Balloon Boy: The Likelihood it Was a Hoax, and How I Feel About That

On Thursday afternoon I was trying to do some boring paperwork when I kept overhearing the excited voice of the sporty macho-man manager on the phone in the office directly behind me. He was laughing with nervous glee at the fact that a 6-year-old boy had climbed into his dad’s homemade weather balloon and drifted away.

Not recognizing the scale of the event, I tried to tune him out. But then I heard the words “thousands of feet” and “live coverage”. Before I knew it I and two co-workers were huddled in my cube, rapt at MSNBC’s coverage of the papery silver flying saucer twisting and turning in the wind at 6,000 feet above the earth.

Thoughts of how much fun he was having with his unlikely caper quickly turned to stomach-churning agony. My heart dropped every time the flimsy edge of the saucer did; it looked for all the world like it might capsize and plummet at any moment. People started to point out that the air is thin up there in the cloud cover. He had probably passed out. He might be breathing helium and asphyxiating. He might be freezing to death. As if the thought of him tumbling out of the sky wasn’t sickening enough.

We watched the craft move precariously across the sky at breathtaking speeds for the entire two hours, right up to the “soft” landing that still looked to me like it could have broken some bones. We watched as the rescuers took an agonizingly long time tying down the balloon and ripping it open. When we heard that there was no boy inside, I immediately believed that he had fallen to his death earlier in the journey.

Few news outlets have considered the possibility that the event was a hoax; most have dismissed the idea citing the parents’ hysteria and the brother’s eyewitness account of the kid climbing into the craft. I say this:

• If reports are to be believed, the dad called the media before calling the police.
• The family has been on reality TV shows, has produced YouTube videos of their kids rapping, loudly promotes the view that humans are descended from aliens, and apparently says on their web site that they are destined to become stars.  You could say that they are fame-seekers.
• The dad says that the balloon was never intended to fly, but to hover around the house. That guy’s not a bad engineer if he unintentionally designed a craft that could rise 10,000 feet into the air and travel 60 miles.
• The once-attached basket that could have held a person was clearly missing in the two hours of footage. We didn’t know about the basket, but the dad did. Maybe that’s why he says he didn’t watch the footage.
• His dad didn’t watch the footage? Who doesn’t pay attention when their kid is hovering on the brink of death for two hours, chased all the while by rescuers who admit they don’t have a good plan for saving him?
• Experts said the craft didn’t move like it was carrying anyone.
• I just did a final search, and it now seems that the kid admitted that the stunt was done “for the show”, making all my speculation fairly redundant. His family is pretending his comment meant something else.
• The media might be embarrassed to admit to giving serious, lengthy coverage to a hoax, especially with so many holes in the story.

And now, I say this.

Gosh, I’ve never felt the way I felt while watching that newscast.  It grabbed the heart of little kid me, who knew no greater longing than to fly. I’d tie garbage bags to stick frames, climb up the TV antenna on the side of the house, and jump — but nothing. I knew a hovercraft existed somewhere, and that one lucky year I’d score one for Christmas. My favorite book was The Wonderful Flight of the Mushroom Planet, a story of two boys who actually built a spaceship that worked. It could be done. I was sure of it.

How must that kid have felt to have climbed into that craft, loosened the ropes and set off into the boundless sky? How must his joy have turned to terror? Was he exhilarated? Was he sick? It seemed fitting that the fantasy of climbing heavenward toward the gods would start to look like a tragedy.

Grown-up me was mesmerized too. A child rescue is captivating enough, but this one provided so many terrifying possibilities. He would live. He would die. He would fall out of the sky. The rescuers would botch the job and deflate the balloon. We’d see his untimely demise on television. A six year old kid. Dying in front of the whole world in a freak amateur space accident.

And then — the whole thing was such a page out of science fiction. The story wouldn’t have been nearly as compelling if the craft had looked like a familiar colorfully-striped hot-air balloon. It was a spaceship.  A whimsical, shimmering, dangerous, deadly little spaceship carrying an innocent passenger into the depths of space. A passenger who, thanks to the hubris of his mad-scientist father, would die in the name of science. Like little Laika.

The story made me feel alive.

When it was over, I wanted the feeling back again. I tried to get it by re-watching footage of the craft tossing in the wind, but my crack-high was inevitably doused by some newscaster mentioning the never-imperiled child and his uneventful stint in the family attic.

