UPS Store--U Positively Suck

Ten-and-a-half years ago, when I first moved to Saratoga Springs, I rented a mailbox at the local UPS Store (then Mailboxes Etc.) for my business mail and especially for packages, because I quickly learned that the USPS, UPS, and FedEx liked to leave packages out in the rain and snow. (FedEx in particular has a remarkable knack, I have discovered, for placing boxes exactly where water drips from the eaves of the house.) A PO box was out of the question, because it was predominantly to receive packages from couriers that could not deliver to a PO box.

For 10 years, this system worked fairly well, although once I moved out to the suburban hellhole I couldn't walk up to get my mail anymore, which had been convenient in winter when I can't get my car out of the driveway. The transition from Mailboxes Etc. to The UPS Store went fairly well, and, well, the original owner's idea of "good customer service" was to not actually hit anyone. It also meant that I didn't have to change my business address the three or four times I have moved. And may (hopefully) continue to move.

A week or so ago, the UPS Store location began having strange hours, being closed during my usual dedicated errand times, and cryptic signs on the door would say "Due to a change in ownership at the Wilton branch, we are closed." Which meant I couldn't get my mail.

Today, they appeared to have shut down for good--no notes, no nothing. No one answers the phone. The Wilton branch number doesn't even ring. I e0maled the Wilton branch and (shock!) got no response. I called the Post Office hoping to retrieve any mail that had not been delivered, but they "didn't have it" and they pointed out (I could detect the nyah nyah in her voice) that the contract I probably signed with them (I don't recall; it was a decade ago) gave them the right to take possession of the customer's mail and do with it what they will. So I guess my mail, including checks (assuming anyone has deigned to pay me in the past couple of weeks), bills (like for my first semester of grad school), etc., is all in limbo. It doesn't help that I have to go out of town tomorrow for the rest of the week and will be unable to resolve any of this. Grrrrr....

This is just really lousy business practice. If they are in the midst of a change in ownership, I hope they realize that they have lost a lot of customers (given the swearing I have witnessed as people tried to get in), including me. A simple letter or a phone call or an e-mail explaining the situation and arranging some sort of contingency plan would have gone a long way toward not making me feel like a complete schmuck for having been a loyal customer for 10 years. Never again.

I don't like to use this blog to bitch about things, but it has been an incredibly frustrating experience, and I feel I should warn folks out there to absolutely avoid using these services and "businesses" for anything important.

Slitherbots!

Via LiveScience:

Using a computer program, researchers at the University of Vermont simulated a population of naive "baby" robots. The robots had to complete various tasks in their virtual environment, such as finding objects and walking toward them. Those robots that performed poorly got deleted, while the best-performing ones remained "alive."

The robots that changed their body forms (like tadpoles growing into frogs) learned to walk more rapidly and developed the most stable gait, the researchers found.

“We learned that it is easier to breed robots that change shape,” said lead study researcher Joshua Bongard, a professor of computer science.

Yep, we're boned.

Not So Precious Fluids

I refuse to ever buy bottled water, but it's a safe assumption that I will steer clear of anything called MeatWater: beef-salad flavored water. Beef salad? Okay. They also have cheeseburger-, barbecued chicken wing-, and Italian sausage-flavored water.
For the health-conscious (if that's the right term to use) they also have grilled salmon- and chicken salad-flavored water.

Speaking of vile beverage ideas, Audrey B. passed along a link to a new whiskey-in-a-can:
Wrong. So very wrong. What's next: vodka in a juice box?

Here's an idea, though: want a whiskey and water? Try mixing your canned whiskey with some Meatwater. It would make for some strange tasting notes. Well, stranger tasting notes.

Born Under a Bad Sign?

Good grief:

An assertion in a Minneapolis Star Tribune article that our understanding of the zodiac is off by about a month - and that therefore people have been identifying themselves with the wrong sign - caught fire on the internet Thursday, and many folks are in an absolute panic on social media.
...
Some vowed to get their tats removed. Others groaned about losing the sign with which they’ve identified themselves for years. The zodiac and related terms - including Ophiuchus, said to be a 13th and neglected sign - were trending Twitter topics much of Thursday.

But before astrology fans scrape the ink from their arms because they think they're now a Virgo instead of a Libra, they should consider this: If they adhered to the tropical zodiac - which, if they're a Westerner, they probably did – absolutely nothing has changed for them.

That's worth rephrasing: If you considered yourself a Cancer under the tropical zodiac last week, you're still a Cancer under the same zodiac this week.

