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Aug. 15th, 2016

Whirly Birds and Wherethehells

Move to a new house in a new state. Keep your stomach lining intact.

Dare ya.

Ok. Barely a day after we got here, I was putting stuff away in one of the 10-foot-high walk-in closets, lined on both sides with the best infrastructure that Closet Factory can offer, all the way up to the (distant) ceiling. Alluva sudden:

Drip.

I looked up. Took another direct hit on my forehead. The ceiling was leaking. WTF? The leaks were right next to one of our two heat/AC air handlers in the attic. As we later found out, there was a bad PVC pipe joint in the condensate drain line. By chance I had discovered the leak early: While I watched, three more drip spots appeared on the ceiling wallboard. This was on Saturday afternoon; I tried to contact the home warranty people, and was told by their answerobot to call back on Monday.

Screw that. It was 112 outside. We called a local firm that does service calls on Sunday and hoped that they would arrive before the closet ceiling caved in. They did. They found the bad glue-job in the drain line and fixed it. Now we have to get the ceiling wallboard replaced. Home warranties? Don't get me started.

Oh. And birds. Last December we took delivery on an expensive patio table-and-chairs set, which spent the several months that we were in Colorado on the patio under the patio's pair of ceiling fans. Well, without either dogs or humans to disturb them, the local birds took a shine to sitting on the fan blades, comfortably out of direct sun. Sitting, and something else that rhymes with it, in quantity.

Fortunately, the water pressure here is quite high, and our pressure nozzle got everything clean again. But...yukkh!

Carol came up with a solution: Turn on the fans to their lowest possible speed, which is about how fast ceiling fans turn in bad movies set in the African desert. We've watched some of the local birdies trying to land on the blades. They hover for a moment, confused, and then go elsewhere in a hurry. If I haven't told you lately, I married a brilliant woman.

A few days later, I was carting a large and heavy plastic bin of recyclables out to the can. I stumbled, and hit my head on one of the light fixtures to either side of the garage door. No damage to my skull, but the light fixture's pot-metal casting cracked off from its mount, and is still there swinging from its wires. The fixtures haven't been available for probably ten years. So do we replace all eleven outside light fixtures with new ones? Or do we quietly swap in one of the fixtures from the hot tub courtyard?

Guess.

We have close to a quarter acre of quarter-minus pea-gravel. It has dawned on us that sun-baked dog poop is precisely the color of quarter-minus pea-gravel.

My new workshop is so small that there isn't room to swing a ten-foot length of 1/2" conduit. Don't ask me how I know. I'll be cleaning up the mess for some time.

I have misplaced my entire box of hookup wire. There will be no hooking up until I unearth it.

Having consolidated several toolboxes and bags, I realize that I own nine pairs of dykes, and three spring-loaded wire strippers. This sounds more interesting than it is.

The rat's tangle of cables in a panel at the far rear wall of my walk-in closet includes four Cat 5 runs that vanish into the ceiling. There are exactly three RJ45 jacks in this house. So where does that fourth cable go? Is it flapping around loose in the walls? Or was it mistakenly wired into an RJ11 landline phone jack? (We don't have a landline phone and don't intend to get one.) I'd start removing RJ11 wall plates, except that it would rip up the paint on the plate edges. There is probably a gizmo that can tell me where that fourth Cat 5 is hiding. If you know what it is, please send me a link. I could probably lash something up, but there's too much else to do.

And...finally...the wherethehells. The boxes are mostly gone, and in their place are piles of wherethehells. A "wherethehell" is something that you don't want to get rid of, but have no idea where the hell it should go. Wherethehells breed freely in houses without basements. I still have several decks of punch cards from the FORTRAN course I took in high school in early 1970. Wherethehell should they go? What about my last remaining 8-track tape? My two photo tripods? The bundle of 4' long Lionel track sections? My Lunar globe? We brought a great deal of stuff here in plastic bins. They're now empty. What do we do with the bins?

The pool has largely kept us sane. Alas, when I jump into the pool, Aero panics and tries to hide on the other side of the house.

There is a second meaning to the command, "Don't move." It's not in any dictionary I have (and I have more dictionaries than dykes) but trust me, I now know what it is.

