Assignment 02, Chess Balls

Valentine Chekov. Famous Russian Internet Chess Champion. Dead at 34.
         They say that I've got bigger chess balls than Val, but the truth is he had me psyched out. We'd been playing the same game for over two weeks. My record's four weeks and three days, but this game is--was different. This was the Rocky versus Ivan Drago of net chess. We started off fast, about three moves in the first hour. Then Valentine threw the brakes on. He started chatting and trying to hack my programs.
         I liked him, he wasn't trying to be funny but he was hilarious. So easy to insult. I could have been a goat herder for the number of times I got his goat. What does that even mean? Anyway, he basically let me mess with him. His hack left his own programs open and I easily backhacked him and raided his personal journals. It was so easy, that I suspected they were boobytrapped or tricky fakes, but they weren't. I got him good and spent some hours ignoring my next move in order to read up on old Val Chekov. It wasn't very good writing or reading but it told a good story. It was translated from Russian to English by an online server, which I'll be happy to provide you the record of.
         So I said some stuff. Made some strange chess moves and said some stuff over the chat. Then he stopped chatting. I thought it was all an act, that he had me right where he wanted me. I really didn't think I'd gotten to him that badly. I was just messing with him. I'm sorry, detective.

         Sorry, Califaz, I feel this is a weak effort on my part but it's something. I'll do better, seriously, I promise. I still plan to give Assignment 01 another try too.

Assignment 02

         There is a very intense chess game going on. You are the American battling the Russian. The game is played online, and has been going on for months. A lot of shit talking has been going on. (Bragging rights are at stake.) You feel a ton of pressure to win. People have money riding on you. This is an important game. They say if you win, this will undoubtedly Make You. Needless to say, this makes you nervous and consumes your whole day. You are constantly plotting and planning your next move. You can't even sleep at night. The russian hasn't made a move in days. You figure he must be building a crazy strategy. You constantly worry. Then you find out the Russian has given in to the pressure. He has killed himself. (The fact that the Russian committed suicide may or may not fuck with you.) Good Luck, McCormick!

Assignment 01, Dishonored this Picnic (next attempted May 22, 2005)

         The last words of Grandfather McCormick will forever echo in my mind. In a deep and determined voice, he said, "I have dishonored this picnic."
         My mother's maiden name is McCormick. Her father was Sean Nelson McCormick. He was a very interesting man. We all call my father's father Grampa, but my mother's father would only allow his grandchildren to call him Grandfather, preferably in Japanese. None of us spoke Japanese but we all permitted him the title he demanded: Grandfather.
         I believe he was quite insane.
         But I have also entertained the idea that he was very sane, and simply entertaining himself with an elaborate illusion.
         But he was probably insane. The greats always are, right? Either way, it's taken me some time to get here, but it's not about me. Let me try to explain him as best I can.
         When I was ten years old, my family went to visit Grandfather McCormick at his new home in New Mexico. My parents argued a lot about the visit. Apparently his home was not so new, he had been living there for the past seven years and we had never been to visit. My dad did not like my mom's father, or maybe Grandfather didn't like Dad. I couldn't really conceive of my dad feeling this at the time, but in retrospection, my dad was absolutely scared of my grandfather.
         I wasn't scared, I was interested. Grandfather McCormick was weird.
         His house was a big boat, but it wasn't a boat, it was built on a small island in a river and looks like a boat but is really just a boat-shaped building. It still stands, it's a marvelous achievement of architecture. My dad parked the car in the underground garage beside the river, and then we walked to the small bridge from the river bank to the deck of the house.
         Grandfather McCormick stood on the deck, in front of the bridge, over six feet tall and armed with a Japanese long sword sheathed at his waist. My dad held his suitcase in both hands while my grandfather stood with one hand on the railing and one hand on his sword handle.
         My dad tried to smile and said, "Uh, hello, sir."
         Grandfather did not smile or try to smile. He said, "Hello, William."
         My mom said, "Hi, Dad!" And they hugged and Grandfather hugged my little brother and sister.
         Grandfather shook my dad's hand and pulled him "aboard" he said. Then he looked at me, and I was still standing on the bridge. He had this heavy frown, a real serious stare. He was wearing this really bright Hawaiian shirt and some baggy shorts that showed his tattooed legs. He looked right into my eyes and showed me his teeth, a big dog growl, a full set of almost white teeth. And even though it was the weirdest thing I'd ever seen in my life, and believe me by then I'd seen some weird shit, I could tell that weird growl was still a big smile by the happy crinkled eyes in that wrinkled leathery old face.
         I squawked out, "Permission to come aboard?"
         He howled, "Captain on deck!" And hugged me aboard. Grandfather seemed to be a closed tortoise most of the time but occasionally he'd howl like a wolf.
~ unfinished ~