Yikes, people still take this stuff seriously?

I've often been called officious--but not Ophiuchus. Of course, there is absolutely nothing to astrology--well, except for The Onion's horoscopes:

You're getting better at figuring out what your dreams really mean. However, all that stuff that happens when you're awake is still pretty baffling.

My favorite debunking of astrology is via the great James Randi:

Fonts of Knowledge?

Says LiveScience:

Want to remember what this article says? Maybe you should read it in Comic Sans.

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm better. What are they talking about?

Fonts, or styles of typeface, that are relatively difficult to read (including the much-maligned Comic Sans) help people learn new information, according to a new study. The font effect works both in lab experiments and in real classrooms, perhaps by forcing students to work harder to process the information.
...
Dieman-Yauman, his faculty mentor Daniel Oppenheimer and their colleagues published the results in the January issue of the journal Cognition. Keeping with the theme of the research, they titled their paper, "Fortune favors the bold (and the italicized): Effects of disfluency on educational outcomes." Diemand-Yauman was the lead author.

People generally assume that the easier it is to learn something, the easier it will be to remember the information later. But education research has shown that in many cases, it’s the struggle that makes information stick.
...
Dieman-Yauman and his fellow researchers were interested in whether switching from easy-to-read fonts to more-difficult ones would create a desirable difficulty and improve learning. They began by presenting information about three made-up alien species to 28 volunteers. Each alien species had a strange name, such as "pangerish" or "norgletti," along with seven physical characteristics. Volunteers got a list of alien names and characteristics and had 90 seconds to memorize which characteristic matched which species.

Some of the lists were typed in an easy-to-read font, Arial. Others, the disfluent lists, were typed in either Comic Sans MS or Bodini MT.

After the 90 seconds was up, the researchers distracted the volunteers for 15 minutes, then tested them on their new alien knowledge. Turns out you want your alien hunters to study up in Comic Sans: The scores for those who read the disfluent lists averaged 14 percentage points higher than those who read the list in Arial (86.5 versus 72.8 percent, the researchers found).

Trouble is, Comic Sans is not an especially difficult typeface to read--at least not visually. Sure, it makes me vomit, which is distracting when trying to comprehend something, but it's legible.

Anyway, the researchers then took their experiment to the real world...well, if high school can be considered the real world:

The researchers recruited teachers in six subjects — advanced placement English, honors English, honors physics, regular physics, honors U.S. history, and honors chemistry — from a public school in Ohio. Each teacher sent copies of his or her classroom presentations and worksheets to Dieman-Yauman to be transferred to difficult-to-read fonts.

He and his colleagues chose three difficult fonts based on preliminary studies: the crowded and boxy Haettenschweiler, the cursive-like Monotype Corsiva, and the bubbly Comic Sans Italicized. When there was no electronic version available to alter, the researchers made blurry copies of the worksheets instead.
...
The students who learned with difficult fonts got better grades and didn't seem to notice the font switch – in surveys after the study, the researchers found no differences in how students liked the material based on font. Novelty could play a role in the results, the researchers wrote, but the novelty of the fonts — which weren't too outlandish compared to regular textbook fonts — should have worn off over the course of the experiment.

As for Comic Sans, this famous photo pretty much sums it up:

Work for Free?

A very funny ('cause it's true!) flowchart for determining whether or not you should ever do work (I am guessing graphic design work) for free.

Click image for large, legible version.
h/t The Big Picture

In Pod We Cast

Dr. Joe interviewed me this morning for a podcast for my WhatTheyThink special report, The iPad: What it Is, What It Isn't, and What It Means for Graphic Communications Professionals. Check it out here.

Coming to a Phone Near You

I guess it's now official: the iPhone is better for making movies than making phone calls. From Reuters:

An award-winning South Korean film director shoots a 30-minute movie using only Apple's iPhone 4.

Damn You, Autocorrect!

Anyone who has an Apple mobile device--iPhone or iPad--has likely at one time fallen prey to the dreaded "Autocorrect," a predictive text correction feature that half the time is helpful, and the other half of the time creates confusion--or hysterics, usually while texting. A wonderful Web site I discovered called Damn You, Autocorrect! collects screen shots from mobile devices and the linguistic anguish it causes. (Warning: Bad language and many autocorrects tend to be obscene. Also, some may find really bad typing and spelling offensive...)

