Code of the Cardboard Gods - Part I

Code of the Cardboard Gods 
Part I - The Starting Nine

Setting: National Baseball Hall of Fame – Cooperstown, NY
Players: Museum curator and YOU
Puzzle Difficulty: 3½ stars
Points Possible: 20

It is a brisk autumn evening at your upstate New York farmhouse.  You have just finished a long session of working on your newest cryptology book about the Mayan calendar when your phone unexpectedly rings.  You contemplate not taking the call due to the late hour, but, suspecting it may be your publisher, you decide to answer.  You pick up the receiver, expecting your old friend, but hear an unknown voice asking your name.

“Yes, that is me,” you say, and then you ask, “Who is this?”

There is a brief pause, and then the voice replies, “I am a curator at the National Baseball Hall of Fame, and I need your help.  There has been a break-in, and I found an envelope addressed with your name and phone number, along with a curious code.  It is like nothing I have ever seen before.”

You ask, “Have you called the authorities?”

“No,” the curator replies, “Nothing has been stolen, and I’d like to avoid any… unpleasantness.  I am familiar with your work and judging by this envelope, you are somehow involved or are intended to be involved with this mystery.  You must understand. I need your help solving this code.  Money is no object, and I will pay whatever fee you require.”

Feeling the tug of greed, you inquire, “Can you send me a picture of the code?”

“No, you must see this in person,” he replies.

Your curiosity is piqued.  What better opportunity to combine your lifelong work of cryptology and your favorite pastime?

You agree, “I’m only 45 minutes from Cooperstown, I’ll be there within an hour.”

After an almost breathless drive as your mind is racing, greasing the gears for the puzzle that waits, you pull into the parking lot and notice a security guard vehicle and two non-descript sedans.  You grab your satchel and head for the grand front entrance.  As you approach, you see a balding man of middle age with a clean shaven face holding the door open.

“Are you the curator?” you ask.

“Yes, yes,” he briskly replies.  “Please, come this way. Quickly.”

You enter the atrium and immediately your eyes dart around, looking for the code that requires your interpretation.  You try and calm your nerves, remembering there is an envelope that will likely provide precious information.

“On the phone you mentioned an envelope.  What does it contain?” you question.

He answers, “I do not know.  It is sealed with wax.”

You take the envelope and examine the wax seal, and see the initials “OCG” emblazoned on the red paraffin.

“OCG,” you mutter.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

You reply, “It means Order of Cardboard Gods.”

Your mind races even faster over this new development.  Could it be?  You’re actually holding a letter from the mysterious Order of Cardboard Gods?

The curator shifts nervously and asks, “Order of what?”

“Cardboard Gods,” you distantly answer.

“Who are they?” he asks.

You ignore his question; your mind is drifting.  You break the wax seal, revealing a coded letter:

Click picture to enlarge

You smile at the simplicity of the code.  To the untrained eye, it looks like gibberish, but to you, the words shine through.

TO BE ANSWERED BY YOU (4 pts)

[ANSWER: ]

The last line gnaws at you.

The curator peers over your shoulder and brashly asks, “What does it say?  Who are the Cardboard Gods?”

You turn your head and flatly say, “Take me to the code.  I will tell you later about The Order and this letter.”

The curator backs away, and begins to lead you down the long hallway into the Hall of Fame Plaque Gallery.

Midway down the Gallery, you see the code ahead of you, basking in bright moonlight.  The plaques of the Class of 1936 have been removed, and placed at the foot of the wall now bearing a mysterious puzzle.

You approach the coded puzzle in awe.  A puzzle you have never seen before, a new challenge for your restless mind.

A wry smile crosses your face, and you think to yourself, “Oh, this will be so much fun!”

YOU SOLVE THE PUZZLE (16 pts)

Click picture to enlarge

[ANSWER – ]

[Author’s Note: You must provide the correct answer and your logic to receive the points .]

Tangent, Secant, Cosine, Sine, 3.14159...

Reasonable Suspicion

After reading A's Tuesday Rant regarding the hypocrisy of the illegal immigration movement, I found the Arizona Senate Bill 1070 that is garnering a lot of attention in the media and causing a vocal backlash from the Latino community.  I have somewhat mixed emotions about illegal immigration, but predominantly it is due to the white majority viewpoint.  


Almost every time illegal immigration enters the forefront of the American consciousness, it becomes synonymous with our southern border.  Never does the topic of illegal immigration through our western shores (Asians), our northern border (Canadians) and eastern shores (Europeans, Caribbeans and Africans) get mentioned.  No, illegal immigration is a Mexican albatross.  The fact being though, many who illegally immigrate through our southern border are not even Mexican, but Central or South American.  In essence, it is a "brown people" issue that white America has.


I understand that protecting our borders is important from a national security stance (i.e., preventing terrorist activities) and from a drug enforcement viewpoint, of which I am staunchly in favor of preventing cocaine, heroin, etc. from entering our country and ruining lives.  But I do not see the harm in people, hard working people, coming to America to earn a living for their families.