Aug. 1st, 2016

Odd Lots

  • Whew. We're in Phoenix, now permanently, with the Colorado house on MLS. Much remains to be done, but the immense project of getting our house emptied and ready to sell has been nailed. The Smaller But Still Significant Truck Full of Stuff has emptied itself into our living room, and we have a week or two of sorting and sifting and putting away. Overall, we're in good shape.
  • Iconic Mad Magazine cartoonist Jack Davis has died, at 91. I'll readily admit that I used to read Mad while I was in high school, though not where my parents could see me. Humor mattered to me, as it does to this day. The only Mad artist who rivaled him in my view was Mort Drucker, who is still with us. ("I don't believe your ears either, Mr. Spook.")
  • I'm wondering if it would be possible to write a Windows-like user shell for Windows 10 IOT, which is available for the RPi. (You would be perfectly justified, this time at least, in asking "Why would you want to do that? Answer: Because it would be a cool hack, and it would probably annoy Microsoft, which is always a plus.)
  • Do you see the sunspot? I don't see the sunspot.
  • We have now gone a record 129 months without a major hurricane making landfall on the US mainland. One of my friends continues to argue that Superstorm Sandy was a major hurricane because of the damage it caused. Ok...except "major hurricane" is a technical term in climate science, with a technical definition: Class 3 or above. Sandy was Class 2 when it hit the Atlantic Coast, and not a hurricane at all when it did the most damage. We're talking about sustained wind speed, which is the only way we have to objectively classify hurricanes and get a handle on hurricane trends over time.
  • I got the impression (see above) that I was supposed to bow my head and whisper, "Hurricane Sandy was a horrible tragedy," every time I talked about hurricane physics. Uhhhh...no. That's like requiring me to say, "Nuclear bombs are horrible things," every time I talk about the physics of nuclear fission. Sorry. Not gonna happen. Emotion has no place in science, except to politicize discussion and demonize dissent.
  • Where do Americans smoke the most weed? No points for guessing Colorado, though central Maine has a surprising constituency. What else do you do during those interminably miserable winters? (Thanks to Esther Schindler for the link.)
  • Speaking of which, Donald Trump supports allowing states to legalize marijuana, a position neither our president nor Hillary Clinton has taken. This is truly the weirdest presidential election in my considerable lifetime.
  • To be honest, I'm more interested in nootropics. Here's a light article worth citing because it mentions a nootropic I had not heard of before: L-theanine.
  • Which is best used in conjunction with the oldest and probably best nootropic of all. Drinking coffee significantly reduces the risk of suicide. Well, caffeine raises mood, therefore acting against depression, and depressed people are those mostly likely to kill themselves.
  • Oh, and coffee acts against prostate cancer, too. I never drank coffee regularly until I was 33. I hope that wasn't too late.
  • We had numerous Nash Ramblers when I was a kid. The company just turned 100, even though they became AMC and got devoured by Chrysler years ago. Nash did a lot of good stuff, some of it far earlier than their competition.
  • Why do I have to say this so much? Genuine virtue does not need signaling. I've come to the conclusion that all signaled virtue is fake. The rest of us are onto you. Just stop.

Jul. 29th, 2016

The End of the Long Road South

Wednesday morning, whatever else remained in our house in Colorado Springs went into a truck. We spent the rest of the day vacuuming and polishing and getting the Colorado house back in full staged condition. We spent the night (as we had the previous two) at a hotel. Thursday morning bright and early, we went over to Jimi's to pick up the Pack, and with everything else piled into the back of the Durango, we blasted south on I-25.

I had hoped to keep you all informed, but while stopped for the night in Grants NM that evening I discovered that eight keys on this dorky laptop had ceased to function, making it impossible to enter my Windows password, much less type anything useful. I could, of course, have plugged in a USB keyboard...but my spare keyboards were either already in Phoenix or in a box on the truck.

This morning we got everybody fed and pottied and tucked into their kennels and headed west on I-40 to Flagstaff, where we had a quick lunch and then turned south onto I-17. About 2:30 PM we pulled into our garage, and when we popped the doors we rediscovered what 111 degrees felt like. It felt like...home! Sure thing. We lived here from 1990 until 2003, and in July 1996 we saw the temps at the Scottsdale airport (where the Coriolis offices were) hit 123 degrees. 50C. Don't get that hot much outside of Death Valley. The heat was ugly when you had to commute in it, but this time I'll be trekking either down the hall to write starship stories, or out the back door to stand up to my nostrils in the pool.

I can deal with the heat a damsight better than I can deal with snow in May, trust me.

