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The voices, that's what. They mostly got the look right on the characters; they threw us ol-skool fans plenty of bones without making it too arcane for the newcomers; there's plenty of ass-kicking and ass-phasing and hull-torpedoing. It's everything you could hope for out of a franchise reboot.

But the voices -- oh dear God, what the hell happened there? What made Old Spock into the icon he is today was the queer overlay of that deep, raspy, dry-as-the-desert voice upon this fey paragon of perfect logic. New Spock sounds like a peevish weenie, and when you overlay *that* on something that *looks* like Spock, you basically just get the Asian pre-med student who is suspicious of your request to borrow his HP graphing calculator.

And what the fuck is up with James T. Kirk and his whining? James T. Kirk does not whine! Shout, yes. Bark, yes. Purpled face, bulging neck vein, KHAAAAN!, yes yes yes. But anything even remotely approaching sniveling is just wrong. I felt there was too much sniveliness going on. Look, let's reimagine this movie. Take any part where Kirk gets hurt and makes some kind of 'Owie!' noise. Now imagine that instead of saying 'Owie!', Kirk screws up his face, glares at the attacker, and hisses "I'll see you in Hell!" There, now isn't that better? or at least more Kirk-like?

Scotty -- ah, Scotty. More drunken Scotsman, please, and less Monty Python. I swear, there were at least two separate times when I thought he was going to say 'Pointed Stick!'

The best thing about Uhura used to be her voice, too. In a word, Rowr. New Uhura -- well, I'm not sure I ever got the point of noticing her speaking. In another word, Rowr.

I just don't know if this is going to work out. For the old Star Trek movies, the even numbered ones were the best, and maybe that will hold true with the new series. Maybe in the 2nd movie Spock will suffer a throat injury and get all growly, and Kirk will get his shirt ripped off while wrestling with a large styrofoam boulder, and Scotty will hit the sauce, and Uhura will say nothing during her full frontal nude scene, and the Enterprise will fight off three of those burrito-shaped planet-killer things and then chill on an asteroid where the crew can brawl with Klingons and Gorns simultaneously, only to discover that the moonlet is really William Shatner. I don't care. I just want them to make it sound right so the VOICES IN MY HEAD WILL STOP.

I found myself explaining Antigenic Shift, the mechanism by which we get new strains of flu virus, to my son. It was easiest to use pirates. It came out like this:
( Read more... )

I'd like to say a few words regarding Swine Flu. The overall agitation level of the people around me regarding the spread of this disease has risen at an alarming rate. I don't want to make it sound like a disease that is killing people is somehow insignificant; however, I feel that the current public frenzy is unjustified for the risks we are facing.

First: we are not yet in a state that has been classified as a pandemic by the CDC. However, even when we reach that point (and I expect we will), I fear that the word 'pandemic' has not been properly defined for the public's benefit. As a rule, when a new disease arises, we refer to this as an outbreak. When an outbreak has the potential to spread and begins moving to other populations, it becomes an epidemic. Usually epidemics can be contained such that their advance can eventually be stopped. When they cannot, they are referred to as a pandemic - an epidemic where the potentially exposed population is the entire world. However: defining something as a pandemic is not a statement of the relative severity of the disease or its mortality rate. It's also not a statement of how likely you are to catch it. It merely means that everybody has the potential to be exposed. Even incredibly un-infectious, non-lethal diseases can be pandemics. So: just because it's a pandemic is not a reason to get all excited -- the 'pan' does NOT stand for 'panic'. It just means you're potentially at risk, but frankly, if you've been watching the news and hearing about new cases cropping up everywhere, you know this already.

Second: if there is a good time for a flu pandemic to occur, it's right now: May. This is the perfect time to catch wind of an influenza variant, assess its risk, create tools to fight it, and minimize the risk to the general population. This is because all variants of the flu, for reasons that are not thoroughly understood, peak in the winter and all but die out in the summer. We have no reason to expect that this strain will be any different -- the armor it has to repel our immune systems may differ from other flu strains, but the basics of how the virus works remains the same. I am expecting that at the hottest part of the year, this virus will have dropped off to a very low level. This will buy us the time to develop a vaccine.