Family is the most important tangible connection we have in life.  For someone to break their backs doing labor that most American citizens would never contemplate doing is admirable to me.  It is humble.

Now some say that they are taking jobs, using resources, clogging hospitals, but the fact is most employers do garnish their wages for taxes.  Illegal immigrants do pay sales tax, gas tax, cigarette and alcohol tax.  They are paying taxes, in some form or fashion, and when those wages are garnished to remit to the IRS, almost none of it is returned to the employee for they do not file taxes, unless they are trying to obtain legal citizenship.  


We can't build a wall around this country.  It is not and should not be a part of the American psyche.  This country was built by immigrants through their own hard work, the shed blood of Native Americans and the sweat of African slaves.  I think it is high time the descendants of the original immigrants realize that America is not theirs, but it is OURS.  


The law in Arizona should be repealed or at least amended.  Check out a few of the parts I find extremely offensive:


Article 8 - Subparagraph B - FOR ANY LAWFUL CONTACT MADE BY A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICIAL OR AGENCY OF THIS STATE OR A COUNTY, CITY, TOWN OR OTHER POLITICAL SUBDIVISION OF THIS STATE WHERE REASONABLE SUSPICION EXISTS THAT THE PERSON IS AN ALIEN WHO IS UNLAWFULLY PRESENT IN THE UNITED STATES, A REASONABLE ATTEMPT SHALL BE MADE, WHEN PRACTICABLE, TO DETERMINE THE IMMIGRATION STATUS OF THE PERSON. THE PERSON'S IMMIGRATION STATUS SHALL BE VERIFIED WITH THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT PURSUANT TO UNITED STATES CODE SECTION 1373(c).


Article 8 - Subparagraph E - A LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER, WITHOUT A WARRANT, MAY ARREST A PERSON IF THE OFFICER HAS PROBABLE CAUSE TO BELIEVE THAT THE PERSON HAS COMMITTED ANY PUBLIC OFFENSE THAT MAKES THE PERSON REMOVABLE FROM THE UNITED STATES.


Section 4 - Subparagraph E - NOTWITHSTANDING ANY OTHER LAW, A PEACE OFFICER MAY LAWFULLY STOP ANY PERSON WHO IS OPERATING A MOTOR VEHICLE IF THE OFFICER HAS REASONABLE SUSPICION TO BELIEVE THE PERSON IS IN VIOLATION OF ANY CIVIL TRAFFIC LAW AND THIS SECTION.


Reasonable suspicion?  Without warrant?  Stop any person operating a motor vehicle if there is reasonable suspicion they are in violation of this section (i.e., SB 1070)?  


To me that screams put a yellow star on every Latino's lapel.

Letting go, in albeit a minor fashion...

Dear Facebook,

We need to talk.  This has been coming for a while now, but I don’t think either one of us had the nerve to admit it.  I think we should just be friends.  Wait, I don’t even think we should be that.  I think we should see other people.  Make that real live people.

“Are you breaking up with me?” you ask.  Yes.  Unlike every other toxic relationship in my past, I am setting my digital foot down and terminating our connection.  We had our good times, but it was just a fad, a phase, a broadband interlude.

I am grateful for one thing, though.  You did bring me back in touch with people from the distant and recent past.  For that, I thank you, but that is not enough.  I am tired of feeling the voyeur and looking at peoples’ cruise pictures and reading comments irrelevant to me.  I despise your cyber reality and cherish that which is tangible and outdoors.

Therefore, to all of those who I have reconnected with in either a passive or active fashion, I offer you this.  Message me your mailing address, and at a minimum I will add you to the old Christmas card list.  Better yet, request a letter, and I will actually write you one.  Request my mailing address, and I will gladly provide it and eagerly check my mailbox.

FB, I will hang around until May 1st or until the security deposit is returned, and then I’m moving out.

FB Friends, if I’ve offended you in some odd way, oh well, we’ll all get over it in about 3 seconds.  If you want to un-friend me prior to May 1st, go ahead, I won’t be put off.  If you want to keep in touch for real, like I said, message me and we can trade mailing addresses.

I’ve had fun with all of you at one point in my life and in some form or fashion, but life is better served with real, not digital, connections.

Remember, happiness is found between the sole and the soil.

Nathaniel

God and Religion, or Something Quite Like It

Part I

I am not particular sure where this line of thought will go, but it has been on my mind quite a bit, especially since RKT was born.  Perhaps it will help me understand my ancestors, my upbringing and my own beliefs better, or perhaps it will not. 

For the longest time, I always thought that people did not change, that one was the product of their childhood and for the most part belief structures and thought patterns were hardwired for life.  I staunchly thought this during my divorce when my ex-wife was undergoing a profound alteration to her beliefs and viewpoints, which at the time I resisted.  I realize now that she was changing, and that it wasn’t that I objected to the change, but that I objected to what she was changing into.  Qué sera, sera.