I wish I knew how the radio listeners of 1938 felt after they’d learned that Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds broadcast was a fake. Were they angry? Relieved? Or glad to have been pulled out of their mundane little lives for just a moment, into a real-life science fiction fantasy?

I believe that I was duped. And I’m ok with that, because of the big, momentous way that my life felt changed on Thursday afternoon. Even if it was an illusion.

The Perils of Acquiring Music

A few days ago eMusic abruptly announced that they would be discontinuing certain “low-cost subscription plans” like my 75 songs per month for $190 a year. This is because they’ve acquired some new Sony content which they undoubtedly would like to charge more for. I don’t care about the new Sony content either way.  I’m not a Sony hater like some of the venomous eMusic customers who accused eMusic of selling out on the bulletin board that day, but I can find plenty of music to download with or without Sony.

I was given the unpalatable choice of receiving 30 downloads for nearly the same price, paying $360 a year to keep the same number of downloads, or canceling my subscription. I’m paid ahead so I’ll be canceling in February.

While exploring my options I discovered last.fm, Amie Street, Lala, and Audio Lunchbox. You can check them out yourself, but they variously offer streaming radio, cheap Mp3s and free MP3s.  And of course there’s always Amazon’s under $5 page.

My cheap eMusic plan allowed me to experiment. About half my downloads each month were albums I knew I wanted while the other half were whims based on reviews, recommendations or forays into new musical territory. Now that that’s not possible, eMusic isn’t of much use to me.

It turns out that I want to hear tons of new music at least as much as I want to own it, so as my main eMusic replacement strategy I’ll be subscribing to Sirius without ado. XM Radio looked nearly identical, but Sirius boasted slightly “edgier” content and plenty of weird mash-up channels to satisfy my urge for new music. My car stereo is already satellite-ready so we’ll just need to purchase a device or two for the homestead.

With that out of the way, my next move is to acquire more Manu Chao albums. EMusic only had one, and La Radiolina’s been kicking my ass since I downloaded it a couple of months ago. I lack the musical context to give it a proper review, but it’s a festival of pop ear-candy awesomeness with plenty of sirens, punk rage and carribean beats. I’m told it’s politically important too, but most songs are in Spanish so I can’t confirm. And Manu Chao is prolific, with a large catalogue including solo albums and work with several bands. Finally, someone I like is prolific.

I never thought I’d end up on a modern Latin kick, but actually it makes perfect sense. My gateway drugs were ska, Sublime, and the mariachi that’s been creeping into indie bands from Calexico to Crooked Fingers. And maybe it’s just me, but I think modern Latin might be Doing Great Things at the moment.

This morning I noticed that Fosforo, a band I found on Free Music Archive recently, has a song about how great Obama is. Fermin Muguruza has turned out to be fairly awesome too, and jazzy. Who doesn’t need another version of 54-46?

How Many Ways Are There to Rock?

The Old Man walked in the door this morning after taking a drive. He had just heard Sammy Hagar’s There’s Only One Way to Rock.

I think our Friend Dale Cooper once invited his readers to speculate on what’s the worst rock song ever. He doesn’t have a search bar on his site so I can’t say for sure. It certainly sounds like something he would have done.

I’m still casting my vote for We Built This City, but some have argued that a song that manages to be as annoying as that one has at least accomplished something, and that more forgettable songs better qualify. It’s kind of like that paradox where the most boring person in the world has won the world record for being the most boring, which is a point of interest for him, therefore it’s the second most boring guy who is the most boring. But then that guy is the most boring, and so it’s the third most boring guy who is the most boring.

Anyway, I think this discussion inspired what The Old Man had to say when he got out of the car.

OM: I think that Sammy Hagar’s There’s Only One Way to Rock has to be the worst rock song ever.

The song is given a boost of lameness by protesting too much: Sammy claims to know the key to the one way of rocking, but the song never actually achieves rocking. It might as well be titled There’s Only One Way to Rock, But Don’t Take This Song as an Example.

The song just never fires on all cylinders. Rock lyrics don’t have to be poetry, but they should be focused and dumb, not petulent. This song is like a 95 lb accounts payable clerk in a boxing match. Also, the music itself is about as uninspired as Hagar has ever been, with a lot of pseudo-Halen schlock, but executed so by the numbers that it’s just boring.

Finally, I take issue with the basic premise. In an infinite universe, there are infinite ways of rocking. Sammy’s narrow-minded view of rock probably explains a lot about how bad he is at it.