Third: developing a vaccine for flu is not hard. Unlike previous pandemics such as the 1918 outbreak, we now have a pretty good understanding of how to do it. You culture the virus, kill it, and then inject it into peoples' bodies. Our immune systems get to play with the dead protein coat on the outside of the virus without having to deal with having a live, nasty virus inside us. Once they've gotten to the point where they can recognize the protein coat, the immune system can make antibodies for it. Then, when we get real, live viruses inside us, our bodies know how to attack them. We know how this works, and it works every time. There's no mystery that our scientists have to race against the clock to solve. We're culturing the virus now, and we could mass-produce a vaccine within several months if we had to. The only thing that prevents us from doing this is the cost.

Fourth: even though people are dying, this is not the most virulent, lethal flu variant we have seen. The majority of people who are getting it are surviving. It seems to respond well to conventional flu treatments such as Tamiflu, and we have plenty of that on hand. Americans also live in a country with a pretty good system of medical care (I decline to participate in the health insurance squabble at this time). If we get sick, we have excellent facilities available to take care of us and keep us from dying.

You should probably not be as concerned about the swine flu as you actually are. As long as you take reasonable precautions -- sanitize; keep hands away from mouth and nose; don't get coughed on; don't lick doorknobs -- the chances are slim that you'll get the disease even if it's a pandemic. If you do get the disease, your chances for survival are excellent, and the odds are good that you'll suffer about as much as you would if you got a regular case of the flu. I like our chances in America a lot better than I do in Mexico or in even poorer countries, but even for third-world nations, I expect that the time of year will lead to a dampening effect on mortality rates.

Go on about your lives, be careful, and don't worry so much.

This is a synopsis of the lecture I presented at Rice on the subject of pseudoscience.

I owe the idea for my delivering this lecture to tongodeon, who posted brilliantly on this subject a year or so ago. Prior to reading his posting, I had only a dim knowledge that Vitamin C and Linus Pauling were linked at all, in a vaguely controversial manner. Reading that posting intrigued me regarding this piece of the history of science.

Earlier this year the opportunity arose for me to deliver a guest lecture at my alma mater of Rice University. The class covers pseudoscience and the ways that society creates beliefs that attempt to parallel science. It's a neat class and I'm glad I had the opportunity to lecture. The group was quite lively and interactive, except for the one guy who fell asleep -- but hey, this is Rice, and if only one person falls asleep in your class, that's a win.

( The lecture.... )

Today I cleaned out my wallet. A stub for a movie ticket fell out. It was the IMAX showing of Watchmen that Bonnie and I attended on 3/6. An event from the aftermath of that movie came back to me.

After the movie is over, it is about 1 in the morning. Bonnie and I have taken separate cars to the theater, so I start walking Bonnie over to hers. The theater is located in a well-attended mall type setting with an active nightlife, so the parking lot has various people milling around, and it is quite well lit. We have no reason to be afraid.

A Jaguar pulls up alongside us as we walk down one of the rows, talking about the movie. It paces us for a few steps, then pulls ahead ten yards and stops. The rear driver side door opens, as does the front passenger side door. Two guys get out. I instantly know something is wrong.

It's only a minor spoiler, but: there's a scene in Watchmen where two of the characters are walking down a dark alley and are jumped by thugs. This is just like that, and the eerie synchronicity sends chills up my spine. The guy on the passenger side doesn't move from his spot, but the other guy swaggers up out of the car and moves to block my path. I size him up. He is about 6' tall and 220 lbs, which makes me substantially larger than him. But, he is no older than 25, and he is broad and cut, and he has an insane gleam in his eye. I've seen that gleam before, and it has a message for you, and that message is: I'm mean-drunk, and I want to fight, and nothing you can say or do will keep me from it.