Fake Criterions

Any self-respecting cinephile is familiar with the Criterion Collection, which, according to the company, "has been dedicated to gathering the greatest films from around the world and publishing them in editions that offer the highest technical quality and award-winning, original supplements." Criterion Collection DVD artwork has a distinctive look. I just received my latest CC newsletter, and was reminded of a very funny site Derek L. had told me about a few months ago: Fake Criterions, essentially a Tumblr feed of faux Criterion-style DVD art for movies that would, I dare say, never actually make the real Criterion Collection. For example:
Now I'm tempted to try my own hand at one...

Behind the Time

Hmm...Time's person of the year is Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook. A bit unTimely, but then as Barry Ritholtz at The Big Picture points out, by the time (as it were) the big media companies catch on to something, it's already old news, like making Amazon's Jeff Bezos Person of the Year in 1999, five years after Amazon was founded. I guess it helps when the Person of the Year has a hit movie based on them. I suppose 2012's Person of the Year will be Steve Jobs or the Wikileaks guy. Then again, achieving Person of the Yearhood usually marks the zenith of that person or company's influence (or stock value), so perhaps it's all downhill for Facebook now. (Hope springs eternal.)

Fast'n'Bulbous

RIP Captain Beefheart.

Even Yet Still More "Antisocial"

The latest chapter.

6.

Lon Triton took a final walk up toward the bridge from the cargo deck. He was walking with a bit of a limp in his center foot; he must have twisted it on something, or it was his old plantar fasciitis acting up again. Fortunately, Dr. Scholl’s was one of Ophiuchus V’s largest companies, second only to the Trimon Brothers Glove Emporium. In fact, as he passed by Cargo Bay 7, he had an urge to grab one of the 500,000 Ophiuchian orthopedic shoe inserts, but he knew that was verboten.

He passed by Cargo Bay 2—where 500 special pianos were being held (they were the ones with black, white, and gray keys)—and heard what he assumed was Dun Tridwell, his young deckhand, playing a beautiful and wistful piano solo. He was quite the talented young Ophiuchian, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he left the crew and went to piano school. He smiled sadly; in his own youth, Lon had entertained fantasies of being a pianist but he was literally all thumbs. It was a very rare genetic defect, but still occurred on occasion on Ophiuchus.

“Captain,” came a voice over the intercom, “please come to the bridge. We will be exiting the wormhole in two minutes.”

And none too soon. Lon was looking forward to some shore leave. He had been on the road—or, he should say, in the wormhole—for the better part of the past two years and he needed a little bit of downtime. And the time was right, too. His son Lop was about to undergo The Nosing, and there was the celebration to prepare. Ophiuchian children are born with very small noses; it isn’t until their sixteenth year that the nose literally bursts forth from the face to its full extent. It happens in the space of about two hours, and it is the responsibility of the parents to ensure that the proper ritual is prepared so that when The Nosing takes place, the youth in question is surrounded by his or her closest family and friends who all take turns wiping the emerging protuberance with sacramental facial tissue. To miss one’s own child’s Nosing ceremony was one of the most shameful things a parent can do on Ophiuchus.

Lon strode into the bridge and stood behind the pilot. Out the front window, he could see the twisting undulations of the wormhole.

“About to hit exit point,” said the pilot.

There was a bright flash out the front window, and the ship exited the wormhole and re-entered normal space. Off in the distance, Ophiuchus V gleamed. To the right, the blinking dodecahedron that held the wormhole depot. Lon stared, and furrowed his brow as he saw several dozen pinpoints of light swarming around the planet like what humans would call fireflies. As the ship headed toward the planet, the fireflies began to get closer, and Lon and the pilot both noticed simultaneously that they were heading right for them.

“What are those?” Lon asked.

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

They neared quickly, and Lon could soon make out that they were fighters of some kind, looking like two steam irons welded together. Thin beams of light shot out of the hole from which, had they been irons, steam would have sprayed. The beams hit the top of the cargo ship, and it lurched. Fortunately, Lon had the stability of a tripod, so he kept his feet as the ship shuddered.

“Are we being attacked?” said Lon, obviously rhetorically.

“It appears so,” said the pilot.

The enemy ships began to swarm and take more shots at the cargo ship, which rocked back and forth. Pieces of the hull began to rain down on Lon and the pilot.

“Bon, send a distress signal to Ophiuchian Space Central. Then open a channel to...whoever those ships are. And take evasive action.”

“Distress signal sent. We don’t have the maneuverability to evade fighters like that.” The pilot pressed some buttons. “Channel open.”

Lon grabbed a handset from the console. “To the attacking ships, this is Lon Triton, captain of the Tribay III. We are a cargo vessel transporting pianos and foot care products. We pose no threat to you or anyone else. Please break off this attack.”