It was at this point that I agreed that the song was lame, questioned whether it was the lamest song ever, and gave a noncommital “hm” as to whether or not the premise was incorrect.

Incidentally The Old Man didn’t appear to know, when he made the boxing analogy, that the album cover of this song features Hagar in a boxing ring.

Later:

OM [still annoyed about the song]: And anyway there are plenty of ways to rock.

Me: I don’t know that I’m prepared to concede that there is more than one way to rock.

OM: You’re taking Sammy’s side on this?

Me: It’s not that I’m taking Sammy’s side, it’s just that I think the jury’s still out.

OM: No. There are many ways to rock.

Me: Well, OK. What ways are there to rock, for example?

OM: There’s the partying having fun way to rock and the angry kicking ass way to rock. For example.

Me: I think that Sammy would say that there is an essential core element of each of those experiences that qualifies as the rocking part. Perhaps the energy, and the… [I shake my fist in the air repeatedly to signify a concept for which I don't have another name besides "rock"].

I thought you were going to say that there is the punk way to rock and the grunge way to rock, or something.

OM: No, I’m trying to make this less about style and more about ways to rock.

I was playing devil’s advocate, but I lean toward Sammy’s (regrettably unrealized) intuition.

Urban Crime vs. Redneck Crime: An Analysis

When I moved to Indianapolis, my Mom was concerned about the big-city crime. But I’ve experienced far more crime in Evansville and in the neighboring small towns where I grew up. My rural friends think that’s weird.

On the flip side, thanks to those early years, I now lock my car doors when I stop for gas in Anderson if there is a shopping bag from the Dollar Store in my back seat. My urban friends think that’s weird.

In order to alleviate some of the confusion all around, I’ve compiled the following list of Urban Crime situations and their Redneck Crime counterparts. In short, Urban Crime is predictable and thus a little easier to avoid. Redneck Crime is another matter, as David Lynch and the Cowen Brothers have discerned.

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Urban Crime: You kick someone’s ass because they owe you money.

Redneck Crime: You kick someone’s ass because you think they’re looking at you funny.

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Urban Crime: You steal CDs because you can sell them for fast cash.

Redneck Crime: You steal a moldy Bob Seger cassette without its case because you like Bob Seger. You take the Metallica CD for your cousin. You leave the Tori Amos CD. If you see a Busta Rhymes CD, you wait around to see who comes out to the car so you can kick their ass. Unless they are bigger than you.

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Urban Crime: You break into a house and steal the TV and VCR because you can sell them.

Redneck Crime: You break into a house and steal everything there because you’re a group of teenage skinheads. You take the TV and VCR because you don’t have one. You take the mannequin so you can bust it up and leave it in an alley later. You take the dishes, office supplies, toaster, knick-knacks, socks, electric drill and computer books because hey, who doesn’t need more junk. You take the tampons because you can give them to your girlfriend.*

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Urban Crime: You leave someone a threatening note because their brother has been harrassing your brother at school.

Redneck Crime: You burn a cross in someone’s front yard because they’re one-quarter Italian.**

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Urban Crime: You see an apartment door ajar and take a quick peek inside to see if there’s anything valuable worth stealing later.

Redneck Crime: You see an apartment door ajar and you walk in and take a mediocre Walmart blanket off the bed because you could use an extra blanket.*

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Urban Crime: You steal a carton of Outback leftovers from a car because you’re hungry.

Redneck Crime: You steal someone’s groceries out of their trunk while they’re carrying the first load into their apartment, because you’re an asshole.*

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Urban Crime: You open an unlocked car door and take the change from the console.

Redneck Crime: You open an unlocked car door and take a used pair of size 2 jeans which are much too small for you to squeeze your fat ass into and which sport a hand-sewn heart-shaped knee patch which would render them instantly recognizable (if you did manage to wear them) to the person you robbed and her boyfriend, who live near you and the scene of the robbery, and at least one of whom is prepared to kick your ass.*

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Urban Crime: You take someone’s unattended quarters off the dryer at the laundromat.

Redneck Crime: You reach in the washer and take their wet clothes.*

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Urban Crime: You steal a few dollars because you’re jonesing for a rock.

Redneck Crime: You steal a few dollars and use it to buy a Mountain dew, a Slim Jim, and a dollar’s worth of gas.