Assignment 01, Dishonored this Picnic (first attempted July 6, 2004)

         Grandfather McCormick was a writer when he was younger. Back then he was quite a different man, one of the many tattooed dudes at the beach and bar. He was in his late twenties when he got a samurai short sword tattooed on his hip. He told me many times it was called a wakazashi in Japanese but that just translates to short sword so I never saw what the big deal was. Grandfather insisted that we give him his full title of Grandfather and not just Grampa or Grandad. Grandfather traveled to Japan at least once and I believe that is where he and Grandmother met. After she had gone, Grandfather went through a normal time of mourning but he came out it transformed.
         Perhaps he truly did lose his mind at some point during all of that, but I have read some of what he wrote in his early years which makes me suspicious. He wrote of planning a delusion, willingly accepting a wrong belief system and begining life anew as a new person. A fairly blatant theft of Don Quixote, in my opinion. But Grandfather was not very successful as a writer so I doubt he ever feared any criticism. By the time he put his plan in effect, it didn't matter if he was to be believed psychotic or not. He was still physically able to care for himself so he set about his remaking of his self without much interference.
         I'm not sure what he did with his first and middle names, but my Grandfather Sean Nelson McCormick legally changed his last name to Miku-Koromaku. We were all told to address him either by his family position of Grandfather or by his new proper name with honorific, Miku-Koromaku-san. He was quite adamant about being properly addressed in coversation and correspondence.
         He didn't buy a horse or body armor, which were once thought to be essential possessions of a samurai, but he had long ago purchased authentic samurai swords, a real wakazashi and a real katana (long sword). If asked about his armor, he explained that it was safely displayed in his castle back in his land. This always fascinated me, his land, and all the stories that seemed to be created as they were told. I may get to that but I'm getting past the point in time I'm trying to focus on. He taught me a lot about being a samurai, in the past and in the present.
         Grandfather committed seppuku when I was fourteen years old. It was a beautiful sunny day, but that was before I really recognized weather or events as beautiful. But it was a beautiful day, warm but not hot, dry but not too dry. The east California landscape looked like much of mid-west America. Grandfather had chosen his home well, he owned twenty acres of desert landscape upon which he had built a small castle of a home. Grandmother had died five years earlier but she had loved the odd building they called a home. Those five years were really amazing, watching Grandfather become a samurai.
         My parents drove my sister and I from San Diego that morning and we were having lunch on Grandfather's patio. It was more than a patio or porch, the building was shaped like a ship and most of the roof was the ship's deck. The picnic table and barbecue gave a certain charm that I didn't begin understand then. Grandfather was my mother's father. My mother insisted we visit him, though my father always seemed reluctant. I always thought that my father was scared of Grandfather.
~ unfinished ~

Assignment 01

         This is an old one, and though I remember you telling me that you had started it, I don't know If you ever finished it.
         Grandpa is slowly going senile. He believes that he is a Samurai from times past, and he practices Bushido religiously. He finds himself at a family gathering, a picnic at the bay. In a moment of carelessness, he burns the burgers while admiring a beautiful rollerblading blonde from afar. He feels he has "Dishonored the Picnic".
         "Will somebody please get the steak knives away from Grandpa before he ends up killing himself?"

Sean Nelson McCormick

Hello readers. I'm writing this as an assignment given to myself.
I should introduce myself to you, give you a little idea of who I am.
Well, I am a work in progress and this blog shall reflect that.