There was a crackle of static, and a deep, gruff voice said, “No.”

Lon and the pilot looked at each other. Lon said into the handset, “Can you at least tell us...why you’re doing this? Do you have something against piano music?”

“Like you don’t know,” came the response. It was a voice that sounded like what an Earthman would liken to a bullfrog with a mouthful of live crickets talking over a bad cellphone connection. “Look at my face.”

Now Lon was even more confused. “But I can’t see your face.” And, if it was anything like the voice, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it.

The connection went dead. The ships continued to swarm and fire upon the cargo vessel. Soon, Lon could see several pinpricks of light rising from the plane surface. The Ophiuchian space defense. They arrived quickly and began firing upon the attackers, which began to scatter. Within a few moments, the Ophiuchian fleet had scared off the intruders. Lon and the pilot looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bon, open a channel to the Ophiuchian fleet captain.” The pilot twiddled some more knobs. “Thanks, guys. Who the hell were they?”

“No problem, Captain,” came a voice over the loudspeaker. “Ships looked to be Ziij in configuration.”

“Why on Ophiuchus V were they attacking a cargo ship, of all things?”

“Unknown, sir. We will be launching an investigation. In the meantime, you are cleared for docking at the Ophiuchian Port Authority Terminal 5, Bay 6.”

“Thanks. Over.” He turned to the pilot. “Damage report?”

Chattering came over the speaker. “Some minor structural damage....One minor casualty...” As he listened, his face turned grave, and his nose drooped. “Sir, it’s Dun Tridwell.”

“Is he okay?” asked Lon.

“In a way. He was in Cargo Bay 2 during the attack. As the ship pitched, the pianos began slamming against each other. His hands were crushed. He’ll never be able to play again.”

Lon looked downcast. “I don’t care what the space command says, this means war. Even if I have to fight it myself."

I, Pad

I just signed up for Netflix after a lapse of a few years and discovered that I can stream movies to my iPad using their app. And it works pretty well!

Escape Claws

I can't tell you how often I have been in a shopping mall, an airport, or a train station, and said, "You know, I could really go for a live crab." Well, if I were in Nanjing, China, I could just stroll up to a live crab vending machine. The machine keeps the crustaceans at a 5 degrees Celsius, at which point, apparently, they go into a kind of hibernation or suspended animation. And, the vending machine's owner says, if you are accidentally dispensed a dead crab, they will give you three live crabs. Sweet deal, if by "sweet" you mean "horrifying."

I have no idea what they are saying in this video, but some of the user reactions don't seem encouraging.


On the plus side, it would thwart people reaching their hands up in the machine to steal a free one!

A Sucker for Tentacles

I can't remember the last time I had a pot pie of any kind, but this idea (via Boing Boing) for a tentacle pot pie may make me reconsider.
Up next a shepherd's pie made from actual shepherds.

You Have to Hand It To Them

Who says great designers don't think alike?

The other day, I bought the book Proofiness, by Charles Seife, published by Viking, which is an excellent (and funny) exposé of math abuse and deception in today's media (a worthy modern take on the old 1950s classic How to Lie With Statistics). Highly recommended.

This morning, I received in the post a review copy of a book called Sleights of Mind by Steven Macknik and Susana Martinez-Conde, two neuroscience researchers whom I had met at the Santa Fe Science Writers Workshop last year, and who study how the mind lies to us, published by Henry Holt. I am looking forward to reading it.

What immediately struck me about these two books were their covers:
Those hands certainly get around! (Thank you, Thing.) In fact, close examination shows that it is the same stock image (from Getty Images, according to both book jackets). They're wearing gloves, otherwise I would check their prints.

It kind of reminds me of that back page in Consumer Reports where they occasionally show all the different ads that use the same stock photo models; one poor guy, apparently, had every disease on Earth until he finally turned up in an ad for a funeral home. Then there was the fickle family who were in one ad for a cable company and then the same bunch turned up in another ad for satellite TV.

My former TrendWatch colleague Heidi Tolliver-Nigro and I used to write a lot about stock photos back in the day and we would always point out that one of the downsides to using royalty-free imagery was the chance that someone else would end up using the same image.

Even Yet More "Antisocial!"

The story continues.

5.

“I have two questions.”

“Acknowledged.”

“’Where are we’ and ‘is that a dragon?’”

“Unknown and affirmative.”

“I have a third question.”

“Acknowledged.”

“’Do you have anything to drink on you?’”

“Negative.”

“Damn.”

“Acknowledged.”

