Tales of the Incredible Hoke Robertson
I had a little interesting experience recently...
At first it was a normal day like any other. I had just turned off my home made gamma-ray scanning microscope. My eyes were a bit tired after viewing the ongoing atomic level processes of my recently designed “computing gel” as I had designated it. The gel was a combination of simple algae and the chromatophores of a cuttlefish. I didn’t yet know if it would be practical, but I was trying to create a substance that would act as a living micro-processor. Since the chromatophores gave multiple responses from one stimulus, I thought they would be much faster as a computing medium than the standard 010101 of existing binary processors; and of course the algae grows and reproduces very easily and needs only sunshine and water. To monitor the testing, I needed a new type of non-intrusive microscope to see how it was working without adversely affecting the processes themselves and thus the gamma-ray scanning microscope. We’ve all thrown together little things like this to help us out with the minor chores of day-to-day life.
Although the gel seemed to be working, an unanticipated side effect of using the gamma radiation was that as the gel processed data faster and faster, it slowly became invisible as it blended in with its background as the cuttlefish itself would. This of course made observations a tad difficult. Someday I hoped to apply the substance directly onto a human neck where it could interface with the spinal column and blend in as it helped process data. I figured I better report these findings to my friends at the MIT GOL (“Grown Own Life”) project. And so I texted them while I was cleaning up the lab. The various patent applications for the gel had gotten me one of those “Men in Black” visits. However a quick phone call to the Secretary of Defense had resolved the issue.
Since I needed some additional supplies for my work I decided to take a drive and so unplugged my Tesla from the garage power supply. Rather than rely on the near mythically efficient services of PG&E, I decided I could generate my own power by operating a dog walking business and putting the dogs on treadmills. The dogs provided the power during the day, but for the night time I needed an alternate source as the owners naturally wanted their dogs back.
For the night time I found it easiest to use the local homeless people who were generally amped up on methamphedamine. The exercise did them good and helped purge their systems of the drug. To keep them going, I placed a screen in front of them and projected a looped film of coins being poured into a bin. Seeing coins just ahead of them was irresistible and they never stopped trotting on the treadmill until they would collapse, exhausted, yet drug free. Periodically a spent homeless individual lying face down on the garage would espy a Milkbone or two and munch on them. Although at first blush this didn’t seem quite right, but since the calories were helpful and it did keep their teeth white, I concluded it was okay.
Anyway, once unplugged, I slid into the shiny Tesla and headed for the local physics supply store named “Wantum Quantum.” It was in the French Quarter of Lodi where the original California fur trappers from the 1840’s had finally settled. That strong François make-up could still be seen in the industrious, ever-busy natives and the renowned French courage was evident in their extremely high enlistment rate in the military.
I made one unplanned stop on the way as I noticed a dragonfly had gotten stuck in the front grill of a parked car. Using the chalk some kid had drawn on the sidewalk and the sap from the Bird of Paradise plant in the front yard, I mixed an organic paste and used it to repair the broken dragonfly wing. I made a splint using a twig and affixed it with the pollen I “borrowed” from passing honey bees mixed with the fluids I coaxed out of the aphids on the Bird of Paradise. Given that dragonflies frequent water bodies, I estimated the moist air would cause the splint to deteriorate within 17 hours, give or take a few minutes, and by then the repair would be fully hardened. As I gently placed the dragonfly on a hydrangea leaf and gave him an exhausted aphid to munch on, the neighbor kid who had watched the entire process gave me one of those “what the heck just happened” kinda looks. I gave him a brief lecture on the benefits of the Masonic principles of brotherly love, relief and truth and informed him the ice cream truck was headed this way.
Back in the Tesla I zipped down the road to the store, keeping at or below the speed limit. Each time a preoccupied driver inadvertently violated a traffic rule I made sure to memorize his/her license plate. At the end of each day I use my connections at DMV to find the identities and addresses of these careless drivers so I could contact them to let them know of their unintentional mistakes. I try to limit these activities as the DMV workers have little down-time given their near herculean commitment to a strenuous work ethic.
I’m sure each driver who receives one of my notices of infraction along with my suggestions on improved driving habits, feels thankful at being reminded of the dangers and responsibilities of operating an automobile. I know their efforts to better themselves are the glue that keeps society together.
