air connectors mate and the office is then ready for use. If an office needs to be moved or replaced, it can be pushed out by the compressed air system. The top contains rails that a special crane hooks into and then moves the office to its new location, or, if it is completely trash, sets it down on the ground for later removal.

After the heater pipe had burst and the steam jet had started to melt the linoleum I heard more scrambling upstairs.

“Here, try this one!”

“Give me a hand…”

“Lift the catch first!”

Then, three voices at once: “There!”

In about 3 seconds a fan of steam shot up from the floor right outside my office. A huge roaring made me temporarily deaf. The hall windows in my office fogged up at once so I couldn’t see a thing. Instead I felt a strange linear motion. I was moving…? But everything in sight was still!

I felt, in my stomach, a fear. I think, for the second time in my life, I thought I was going to die within seconds.