Thirty seconds earlier, Dr. Pock and Jet had abruptly appeared in what appeared to be a dimly lit room. Upon further investigation, Pock was able to discern that it was some kind of bar. He grinned. However, his elation was quelled when he caught sight of the dragon not ten feet away from where he and Jet were standing. Its presence was bad enough; that it stood between Pock and the bar was the bigger issue.

It wasn’t particularly large as far as dragons went; it measured maybe five or six feet from nose to tail when on all fours. It had thick, rust-colored scales that covered its entire body, and a set of fearsome claws. Curiously, on its back was a large tattoo of what looked like a raven-haired teenage girl. Pock found that curious. The dragon had a set of ominous teeth that were only visible when it smiled.

Wait... thought Pock. Smiled?

“A fourth question,” he said.

“Acknowledged.”

“’Is that dragon smiling?’”

“Affirmative.”

“Okay.”

Indeed, although a dragon is, physiologically, a fearsome creature, the fact that this one seemed to be smiling—and not smiling in an evil or mischievous way—was decidedly at odds with what was otherwise a daunting appearance.

“A sixth question.”

“I believe you’re only up to five,” said the dragon in a remarkably clear, articulate voice.

Now Pock was completely freaked out.

“Unless I miss my guess,” the dragon continued, “you are the unwitting victim of a wanderhole.”

“A what?”

“A wanderhole. A small fragment of a wormhole that, as its name suggests, wanders through space. They were created decades ago during the great intragalactic wormhole building projects. When the wormholes were created and manipulated to travel in certain directions, small bits were dislodged and have been traveling randomly through the galaxy. Only very rarely are sentient beings or spacecraft unlucky enough to fall into them. I mean, the odds of it are pretty astronomical. But this is astronomy, after all, and sometimes these things happen. It looks like you two have just joined a very select club.”

“Ah.”

“At any rate, welcome to here.”

“What is the name of here?” asked Pock.

“Come again?”

“This planet. This place. What’s the name of it?”

The dragon thought. “That’s a good question. We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?”

The dragon shrugged. “It’s never come up before. We just refer to this place as ‘here’ or ‘this place’.

“What’s your name then?”

“We don’t have names. We’re more of a pronoun-based culture.”

“But not very pro-noun,” offered Pock.

“Yes, that’s very good. At any rate, let me buy you two a drink.”

Pock moved to a barstool with a speed that the dragon could swear caused a red-shift. Jet and the dragon sat on either side of him. A taller, upright, much stouter dragon appeared behind the bar and poured three drinks. Pock gave it a cursory examination before taking a sip. It tasted remarkably like gin, but with more beef. And like that would stop him. He downed it in one gulp and the bartending dragon poured another one.

“I’m Benjamin, Benjamin Pock. And this is Jet. Jet’s a robot. We’re from the planet Earth which is, um, somewhere far from here.”

“I can imagine. The wanderholes can send folks on some wild journeys.”

Pock downed another drink and a third one appeared in front of him. Whatever this place was or wasn’t called, he liked it already.

“It’s remarkable, though, that you speak perfect English,” said Pock.

“Come again?”

“Your English. It’s perfect for a race that has never heard of Earth.”

The dragon looked at him confusedly. “That’s curious. I was about to say the same thing about your speaking our language perfectly.”

“Which is called...”

“Our language,” said Pock and the dragon simultaneously, as Pock was starting to catch on. Well, to a point.

“My little red friend, you are blowing my mind,” said Pock, quickly draining his third drink.

“It really is a question of tradition,” said the dragon. “You see, many thousands of years ago, the two beings who developed our language met for what has come down to us through our lore as The Naming of Things, when they gave all the objects, and creatures, and plants, and feelings, and snack crackers in our culture certain names. But then they stopped abruptly, and said, ‘Whoa, dude, these names we have for everything are so totally sick, but if we, like, give all the gnarly beings a single name, then, like, they’ll be stuck with that and that’s all they’ll ever be, which would totally suck.’”

“They spoke strangely,” said Pock.

“Yes, well, it was an early form of our language, which has evolved and grown in complexity. And become less ridiculous. Anyway, they decided that nouns—especially proper nouns—were far too existentially limiting, so they named as few things as possible, just the bare minimum of what was needed to actually have a functioning language and culture, and that was it.”

“That’s cool.”

A few more dragons had started entering the place and took places at the bar, at booths, or at highboy tables set around the edge of the room. Pock looked around curiously.

“What up?”

“It is the Red Hour,” said the dragon.