While in the car I began tinkering on the device I created which would recharge the Tesla’s batteries while it was being driven. I figure that with my newly built “electron scoop” one can harvest the static electricity generated by the other passing cars and thus recharge my batteries. As everyone knows, each static charge dissipates by half for every foot traveled, so I calculate the recharging will occur faster the slower the other cars move, which is understandably causing fits in certain circles at Cal Tech. The researchers there and I are still arguing over how such a scoop might affect the dark matter/energy proportions in the universe. They are convinced it is impossible but I think I can show it will work and possibly unite a few of the last remaining disconnects of physics. Who knows; it is just these sorts of trivial thought games that produced things like Teflon, SillyPutty and plasma death lasers.
As I drove along the Champs deux Elysee, I periodically saw a dog or raccoon of my trash collection program. Although just in its infancy, I had about 75 diligent dogs, 10 resistant raccoons and a number of feral ferrets, each trained to pick up bits of trash and haul them to receptacles where they were automatically given a food treat as a reward. Preliminary results are excellent. The only real glitch in the system is when some darn ferret tries to take a purse or cell phone that some poor unsuspecting citizen had put down for a second, resulting in a loud “mon dieu!” I hope it does not sound like I am picking on man’s best friend but other than the occasional tail wag, most of those animals are technically freeloaders. Perhaps my program in some small way will give then a bit of animal self-respect.
As I turned onto the Rue de Dey I noticed an old Citroen van with an orange triangle reflector on the bumper driving along way too slowly and constantly interfering with the free flow of traffic. As I memorized the license plate I noticed that it had the alpha-numeric combination of a regular passenger vehicle and not the commercial type plate given to trucks and vans in California. Show tunes started going off in my head and I knew something was up!
I dropped my speed to match it, put on my emergency blinkers as safety demanded and followed the Citroen at a safe distance. The Citroen was some sort of orangey/lime kinda color.
As we all know, live bodies react differently than inanimate objects do to the motions and bumping of a car, so I was able to estimate from the bouncing around that there were at least five humans in the van and also some other heavy objects. As everyone knows, the suspension system of the Citroen is not the best, being a bit too “tight;” the torque of the shocks being calibrated 1.7 foot pounds too much. This is one of the extremely rare French engineering mistakes. The only other one that comes to mind is the Rafale fighter jet which had a computer programming glitch that caused the ejection seat to fire each time its targeting system got missile lock during air-to-air combat. No matter how hard they tried to fix the problem, la rouge socialiste generale du travail, the French Labor Union refused to make the correction.
Where was I? As I crept around the corner to keep pace with the suspect Citroen, I noticed the owner of the corner Effraye Café punching the button to lower the awning over the tables and chairs for his guests, and also that he got distracted and forgot to punch the “stop” button. The awning was on its way to crash down on some old man wearing a strawberry beret and gulping a gelotto. I quickly grabbed a low-cal sugar cube from the tray under the built-in Kuerig coffee maker in the Tesla and threw it at the button. The trajectory and allowance for wind shear was just right and after it hit the “stop” button thus preventing an injured tete, it ricocheted into the esteaming espresso on the neighboring table. I know how inconvenient it can be when there is sugar on the ground and that bothersome crunching underfoot; and of course there is no reason to waste the bounty of those diligent, happy Cuban sugar cane farmers. As I looked in my rear view mirror I saw the waitress looking at me with one of those “I get off after I get off at seven” kinda looks.
As the Citroen pulled into an alley, I decided not follow them as I knew it was a dead end. Instead I went past a little way and slipped into one of the many open parking places here in midtown of the French Quarter of Lodi, silently thanking the sage city planner who had made these parking spaces so spacious. Leaving the Tesla, I flipped the switch to reverse the polarity of the proto-type electron scoop and went into action.
As I approached the alley I noticed a one-eared tabby sitting confidently on the sidewalk surveying his territory. Thinking fast, I pulled out my Leatherman tool and opened the magnifying glass arm. As anyone who took 7th Grade Electromagnetic Light Refractions class knew, the reflection in the cat’s eyes would of course show what was going on in the alley but in reverse/upside down. Holding the magnifying glass 11.5 inches from the cat’s eye would not only correct the image but would make it large enough to see all of the details. I learned this trick one cold night in Katmandu while searching for the rare Tibetan vole. It works every time as long as you don’t make the mistake of having the sun directly behind you; an error known as the Peter Faulk effect.