Anyway. Tomorrow we have a day to get everything ready to roll here. We turned off a lot of stuff, like the soda fridge, the standalone icemaker, and the reverse-osmosis water system. We found that there was a little dust and a few dead bugs in the odd corner. All fixable. Then on Sunday the truck arrives, and the crew will unload 50-odd boxes, the treadmill, a teak lateral file cabinet, my steampunk computer table, and some other odds and ends. The coming week will likely see us sorting stuff into various closets and cabinets, with a pile to one side of stuff that will go to Goodwill. I may have kept a few too many winter shirts. I'm sure six brooms are four brooms too many. Etc. It adds up.

The Colorado house is on the market. It's not a very strong market, and if it takes six months or a year to sell, so it goes. In the meantime, we have a lot to do.

More as it happens. It'll be a lot easier when my quadcore catches up to me.

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Jul. 26th, 2016

Phage House QTH, SK

Well. I'm about to shut down the cable modem and take it back to Xfinity. We have a hotel room with Wi-Fi and I'll be checking email in the evenings. I will be glad not to see news of the latest beatings and shootings and beheadings for a few days. I probably won't post much or at all before the weekend. Nothing's wrong, just lots to do still before Thursday morning and then two days on the road. We've been here fourteen years, and whereas I'm glad we were here, I'm now just as glad to be headed somewhere else. Snow in May? It gets old. And my lungs, for some mysterious reason, are not quite the oxygen traps they used to be, especially at 6700 feet.

See y'all on the flipside.

Jul. 5th, 2016

Fighting the Time Bandits...

Stacks of Boxes-500 Wide.jpg

...not to mention the energy bandits. I didn't always have trouble with those.

So. I have not abandoned Contra, am not dead nor even injured. (I took some skin off one of my toes in Hawaii.) I don't know that I can manage a detailed entry today, but I'm not sure I've ever gone a month without posting here. I've done a little better on Facebook, but that has mostly been posting interesting links and maybe a little commentary.

Like, f'rinstance, the Sun has gone to sleep, and has been asleep now for twelve days. For ten of those twelve days, even the solar plages went missing, and I generally don't see that. Yesterday I started to see some plages again, so I'm guessing we'll see some spots in the next few days. It's remarkable for this to happen just two years after a solar maximum, poor limp excuse for a maximum that it was. We're certainly seeing a much quieter Sun than we're used to. What that means is impossible to know right now. I doubt we're sliding into a new Ice Age, though it's fascinating to speculate...and one of the reasons we may not be is that we have a little more CO2 in the atmo to keep things warm.

The cool part (as it were) is that I will probably live long enough to see if a weaker solar cycle has any measurable effect on climate. (I won't be 90 until 2042, and I certainly intend to live at least that long.)

So. The reason I've been so strapped is this: When we packed the house last December so we could winter over in our new house in Phoenix, we packed what we needed, and left everything else in Colorado. Now we have to empty the house except for some furniture and knicknacks for staging.

What was startling was how much was left after we extracted what we needed.

There's a lesson in that somewhere, and if I had time I'd dig for it. Instead, Carol and I are doing triage on an enormous amount of stuff, packing and labeling the keepers and hauling the discards to whoever will take them. I'm making a salvage run to the metal yard later this week with a couple of '50s chrome kitchen chairs with the padded panels removed, a couple of '70s folding chairs ditto, a '50s charcoal grill, a '50s stepstool, some odd steel scrap, and about ten pounds of copper wire and other odd copper/brass items. I'm selling furniture and our gas grill on Craigslist. We're shredding twenty years of odd bills and recycling several boxes of old magazines that somehow escaped the heave-ho last year. Almost all back issues of the Atlantic are now online, so I don't need to keep paper mags, even the ones tagged with significant articles. (The Atlantic used to have a lot more of those in the '80s and '90s than they do today.)

Solar Panel 300 Wide.jpgCarol's packing glassware and kitchen and office stuff and much miscellany. I have to get rid of a solar panel that I cobbled up in 1977 from six 6-cell subpanels that doesn't work anymore, and I would like to investigate the peculiar failure mode if I had time: When first placed in the Sun it generates 17 volts, but over a period of no more than five minutes the voltage drops down under 10 volts and eventually to 5. It hasn't been in the Sun at all these past 40 years...so what died? I'm curious, but not curious enough to keep it and do exploratory surgery on it.