“Red Hour?”

“A daily ritual of the most solemn type, marking the close of another day, another day’s worth of good work done, and a celebration of life. It involves high spirits, revelry, and heavy drinking.”

“Basically Happy Hour,” said Pock.

“Yes, But ‘Red Hour’ sounds a bit more ominous.”

“Hey, I’m just happy to see that you actually have a name for something, my nounless friend.”

“It’s that important to our culture. The trouble is,” the dragon added with a touch of sadness, “that our insta-choir—well, jukebox, really—is broken.”

Pock perked up. “Well, my friend, you are lucky that we happened in here today. Jet—“

Jet had been sitting quietly, staring at the drink he was unable to actually consume, performing a chemical analysis of it with his eye sensors.

“You might be interested to know what this contains,” he said to Pock.

“Never. Anyway, we are in a position to help these people—well, beings. Jet, Command-Boogie Shoes.”

And with that command, Jet stood up and walked out to what it now occurred to Pock was a dance floor. Jet held up his hands, and opened a plastic panel on each of his palms, revealing speaker holes. Loud music started blaring out of his hands, and the dragons all perked up. Some moved into the center of the room and began gyrating.

“He has a whole library of MP3s loaded into him. And we sometimes supplement out incomes by DJing at parties. Our act is called Bennie and the Jet.”

“Interesting.”

Pock walked over to Jet. He unfastened a clasp behind Jet’s left ear and the top of his bald head swung open on a hinge, revealing a mirror ball. It caught the reflection of the ceiling lights and Jet started rotating his head.

“That’s quite an act you’ve got,” said the dragon.

“You should see karaoke night.”

Yet Still More Antisocial

Chapter 4 of Antisocial!:

4.

Zev walked in the front door of Armstrong & Associates and approached the reception desk. The General had retained, as receptionist, Major Janice Barbara, career military, formerly of the Elite Computer Virus Task Force, and, Zev thought, intensely psychotic. As he entered and before he could attract her attention, the phone rang.

“What do you want?” she growled into the phone. “What?...Who the hell are you?...Is that name supposed to mean something to me?...He is, is he? I bet...Are you for real or am I going to have to shove a grenade up your ass?...All right, douchebag...Please hold.” She pressed some buttons and hung up the phone. She noticed Zyzzyx, grunted, then pointed with her thumb over her shoulder to the corridor behind her.

“Good to see you again, too,” he said as he passed.

Zev grimaced, then walked down a short carpeted corridor past a half dozen closed wooden doors until he came to a conference room. Inside, General Armstrong 7 was leaning against the table. He looked much the same as he did when last Zev saw him five years earlier. He had lost a little weight, but was still meaty and compact, with a jowly face that made him look more than a little like the bulldog in old Warner Bros. cartoons. He was pushing seventy, but still looked like he could beat the crap out of anyone. And he could, though he tried to do less of that sort of thing these days. The General, who had been born Armstrong Q. Piddle, got married four years earlier to an extraterrestrial, and his new wife insisted he take her name (“7”). He hadn’t put up much of a fight.

He was joined by a blonde, early twentysomething woman whom Zev did not know. Sitting in a chair, looking forlorn, was Tharbax Cannuuttuu. The General saw Zev in the doorway and beckoned him inside.

“You know, General,” said Zev, “if you’re having trouble attracting clients, I think I may have discovered your weak link. Might I suggest an automated phone system?”

“Zev Zyzzyx,” he said in a businesslike fashion, without the slightest indication that they had not seen each other in almost five years, “this is UTa, one of my associates.” He indicated the blonde woman.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking UTa’s hand.

She stared at him blankly.

“UTa,” said the General, “English, ‘nice to meet you.’”

“Nice to meet you,” said UTa.

“Okay, then,” said Zev, a little confused. Then, to Tharbax, who was looking at them impatiently, “You’re sure it was the Ziij?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Do you have visual evidence? It’s recommended that all ships have a visual recording system.”

There was no such thing as galactic law yet—although that was one of the things that Armstrong & Associates was working on—so “recommendations” were the best they could manage.

“Of course.” He turned to the doorway. “Muutuu!”

Two Aldeberans who had been waiting in an adjacent office entered. They were jointly carrying a large wooden crate of the kind used to transport fine art. They set the crate down at the far end of the conference room and began to slowly and carefully lift out a canvas.

“Oil on canvas, five feet by three feet. This is one of Muutuu’s best pieces,” said Tharbax. “He painted it during the attack. I think he truly captures the hostile energy of the attackers.”