From a personal standpoint, I still was adamant that I would not change until a brief conversation with Analee on Moore’s Pond Road two or so years ago.  I do not recall how the conversation began or specifically what it was about, but the final comment from Analee was “You’re changing.  You’re growing up.  I think you are ready for church now.”

I am sure I clammed up at that point because I was aghast that she would say I was changing, and that I, a Thornburg, was ready for church.  In retrospect, that made me realize that change can be good, and not necessarily the end, but perhaps a beginning.  That is one of the most important conversations we have ever had, and I have not and will not forget it.

Since that day, I have mulled over what I am changing into, likely dragging my heels in apprehension.  As my wife can attest, I am painfully slow at decision making (a personal weakness) and even slower at moving in general.  I liken it the fact I like to do something once, so I make sure I’m right before taking the first step.  That too may be a personality flaw, but it makes me more secure.

With Analee’s Granddaddy’s passing on Saturday, I was the one who received the call.  The house was quiet, as the kids and Ana were napping, and then the cell phones rang.  I silenced them quickly to avoid waking the kids.  Then the house phone rang, and I knew I had to answer the phone.  It was Mamaw.  I curtly said “Everyone is asleep.”  She calmly replied “Granddaddy passed at five past three.”  I think I abruptly said “Ok”, and that was it.

I laid back down on the couch and then wondered if I should wake Analee.  I thought “No.  She’s sick and tired.  Let her sleep.  It can wait until she wakes up.”  During the next 30 minutes I blankly stared at some NCAA basketball game wondering how I was going to tell her that her Granddaddy had passed.  I have never been in this situation before and was dreading telling her.  I cowardly thought of calling her Mom, and having her call back later to tell her, but I knew that was wrong.  If Ana had to bear me bad news, I would rather it come from her for she is my rock.

Around 3:40, I heard RKT quietly calling “Daddy, where are you?”  I went upstairs and found him tucked under his covers playing with his blankets and toy bus driver.  Apparently I rushed him too quickly out of bed to get HNT, and he immediately went into melt down mode.  This raised the stress level for me because surely he had woken Ana from her much needed nap.  After getting HNT out of her crib, I made for the bedroom door to tell Analee the news, to which RKT blocked the door.  Finally coaxing RKT to let me into the bedroom by conning him into playing with HNT in the family room, I walked up to Analee.

“You need to call your Mom.” I said, almost chickening out again, then said what I needed to say, “Your granddaddy passed away.”  I didn’t know what to expect next, but she said “What time?  Did she say what happened?”  Then I realized that death is not necessarily a bad thing.  I am sure it made her sad, but it also came as a relief to her because death, like change, is not necessarily the end, but a new beginning.

Friends of the Smokies

Those who know Analee and I are aware that we are both environmentally minded.  Whether it be from career choice, recreation, recycling, etc.  We both love the outdoors in all its glorious venues.

We even support the North Carolina Coastal Federation by purchasing a special license plate, which leads me randomly to an interesting observation I made the other day.


Where I work is not the best neighborhood in town.  It's near the interstate with lots of seedy hotels nearby and a very well visited ABC store.  During my walks and drives home (I see no one on my drive to work), I have noticed an inordinate amount of this license plate around:

Now, I am not judging, but based on the drivers persona's, I have NEVER seen any of these individuals (from a subset of a subset) at a County, State or Federal Park.  Which got me thinking, why do they have this personalized plate? Then it came to me...


The plate should be renamed "Friends of the Munchies."

ABC's Sing-a-Long-Trainwreck from Hades

Undeniably this is the worst DVD ever made.  If MST3K was still in existence, I doubt they would have the cajones to lampoon such an atrocity as this "children's show." 

The DVD consists of 26 "songs", titled from A to Z, with an occasional 42 minute story about the Hare and the Tortoise and some banal drivel about Xavier the never ending story about an X-ray machine.  To compound this DVD-i-cide, the songs are obvious horrid karaoke renditions of kiddie songs with inexplicably atrocious "home" videos of some French family , a 12 year old girl in need of a bra and a belt, a pedophilic old man chasing young girls, a woman  portraying Old MacDonald by using a pitchfork on concrete, and a kids painted like cats when they are singing about dogs.

The karaoke songs are almost tolerable and our kids appear to enjoy them, but the visuals are too much to handle.  I have searched high and low for screen shots of this DVD, but Hitler must have burned all the prints during the French Occupation.  Just imagine a large woman dressed like a harlequin clown and kids with scary painted faces intermixed with blatant stock footage.  

To seal the deal, consider the fact the jovial ball playing child on the DVD cover is nary to be seen in this frenchtesticle tripe of a DVD.  Yet, now matter what we do, our kids repeatedly ask for this show.

Think I'm nuts?  Read the Amazon reviews.  By the way, I consider it no coincidence this DVD sells for $6.66 on Amazon.  Dante never considered this ring of hell in his infamous inferno.

Viva La You Owe Me $3 France.