The kicker, though, is this: No sooner did we get back from our Hawaii vacation than I was sent the PDF proofs of my six chapters of Learn Computer Architecture with the Raspberry Pi. That's 100,000 words and 90 hand-drawn technical figures. I have to read them closely, because I've already spotted typos that were not present in the edited manuscript ARs. Somebody, somewhere changed "Jack Kilby" to "Jack Kelby." The inventor of the integrated circuit deserves better. I may be the last line of defense against stuff like that, so I have to read slowly and pay complete attention. Also, don't get me started on example code. Whitespace is significant in Python...and for what, Lord? To torment typesetters and technical editors?

Sheesh.

We're still trying to schedule some essential work, like having an epoxy coating put down on the new garage floor, getting all the outside windows washed, and having the carpets and drapes cleaned. So, evidently, is everyone else in Colorado Springs. Want to make good money? Forget your Grievance Studies degree and go into carpet cleaning.

By now you may be getting the idea. I turned 64 on the 29th, and am feeling every day of it. I'm desperate to do some new SF (so desperate that I've started writing country-western songs in my head while schlepping boxes) and that's not going to happen for awhile.

The bad news is that this isn't going to be over any time real soon. End of July, I hope. But if the house keeps vomiting up weird stuff that we didn't have to deal with last time, all bets are off. Your best bet is to watch Facebook, as I allow myself fifteen minutes of online time during the day.

I'll be back. (Didn't somebody else say that? Oh, yeah: I used to have some 75 ohm terminators, but they're long gone.) I haven't been doing this for 18 years only to stop now.

Jun. 7th, 2016

Monthwander

Busted Up Slab - 500 Wide.jpg

Where the hell have I been?

Here. Working like a sumbitch at 6700 feet above sea level, on things that may or may not be interesting to anyone but Carol and me. There is a lot of money tied up in this house, and the goal is to untie it as quickly as possible. On most days, come suppertime I am toast, and have not had the wherewithal to post anything interesting here on Contra since mid-May. Contrary to rumor I am not dead, nor anything close to it. I've been rearranging my sock drawer, for very large values of "sock drawer."

It's old news to my Facebook readers, but my garage floor has been cracked up (see above) and carted out, after which they brought in a dump truck full of road base fill, thumped it down very thoroughly, and then re-poured the concrete slab. It has to sit curing for five weeks before they can do the epoxy floor coating, but the worst of that task is out of the way.

The restorative surgery on Phage House continues. The painting is done. We've had the linen closet doors straightened. The ill-fitting cattle pen/dog run has been dismantled and donated to All Breed Rescue. We sold our snow blower on Craigslist, thinking that we won't need it much in Phoenix. The granite counters and new kitchen fixtures are in and they're drop-dead gorgeous. (Why didn't we do this five or six years ago?) The staging lady has been hired and is ready to roll as soon as we get everything not required for staging into boxes. So as time and energy allow I'm boxing up all the stuff that didn't go down to Phoenix back in December. We've given a lot to Goodwill and our friend Deidre who has an indoor flea market table. There's more than I thought. (More, and heavier. Think vintage power transformers and filter chokes.) Lots more.

But then again, isn't there always?

We should have been a little more forthcoming with our friends. Yesterday, a woman we've known since college and haven't seen in several years sent me an email to say, "We're in Colorado Springs on our way home from New Mexico. It's so sad that you're not here anymore."

Gakkh.

No writing has been done, though I occasionally take notes on The Molten Flesh. Instead I've been reading copyedited chapters on my Raspberry Pi book, which would have been much easier if I weren't trying to load half a house into boxes. (And no, I cannot explain SSL in two paragraphs. Sorry.) I still don't know when it's going to be published. Hell, I don't even know who my co-author is. I do know that writing chapters in 2013 to be published in early 2017 is a really dumb way to do things, especially for computer books. Not that it was my idea.

One of my early readers of Ten Gentle Opportunities asked me to write a side-story about Bones, an AI animated skeleton who worked the crowds in a screen at a big amusement park until he was archived because he scared little kids too much, even though at heart he was a gentle and sensitive soul. The idea appeals to me. Later in the year. We'll see. Side-stories are something I'm not used to and may have to practice a little to get right. This might be a good, er, opportunity.

The Sun has been completely blank for four days. This is peculiar, given that the solar maximum was in 2014. I would expect this in 2019. I do not expect it now. It does make me think that moving to Phoenix was the right things to do.