Muutuu and the other Aldeberan held up the canvas between them. Zev, Armstrong, and UTa stared blankly at it.

“This is your visual recording system?” said Zev.

“What is it?” asked the General.

“I admit it’s abstract,” said Tharbax.

“Abstract? It’s a completely black canvas,” said the General.

Muutuu looked hurt.

“No, it’s not completely black. Muutuu, bring it a little closer. First of all, the lighting in here is appalling, but if it were not, you could tell that the shade of black changes subtly over the width of the canvas, representing the disruption of space itself. If you look ve-e-e-ry closely at the right side of the painting, about halfway down, there is a tiny gray speck.”

Zev and Armstrong leaned in close an stared at the canvas.

“Okay, so there is,” said the General.

“Well, that’s the Gadabout I, a tiny speck in the utter vastness of space, rendered even tinier by this vile attack.”

“Ah,” said Zev, rubbing his forehead. “It’s not...compelling evidence...”

“It’s merely recommended that we have a visual recording system. No one has specified the exact nature of it. Admittedly, Muutuu is a bit more abstract than the artist we normally employ...”

“Okay, thanks,” said Armstrong to Muutuu, and the Aldeberans packed the painting back up. “Fortunately, we have a statement from the Ziij grand exalted leader—sorry, Grand Exalted Leader—taking responsibility for the attack, claiming they were provoked.”

“Provoked!” said Tharbax. “A monstrous slur! We have had no contact with any member of the Ziij for at least two Aldeberan years. It’s entirely possible they might interpret that as a slight, but the Ziij have always made it very clear that they are the ones to initiate any contact, and we have simply been acceding to their request. In the meantime, will you, General, kindly lend us your assistance in launching a counterattack?”

“Now just calm down,” said General Armstrong. In truth, he would love nothing but to launch a wave of intense destruction against the Ziij, but he had set up his consultancy to avoid such things and resolve interplanetary disputes in a more civilized manner. In time, Tharbax would see the wisdom in that philosophy. More importantly, though, the Ziij were one of only a tiny handful of planets in the galaxy that was actually able launch an interplanetary attack. Earth certainly couldn’t. It had cost a fortune and a three-year U.N. and U.S. Congressional boondoggle just getting the funding to build a shuttle to get to and from the nearest wormhole depot.

“I think the matter deserves a bit more investigation before we start a war,” said Zev.

“Investigation? What is there to investigate? They attacked my beautiful ship and decimated my wine cellar. And you two are well aware of the role that the Gadabout I plays in interplanetary relations. In fact, it was I who provided the means for you both establishing galactic amity. So when I-“

The General held up his hand. “Yes, yes, yes, we’re all well aware of this. But what if the whole thing were the result of a simple misunderstanding? It could escalate and claim many thousands or millions of lives needlessly.”

“Oh, I think you’d say quite needfully if you saw what they did to my oak floors.”

“Tharbax,” said Zev, “just give us a couple of days to make contact with the Ziij Grand Exalted Leader and find out what’s going on. Remember, if they launch a counter-counterattack, they could very well end up destroying more than your wine cellar.”

Tharbax thought about that a moment. “Very well. I give you two of your days while we effect repair on our ship. But after that, if this situation is still unresolved, I shall go elsewhere to seek redress of my grievances.” Zev had a vague hunch what he meant by “elsewhere,” and the result would not be good.

“Agreed,” said the General.

Tharbax marched out of the room, followed by the other two Aldberans carrying the re-crated artwork. Zev and Armstrong both sat down heavily at the table.

“What do you think?” asked Zev.

“Aside from a prepared statement, we’ve been unable to make any contact at all with the Ziij. We don’t know what the problem is, or what this so-called ‘provocation’ was. And they’re a pretty ornery race even on a good day. I need to get Pock and Jet to hack into their planetary communication system and make some back-channel inquiries, but I have no idea where they’ve gone.”

“Pock and Jet? That’s strange. You tried calling them?”

“As you know, Pock doesn’t have a cellphone.”

“What about the bar?”

“That’s the first place I thought of. I sent Jet out to get him and now Jet doesn’t respond to phone calls, texts, or e-mails. It’s like they just vanished off the face of the Earth.”

“If he’s not in his office, it’s possible Pock is lying in a gutter somewhere, blind stinking sober,” said Zev.

“I know. That’s what worries me. Or one of the things. I have a whole list of worries somewhere.”

“Do you want me to see what I can dig up?”

“Leave Pock and Jet to me. The Ziij situation is more urgent. I want you to take UTa to the House Despot on Sprawlnia.”