I'll tell you a bit about me. I'm a peaceful guy, but I'm actually fairly strong and quick, and I know a few things about fighting. I used to be good at it. The key words here are 'used to be'. I'm probably sixty pounds over my fighting weight, and I don't want to talk about my conditioning. I'm also pushing forty, and I need my glasses to see. I have no business getting into a fight with a guy with arms bigger around than his legs, regardless of whatever reach advantage I might have. Especially if he is out of his mind on drink, and probably something else thrown in, if my judgement serves.

His speech is quiet and a little slurred as he says something to me. I draw up about six feet from him. "What did you say?" I ask. He steps forward, and I realize that his quiet voice was his attempt to sound menacing.

"I said," he repeats, "were you just fucking with my friend?" He gestures towards the car. The driver's door hasn't opened and the window isn't down. I'm not sure how I could have fucked with his friend even if I had wanted to. Or maybe he meant the guy who had gotten out, but he doesn't seem pissed. He actually seems like he doesn't want to be there.

Bonnie has read the situation the same way as I have. "Leave us alone," she growls, moving to step around the guy and giving him a wide berth.

Drunk guy is having none of it. He lunges forward and shoves Bonnie in one shoulder. It isn't, to my eye, a particularly hard shove, but it almost pushes my wife into the line of cars. She keeps her feet and keeps going, getting around the guy. Whether because of disinterest, or because his reactions are too dulled to help him out, the guy declines to pursue her further.

His head is turned and his back is partially turned towards me. I note that his white teeshirt has black stains down the back -- possibly dark blood, or maybe just ink or something else. At this moment, were I a little more macho or twenty years younger, I'd be slugging the guy. That's what my gut tells me to do; this asshole just shoved my wife. However, this night my brain is not taking orders from my gut.

I take advantage of the guy's inattention to slip around him on the other side, getting between him and Bonnie. Bonnie is now heading away from the confrontation and the guy's car. Still the other guy doesn't move and says nothing. Like a slow grinding of gears into motion, drunk guy begins a lazy, slow pursuit of us, ambling down the parking lot aisle after Bonnie.

At this point I conclusively prove 4th Edition D&D's principle that having a high intelligence score contributes positively to your armor class. Basically, I just keep moving backwards. I pace the guy, retreating only as fast as he advances, keeping my left arm extended with the tips of my fingers grazing the guy's chest. I know with my reach and with his slowed reflexed, he won't be able to pop a shot at me without my having some warning. "Hey, dude, we don't want any trouble," I say.

"Get your fucking hand off me," he growls, trying to bat my hand away. I put it back.

"Dude, don't do this," I say.

"Gonna fucking kill you."

"We don't want any trouble." Out of the corner of my eye I note the licence number of the Jaguar as we retreat.

"Gonna fuck you up, bitch."

It isn't communication. Nothing I say to the guy matters. Nothing the guy says varies at all from a generalized expression of violence and hostility.

"C'mon, dude. C'mon. We just want to go home."

At this point, finally, the guy's friend moves. "HEY!" he shouts from the car.

The shout registers. Drunk guy draws up and slowly turns around to look back at his friend. I keep moving backwards. I can hear Bonnie behind me; she has her phone out and has already reached the 911 operator. Drunk guy has realized that he has moved perhaps 80 feet from his car, and some invisible tether exists between him and his ride. My ride, he thinks. That's how I get around. My ride.

He starts moving back towards the car. He engages his friend in some kind of conversation. I don't stick around to hear it. I pass Bonnie up, only to realize that Bonnie is moving the wrong way. She's headed back towards the car.

You have to understand my wife. The urge to fight is strong in that one. If I hadn't been around, Bonnie definitely would have fought the guy. I wouldn't have given the guy good odds against Bonnie, either. That girl is strong and mean and she knows where the balls are located. Once Bonnie's blood gets up, it doesn't go back down particularly easily. Being shoved had scared her, and being scared had made her angry, and Bonnie wanted to make sure that bad things happened to drunk guy and his friends. That meant getting close enough to get details of the car, including the license number, not knowing I already had it.