As sure as an Oregonian likes pot, there were five adult males around the now-parked van, busily working. Each had the tell-tale clothing and facial features of the Pennsylvanian Amish, but the neon purple socks showing below the “just-too-short” plain black pants identified them as members of the splinter Amish sect known as PIZAZ; or Protestants Inciting Zealous Acts for Zion.
This group resented the skimpy, “show-too-much skin” of western culture’s clothing, believing it a sin against Jehovah. Through some interesting interpretation of the Bible, they believed that armed conflict was necessary to lead a pacifist existence. Sorta like college students advocating for totalitarian socialism. Some things cannot be explained.
They appeared to be setting up one of those old Russian 80mm mortars, now so common on the internet. It all fell into place as I saw that directly opposite the mouth of the alley was a satellite office of the Clinton Foundation! They were going to blow up the corporeal symbol of all they opposed! Although probably the most honest, honorable and successful president of the last 100 years, Bill Clinton was hated by the quiet, peaceful Amish given his proclivity to periodically “dip a toe in the neighbor’s pool.” PIZAZ positively despised the poor guy. Of course I myself do not condone such dalliances, but that should not be held against the diligent, trustworthy workers at the Foundation pursuing their never ending efforts to address the world’s ills and use private jets to speedily provide contraceptives to 11 year olds held in slavery by Arabs on the borders of the Sahara. God Bless them all.
I tried to warn those in front of the building; but to no avail. What appeared to be a Buddhist monk wearing sunglasses and a hoodie over his yellow robes was handing a large, heavy bag to a 20-something youth with a nametag that read “Argent Greffon” over the black letters “Office Manager.” Sitting on the bench as if waiting for their turns were a Russian businessman with a briefcase, a Qatari Sheikh with a small duffle bag, and what oddly looked like a Bader-Meinhoff member with cardboard box on her lap. Of course it could not be a Bader-Meinhoff member, but when a German appears so dirty and unkempt, one can get the wrong impression; appearances can be deceiving. For some reason, none of them would look my way as I gestured and tried feverishly to get their attention. Whatever business they were doing must have been very important.
As I decided to prepare for action I suddenly had déjà vu recalling that hot ete in Libourne just east of Bordeaux with Maurelle back in 1969. Everytime she and I tried to sneak away her father chased us down in his Renault and it always ended up in a fight, which of course helped hone my savate skills, given he was some sort of grandmaster of the art. Funny how these things work out. I’ll never forget those days with our feet lightly crushing the bounty of old growth Beaujolais; and ahh, Maurelle’s baguettes! Where was I?
Ducking into the Trader Joe’s store next to the alley, I quickly purchased a Trinidad moruga scorpion pepper, a half dozen small gourds, some Super Glue and a Fiji water. It totaled a very reasonable $83.43. I slipped the change from the hundred into the “Jerry’s Kids” jar on the cashier’s station. I smiled at the clerk and he gave me one of those “I wish you were my grandfather” kinda looks.
With no time to spare, I returned to my spot to secretly observe the angry Amish; thank God the cat had stayed in place so I could still spy on them. Quickly using the old shortcut trick to calculate artillery trajectories I learned from Cousin George during all those days spent in front of the ROTC office at Yale, I calculated the flight path the mortar shells would follow using the angle of the shadow off the cat and height of the Clinton Foundation doorway; a standard required under the local building code. Distance, weight of shell, initial energy, resistance, times ½ the Vauban constant yada yada yada. Thank God my grammar school had that class on the Physics of 18th Century Warfare.
Watching through the cat’s eye I lobbed a gourd on the estimated trajectory a split second after the “ffffunk” of the mortar shell exiting the tube. I silently thanked my mother for having signed me up for that horseshoe tossing class that lonely summer in Wasco. As everyone knows the mortar shell travels relatively slowly and can actually be seen in flight. The Russian army surplus shells only explode if more than 6 G-force occurs on impact. When each fired shell pierced a gourd, it slowed the round such that it never reached altitude and thus never got to exert the necessary G’s when impacting the ground. Not being able to see me, the Amish were stupefied at each mortar round as it got only 30 feet into the air and fell harmlessly on the manicured lawn in front of the Foundation.