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Urban Crime: You spray-paint your tag on a train car in giant, squishy, three dimensional letters, so that viewers across the country can recognize your artistic skills as the train rolls by.

Redneck Crime: You pray-paint the word “ASS” on the front of the neighborhood grocery store. (On second thought, maybe that is your tag.)

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Urban Crime: You steal a car because you sell stolen cars or you’re on the run from the law.

Redneck Crime: You steal a car from someone’s front yard, take it for a joyride, and return it later.*

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Urban Crime: You break a car window to take the stereo.*

Redneck Crime: You break a car window for the hell of it and leave the stereo.*

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* It happened to me.

** It happened to someone I know.

Blackie and Blondie and other Rednecks

I grew up in a small town where the adults I knew were named Boney, Channel Cat, Dino, Pebob, Boomer, Skeet, and Tuckie. It’s important to note that while these aren’t birth names, they tend to completely usurp the birth names for life. Tuckie’s extended family, for example, first learned of his real name during a conversation he had with them when he was 22.

Stinky and Tooter were cousins whose parents apparently wanted to forever enshrine the boys’ respective childhood farting incidents. Tooter should not be confused with his other cousin, Tootsie, whose name allegedly means “brother,” though I don’t know why. Those who aren’t named for bodily functions are often given names representing their unique and important status as siblings — I’ve known three sets of Bubbys and Sissys. Then there are those nicknames inspired by embarrassing moments that originate outside the diaper years. I’ll spare you the rumor responsible for Goat’s moniker.

A friend of mine had both a grandmother and an aunt named Jimmy. I also knew women named Billy and Freddie, but that’s straying a little from the topic at hand. For reasons I can’t fathom, my friend’s entire extended family enjoyed naming their dogs after family members.  They only chose about four names though. Rusty was an obvious choice. But Jimmy, Maggie and Audrey were a little odder. Even stranger was visiting one of his relatives with a dog named Audrey hours after visiting the last relative with a dog named Audrey, all of which occurred after visiting Aunt Audrey that morning. Stranger still was the fact that these dogs had human names while I lived across the street from a man named Pooch.

As an adult I crossed the highway and lived in Evansville for a while, where I briefly dated a girl with light brown hair and hazel eyes named Blackie. I recoiled at the name as soon as  I heard it, but I liked her, so what can you do. Her perfectly serviceable real name was offensive to her, as were the many socially-acceptable shortened forms of it. Blackie was so called because as a child, she had dark hair while her sister, often mistaken for her twin, was a blond. It’s the sibling thing again. Blackie and Blondie never changed their names even though their hair colors eventually ceased to reflect the names’ origins. The embarrassing day came when I was asked to introduce Blackie to an African-American man who we’d just decided to play a round of pool with in a bar. He was understandably taken aback and I felt like a crosseyed racist Evansvillian. It was one of the many incidents that reminded me that in the end, Blackie just wasn’t going to be my kind of people.

The morals of the story are thus: family is important, farting is hilarious, and you don’t need a professional name when you’re going to grow up to be a drug dealer.

Introducing the People Who Can’t Talk

My company contains a large number of People Who Can’t Talk. I don’t mean they aren’t that computer savvy and don’t always use the right words. I mean I have no freaking idea what they are saying.

As you read the following examples, you will no doubt be tempted to think that I had some sort of “context” that made these comments at least somewhat comprehensible. But this is not the case.

Hyper IM’er With Mysterious Problem: “Our training dept. sent this to all of CHS in an email .. does this mean all of CHS has been accessed to this server..? the reason I am asking is maybe I can just forward this email we finally got yesterday.. (this after months of my prodding, go figure – they sent same day)I just can’t understand why I have been trying to get access for 6 weeks,,,then I am told ..oh you don’t have the correct server??? and now 80 people have access?”

This instant message, with original punctuation, was sent to me clear out of the blue from a woman I had helped earlier in the day with an unrelated problem. I don’t know what the “this” is that her training department sent her. I don’t know what email she speaks of. I don’t know which people are “accessed to” what server and how, though I suspect there was never any server involved. I don’t even know what CHS is.

Mr. Blurt-and-Bolt: “I have created my site on the other site so now I no longer have the link to the separate site (from our last discussion) however, I am not able to access the other users when I create a task item Need to step out…”

There’s nothing like someone who makes no sense and then bolts. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t know how many sites are being discussed here, nor did they come up in the last discussion.