I am reading in the evenings, and watching a few movies. Carol and I saw Inside Out for the first time last week. It is hands-down the strangest animated film I've ever seen...and one of the best. I knew Sadness in college; she was in a lot of my classes. (Actually, there were considerably more than one of her.) If I hadn't been dating Carol then, well, I would have stood in line to go out with Joy. And when Bing Bong faded out for the last time in the Chasm of Lost Memories, I caught a tear running down my cheek. If you're going to have an imaginary friend, well, he'd be the one to have. (Mine mostly asked me to drop silverware down the cold-air return.)

I'm not done with it yet, but in The Big Fat Surprise, Nina Teicholz finally drives a stake through Ancel Keys' heart. You will live longer by eating more saturated fat. Keys and his shitlord minions murdered millions. Don't be one of them.

I have too many power transformers. Some of them are going to have to go. I see a few of them (like the old Collins items that I've had since the '70s) are going for $100 and up on eBay. Smells like easy money to me.

Anyway. I'm working very hard doing boring things, harder things and more boring than I've seen in one period for a very long time. I guess this is just what it takes. With any luck at all, the move to Phoenix will be done by August, and I can start being interesting again. Nobody's looking forward to this more than me.

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May. 16th, 2016

All the Myriad Jeffs

AllTheMyriadJeffs.jpg

People misspell my name. They do. Holy molybdenum. And I have proof.

Back in 1985, when I became a technical editor at PC Tech Journal, tech companies started sending me stuff. A lot of it was press releases, some of it was swag (Carol still wears some of the T-shirts as summer nightgowns) and a great deal of it was product. Somewhere along the way, somebody misspelled my name on a mailing label. No biggie; it had happened before. It was funny, so I cut out the label and taped it to my office door to amuse passersby.

Two weeks later, I got another one. I cut it out and taped it to the bottom of the first label I had taped to my office door. For the next 17 years, I would semiregularly get shipping labels upon which someone had utterly murdered my name. And not just my last...which is understandable enough. But how many myriad ways are there to spell "Jeff?"

Lots. Each time I got one (most of the time; I let duplicates and some odd permutations get away) I cut it out and taped it to the bottom of the last label in what had become a fairly long string. At some point the string stretched from high eye-level almost to the floor, so I started a second string. Eventually I had to start a third. And a fourth. The strings of funny labels followed me from PC Tech Journal to Turbo Technix to PC Techniques/Visual Developer. When I emptied my desk on that horrible day in 2002 that it all caved in for good, I piled my strings of labels into the bottom of a box and threw a great deal of other stuff on top of it. I tried several times to empty the box, but it was so emotionally wrenching I never quite got to the bottom of the box.

Until now. And lo! There they were!

Most of them were me. A few were sent to mythical firms like The Coriolanus Group, The Cariotis Group, the Coryoless Group, and once to The Coriolis Group at 3202 East Germany. (It was actually Greenway.) The scan at the top of this entry simply serves as evidence that I didn't make it all up.

How were all these mistakes made? No mystery there: All the people who sent the labels took my name over the phone. I had MCI Mail by 1985, and CompuServe not long after that (76711,470) but the PR universe was a generation behind us nerds. And so when I thought I spoke "Jeff Duntemann" clearly to a rep, she wrote down "Jeff Stuntman." Or maybe "Jess Tuntemann." Or...well, see for yourself:

Jeff Stuntman

Gaff Duntemann

Jess Tuntemann

Jeff Duntenann at Turbo Space Technix

Jeff Duntem

Jeff Sullivan

Jeff Puntemann

Jeff Donteman

Steve Duntemann

Ms. Temann

Jeff Dunte-Mann

Jeff Duntermann

Juff Duntemann

Carol Dunkemann

Jeff Quntemann

Jeff Dunkmann

Jeff Deniemann

James Duntemann

Jeff Dunningham

Nancy Duntemann

Jeff Dunttemann

Jeff Duntamun

Jeff Duncan

Jeff Punteann

Don Temann

Jeff Duntecmann

Jeff Dundemann

John Duntemann

Jeff Doutermann

Jeff Donovan

Jeffis Sutemann

Jeff Duntavent

Jeff Doutemon

Prof. Jeff Mr. Duntemann

May. 15th, 2016

Odd Lots

May. 13th, 2016

Remembering the Known Unknown, Redux

It happened again. I tried to remember a person (two persons, actually) and remembered several things about them, but not their names. This sounds ordinary enough (especially if you're a Boomer) but hold on a sec. There's more.