“The home improvement superstore?” He grimaced. He hated that place. “What on Earth for?”

“The general manager is Ziij, and he’s the only off-homeworld Ziij that anyone knows of in the entire galaxy. Maybe he can give you some clues until I can find Pock and Jet.”

“You don’t want me to go to the planet Ziij itself?”

“Not without knowing what kind of a reception you’d get,” said the General.

“That’s a fair point. I’ll head out at once.” Zev turned to UTa. “Do you speak Ziij?”

“UTa speaks every language in the galaxy.”

“You mean...”

“Yes, she’s a Universal Translator.”

Zev stared intently at UTa, who stared blankly back at him. “I’ve heard of Universal Translators but never actually met one.”

“You’ll find that one of the drawbacks of the Universal Translators is that their minds are so crammed full of vocabulary and grammar rules that there is no residual brainpower to initiate or even participate conversation. She just translates. Watch. UTa, Swahili, ‘My name is UTa.’”

She snapped to attention. “Jina langu ni UTa.”

“Interesting,” said Zev. “UTa, French, ‘Let’s go.’”

UTa stared blankly at him and remained silent. Zev looked at Armstrong.

“Well, almost every language in the galaxy,” said the General.

“Ah.” Zev turned back to UTa. “Shall we go?”

Said the General, “UTa, Ziij, ‘Let’s go.’”

Said UTa, “Ghiik nom.”

“I can see we’re going to be having some rather one-sided conversations.”

Zev and UTa headed out toward the next shuttle to the nearest wormhole depot.

Reel Around the Fountains

Day two of the week of concerts brought us to the Paradise in Boston and New York City’s Fountains of Wayne, named for a lawn ornament store in Wayne, NJ. Known for their slickly produced, expertly crafted power pop, they translated that to a live setting fairly effortlessly. The sound was a bit murky (at least where we were perched) so it was difficult to make out the between-song banter, but it didn’t really matter. When a band has only one hit (the rent-a-Cars-esque “Stacey’s Mom”) the rest of their discography is wide open (not the most prolific of bands, in 15 years they have only released four proper albums and one collection of outtakes), but they did seem to focus on those tracks that had been singles, even if some of the song selections were a bit (in my opinion anyway) a bit out in left field (opening with “I’ve Got a Flair”? Okay.), although most did turn up as singles. And there were some of my favorite tracks I wish they had played (“Red Dragon Tattoo,” “Leave the Biker,” “New Routine”) but they neglected to consult me when putting their set list together. (They are reported to be working on a new album, which explains the tracks I was unable to identify.)

The band is based around the core nucleus of songwriters/guitarists Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger (the former is the lead singer, the latter does most of the stage banter), with co-guitarist Jody Porter and drummer Brian Young, and in fact Collingwood and Schlesinger often tour as a solo acoustic duo. Their songs are usually story songs and character studies, usually done in a humorous, sarcastic, or satirical way, with great couplets and zingy one-liners, grafted onto songs with big hooks and catchy choruses. They can veer from style to style, and it can be said that if you don’t like their style, just wait a song. Even if “Stacey’s Mom” is the song they are most known for, it’s still a pretty funny track. And “Somebody to Love” is one of the few songs that mention Schenectady.

Fountains of Wayne have always been a distillation of the last 50 years of pop/rock and their songs have often included sly (or sometimes not to sly) references to those who have gone before them—and get inserted into the playlist. (A live version of ELO’s “Can’t Get it Out of my Head” appears on their outtakes album Out-of-State Plates.) Last night, they segued from “Radiation Vibe” (their first single) into Blue Öyster Cult’s “Burnin’ for You,” a snippet of a Foreigner song, and what I was told was a fragment of a Kiss song.

I had been kind of looking forward to opening act Marshall Crenshaw, another great songwriter who had been a one-hit-wonder back in 1982 (“Someday, Someway”) but we could barely hear him. True, he was sitting down, played solo electric guitar (that never stopped Billy Bragg from putting on a dynamic performance) with what looked like his own Fender Champ amp, and wore a hat, but still.

Set list:

“I’ve Got a Flair”
“No Better Place”
“Denise”
“Dip in the Ocean” [?]
“Somebody to Love”
[??]
“Valley Winter Song”
“Hey Julie”
[??]
“Barbara H.”
“It Must Be Summer”
“I-95”
“Mexican Wine”
“Radiation Vibe”

“Fire Island”
[??]
“Stacey’s Mom”
“Sink to the Bottom”