Ms Hot Links: “Rob would like to see a hot link on the web page, like so, I am traveling to Europe, what do I need click here.. and the link would pop up. Can we do that?”

What?

Seriously??

And later:

Ms Hot Links: “He would like to see some of those links or HOT links on the page”

After several communications, I still didn’t know where these links or HOT links were supposed to go or what they were supposed to link to (pertinent info, wouldn’t you say?). I talked to Rob later and he did not admit to wanting to see any HOT links.

Crazy Website User: “I was in there and I highlighted a row to keep track of where I was and then it started to move and unhighlight and suddenly the whole line was gone, like someone was behind the scenes deleting it.”

Yeah, I doubt it.

And after I asked someone for the URL of the site they wanted me to edit, you know, so we could get out of the gate:

URL Evader: “That and all other policies that are supposed to be available to regular employees like in HR on intranet, or per newsletter, regarding anniversary policy, etc. All are on the server thing that I couldn’t seem to access. When I go on the company intranet under the tab policy, and then when the recent emailed newsletter gave a link to anniversary policy under HR, same site…both under that server apps thing “

Yeah, I have no idea.

Bonus Bits:

• “The Vendor Service Coverage Area needs to have only the colored links in it”. As with most web sites, all the links were colored.
• Someone insisting that a site that I created from scratch and maintain myself was created and maintained by a guy in India, and then getting pissy when I disagreed: “Oh, I stand corrected, I only have a meeting with him every week”
• Someone referring to “page 6″ on a website

I’m Just Telling You What Was Said

My mom is irrational, like many moms. She doesn’t know the rules of debate and she doesn’t recognize a logical fallacy. She barely hangs on to the thread of what’s being discussed. That’s ok most of the time, but it’s annoying when she becomes randomly opinionated (usually because of something she saw on Oprah).

Me: I’m going to pay off my credit cards with my tax return.

Mom: ACTUALLY, some woman of alleged financial expertise on Oprah or somewhere said that nowadays you shouldn’t pay off your credit cards.

Me: What? That’s stupid. I’m paying off my credit cards.

Mom: ACTUALLY, the woman said that she used to recommend paying off your credit cards, but now, in these uncertain economic times, she recommends NOT paying off your credit cards, so that you’ll have more savings in case you get laid off.

Me: In these uncertain economic times, I’m getting rid of that 17% compounded interest rate (or whatever it is) as fast as I can. Why not just use your newly-paid off credit card if and when you get laid off?

Mom: Well I don’t know. But she’s an expert. And she says this is the best strategy in these uncertain economic times. So I suggest you don’t pay off those credit cards.

Me: Sorry Mom, I’m paying them off. Why would I pay 17% interest now and keep a savings account that makes 2% interest (or whatever it is), rather than paying off the credit card, not paying any interest, still having a credit card later when I get laid off, and possibly never even getting laid off?

Mom: Oh gosh, you’re using moderate-sized words and I think I heard some math in there. I have no idea what you’re saying, but this is what the lady said to do. And she’s a financial expert.

Me: And some other financial experts will tell you the opposite.

Mom: But I didn’t see those other financial experts on TV, so I can only assume that they are not as smart as this lady is. And anyway, do you propose to think for yourself on an issue like this, rather than listening to a Known Financial Expert?

Me: You can’t argue with the math. Tell me why you would pay fees now when you could get rid of them and possibly not pay them later either?

This is where my Mom pulls out her own special brand of appeal-to-authority, a phrase that is supposed to end all further debate:

Mom: Well. I’m just telling you what was said.

Now you might think that this is a retreat, but you’d be fooled. Whatever response I offer here is countered with a repetition of the important things That Were Said. These will be followed with my insistence on a response or concession to the proposed plan’s flaws, which will be followed with:

I’m just telling you WHAT WAS SAID.

With greater and greater emphasis placed on the “what was said” part.

The neat thing about my Mom’s ace in the hole is its passive tone. If she’d said, “I’m just telling you what the lady said,” then I’d say “I don’t trust that lady.” But when it’s just something “that was said,” well, it’s as if it was handed down on a flaming tablet by God himself. Good Lord, It Was Said! Nothing More Can Be Done!

I’m going to start using this as a rationale for all sorts of terrible ideas. Let’s drink scotch whiskey all night, and then die behind the wheel! Behold, It Was Said! For God’s sake, does it really matter if it was said by Ghandi or Steely Dan? The important thing is that It Was Said!