First, if you've never read this entry of mine, it's might be worth a look. If it's TL,DR, I'll summarize: I tried to remember the name of a favorite poet, and failed. However, I did remember that his name was the same as the name of Indiana Jones' rival in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I couldn't remember that name either, but I knew it was the same name. After I had gone on to something else for awhile, the name popped up out of nowhere: The poet. The rival.

Clearly, human memory is not a set of SQL tables.

So the other night, I was reading some article online, and it mentioned the hapless Jayne Mansfield in passing, referring to her as a classic "blonde bombshell." That's a phrase I hadn't heard in some time, and after I wondered briefly why there were no brunette bombshells, a peculiar thing occurred to me: There had been two blonde bombshells whose names were odd but very similar, structurally. I remembered that the women themselves were similar, but then again, "blonde bombshell" was a type in its day, and there were many, including Jean Harlow, Marilyn Monroe, and Jayne Mansfield. Ok. I dug deeper, and came up with another weird recall: Their names both had three parts...but no names appeared. Why is it that I could know that two names each had three parts and were structurally similar, without remembering the names themselves?

Two hours later, while I was reading ARs of the mass storage chapter in my Raspberry Pi book, two names surfaced in the back of my head simultaneously:

Mamie Van Doren.

Monique Van Vooren.

There's nothing remarkable about either of them, and as I am not a fan of blonde bombshells to begin with, I had to wonder why I remembered them at all. Then again, I can sing the entire theme song of Car 54, Where Are You? which hasn't been first-run since 1963. Memory is a weird business--especially when it stops working effectively.

Back in the entry I cited from 2013, I posited that we could think before we could speak, and so we probably store the names of things separately from their attributes. I still think this is true, but I think it's even more peculiar that I could remember attributes of two names without remembering the names themselves. The key may be that we use different neural machinery to store names and attributes, so if the attributes of names are to be remembered, they get remembered by the attribute machinery rather than the name machinery.

It makes evolutionary sense: Knowing that the guy in the next cave is short, strong as an ox, has a stone axe buried permanently in his skull, and has a bad temper is a survival skill. It didn't matter that he didn't have a name when there were only four caves in the neighborhood. The attribute that needed to be remembered when looking his way was "twitchy badass." Names probably evolved out of attributes; think "Eric the Red." But the attributes came first. Names came about when the world grew so complex that passing knowledge among peers through shared experience was no longer enough.

Evolution doesn't replace. It overlays. So all that weird freaky ancient stuff is still down there somewhere, and is more loosely coupled to the newer stuff than we might like--especially when it's the newer stuff that starts to malfunction first.

May. 8th, 2016

I Should've Been a Jedi

Hey, country music fans, find yourself an overripe banana (or in Sarah Hoyt's universe, a ten-pound carp) and get your swingin' arm ready. I used to write a lot of filk songs but got out of the habit twenty or thirty years ago. Well...guess what?

Just in case you're not familiar with the original, it's on YouTube.


I Should've Been a Jedi

(By Jeff Duntemann; to Toby Keith's "I Should've Been a Cowboy")

 

I'll bet you never heard ol' Luke Skywalker say:

"Princess Leia, have you ever thought of runnin' away?

Settlin' down, would ya marry me?

(or at least get me the hell away from Tatooine..)"

 

She'd've said "yukkh!" in a New York minute;

Incest's against the law; there's no future in it.

She just stole a kiss as they swung away;

Luke never let his hormones…get out of place.

 

Refrain:

I should've been a Jedi

I should've learned there is no "try…"

Wavin' my light saber, knockin' the arms right off some ugly guy.

Blowin' them Empire ships

Right out of the sky;

Nukin' those Death Star cores;

Oh, I shoulda been a Jedi.

 

I mighta had a sidekick with a fuzzy mane,

Flyin' blind by the Force, just like Ben explained.

Takin' potshots at a Tusken Raider;

Givin' a hand to your daddy Vader…

 

Blast off, young man, ain'tcha seen them flicks?

Outer space is full of rayguns, wookies, and chicks!

 

Sleepin out all night inside a tauntaun's guts,

With my dreams in the stars instead of freezin' my butt…

 

(Refrain X2)

I should've been a Jedi!

I should've been a Jedi!

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