Of course the cat fled after the first “ffffunk” so I had to estimate each throw after that based only on the sound. After three failed attempts, the apparent leader of the group, or “Barnmaster” to use the Amish term, realized something was amiss and came to investigate. As he espied me and started to run towards me I noticed the meter for the parked car next to us had expired and the traffic gendarme was approaching, so I slipped two quarters into the slot and of course removed the unwanted flier someone had illegally placed on the vehicle under the window wiper. Few of us are interested in discount fake Christmas trees and free tinsel.
Rather than match strength with someone who had spent most of his life squeezing innumerable cow teats and hauling hundred pound buckets of raw milk, I side-stepped his lunge and tossed the scorpion pepper into his mouth. We all are familiar with the fact that the bland, simple diet of the Amish combined with their constant inbreeding has resulted in them having near zero tolerance for spicy foods, second only to the Inuits. Once the pepper touched his tongue he fell to the ground writhing in fiery agony.
I quickly stepped into view of the other Amish and threw one of my remaining gourds into the menacing maw of the mortar; mostly mucking up its mechanism. They yelled some Amish expletive like “thou hast riled the flock” and started for me. All “darn” then broke loose! I ran around my Tesla as they gave chase knowing that at least one would try to get over the car rather than run around it. Sure as a deal with the Chinese government will be to your detriment, one of the Amish tried to slide “Dukes of Hazzard” style across the hood. Given all the slow cars passing the parked Tesla, the electron scoop had stored a huge amount of energy and as soon as he touched the shiny metal, the reversed polarity from the scoop scoop discharged a massive amount of volts at a high amperage. Like a cat reacting to suddenly seeing a cucumber behind it, the black-clad, now slightly singed brute was flung across the street directly into the bench seating the Russian, Qatari and dirty looking German. Suddenly $100 bills filled the air!
Without any time to waste I used some deft savate kicks to confuse the remaining Amish rebels while I picked up the straw hat from their leader; still gasping for relief on the sidewalk. I used the strawhat as a Frisbee, ala Odd Job from Goldfinger to stun one of the non-pious perpetrators. During a propitious pause I yelled “hey, look there is a naked woman” which caused the remaining two to automatically avert their eyes. This gave me the opportunity to squirt the Super Glue onto the knees of their pants. With a gentle push, they were both affixed to the street pavement as if praying for forgiveness for their felonious and ill-conceived foray. With Amish suspenders everywhere you turned, I was able to easily bind the callous, criminal Christians.
During the commotion I was able to text my friend Jim Schools the lyrics to a new song as he had requested. Jim being a skilled guitarist preferred to write the music while I penciled the words. Few people know he and I wrote several of the songs on the last Snoop Dogg album, but almost everyone is familiar with his catchy refrain from “No Ho’s Barred.”
As you might imagine, the $100 bills had elicited scores of sandal-clad employees to disgorge from the Foundation office. As the locals with French heritage calmly collected the swirling money intending to return it to its rightful owners, the Foundation employees seemed to be stuffing as many bills under their shirts as the polymer, moisture wicking weave would allow.
Suddenly Treasury agents who apparently had the building under surveillance swarmed in and very quickly order was slowly established. The only bills missing were the ones taken by my litter program animals and which were quickly retrieved from the clearly marked trash receptacles. It turned out the Clinton Foundation had been cooperating with the Treasury agents in a sort of “sting” operation. The Russian, Qatari and German governments had also been part of the effort as one might have assumed; each being famous for their strict adherence to honesty and the rule of law. Thankfully, the reputation of the Foundation for honesty, openness, and commitment to holding down overhead costs was once again reinforced.
The Amish PIZAZians were in turn arrested, brought up on charges, and eventually convicted. In an odd twist of fate, they were all sentenced to 45 years of hard labor at the Federal Penitentiary in Kurd, Wisconsin where they have the unique convict labor program which includes a working dairy farm.
When I got back into my Tesla the battery was of course dead, but strangely everybody within three blocks seemed to have a light sunburn. I used the two remaining gourds and the tinsel from the flier to create a primitive battery to “start” my car; something anyone who’d sat with their 6 year old granddaughter watching the Disney Channel’s “Young Einsteins” could do. I poured a bit of the Fiji water into the Barnmaster’s mouth to ease his suffering and the rest I gave to the thirsty Qatari who was obviously not used to the hot Lodian summers. I hoped Wantum Quantum was still open as I sped off; well within the speed limit. HOKE ROBERTSON