Shit, I say to myself, and tail after Bonnie. No, I wouldn't give good odds to drunk guy, but he is still a big strong man, and he could put the hurt on somebody. Bonnie's shouting facts at the 911 operator -- the make and color of the car, description of the attacker, anything she can get. In so doing she gets dangerously close to the car, perhaps ten yards away.

Drunk guy's friend is trying to have two conversations at once. On the one hand, he's trying to have some kind of a calming exchange with drunk guy. On the other, he's trying to call out to me, saying: he's drunk, he doesn't mean to be such a dick, it's no big deal.

"Dude," I say, exasperatedly. "It's too late for that."

Drunk guy realizes that we're close by again. He also sees Bonnie with the phone out. "Shut the fuck up, bitch," he snarls. He starts to rush at her. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, BITCH!" Bonnie quick-step retreats.

It doesn't matter, this party is over. "We're going," the drunk guy's friend announces, and gets back in the car. Drunk guy apparently realizes that trouble is on the way, and he gets in too. The car speeds off, slinking around the corner of a building and out of sight.

Bonnie is shaking. I've got butterflies in my stomach but I'm okay. "We need to stick around and file a report with the cops. We're going to get that motherfucker on assault," Bonnie tells me. "Okay," I say.

A couple approaches us. They've seen it all. They were sitting in their car waiting; in the morning there will apparently be tryouts for the TV show "America's Biggest Loser", and they're camping the parking lot so they can get a place in line. They tell us that they've already talked to mall security, because this particular car full of losers has been making trouble all night. Drunk guy has apparently been instructing his friends to stop the car at regular intervals so he can get out, attempt to hit on girls, and attempt to fight with guys. According to this couple, drunk guy's relationship with his friends hasn't been too cordial this night; they witnessed fistfights break out when his own friends attempted to convince him to leave. Nice.

Eventually the roving mall security guard shows up, perhaps ten minutes after the event. He beats the cops there by about five minutes -- enough time to take down our basic statements, and verify the green Jaguar has left the premises. We did have enough information on the car to make a positive ID, and the cop who shows up does a quick run on the number and confirms to us that the license number we got matches a car of that description. We give our contact information and walk back to our cars, and then we drive home.

Bonnie can't sleep for two nights. I sleep like a baby. It's not because I'm some kind of tough guy, I'm just very mellow. I'm kind of the opposite of Bonnie in some respects. Perhaps that's part of why we work as a couple.

The friends who invited us to come see the movie with them felt guilty that we were at that place and time at their behest. That's crazy talk. Weird events like this are like lightning striking; nobody can predict when or where they'll happen, and the responsibility for it falls to no one at all. I'm just glad that nobody got hurt. I also liked the movie, even though I didn't kick nearly as much ass as Dan Dreiberg.

[This is something I went into last night over dinner. Bonnie thought it was important so I thought I'd record it here.]

Being married to a defense attorney has been an eye-opening experience for me. I have learned a certain amount about the law (I'm pretty sure I know enough to be dangerous) and a certain amount about how the legal system operates (which is very different from knowing the law). I've also absorbed a certain amount about specific cases; while Bonnie is very careful not to breach client privilege, I do hear a lot of post-mortems and analysis regarding trials.

This has affected my outlook regarding the law in a very real way. Most importantly, I'm a lot less inclined nowadays to trust in the police and the district attorneys who prosecute criminals. Pre-Bonnie, I would definitely have described myself as a law-and-order type; given a situation where I must trust the word of a cop versus the word of your average Joe on the street, I would have picked the cop every time. Nowadays it's not so clear. I describe it thusly:

Cookie Monster, that beloved Sesame Street figure of yore, has changed a lot over time. It used to be that Cookie Monster would gobble down cookies as a kind of physical manifestation of gluttony. If you saw Cookie Monster, and you saw a cookie, you knew that sooner or later the cookie was going to be gobbled by Cookie Monster, along with the plate more often than not. But things have changed in the Sesame Street universe, and Cookie Monster does not always gobble cookies with such gusto. The child psychiatrists who consult for the program must have decided that in this age of lousy eating habits and obese children, monsters who MUST EAT COOKIE are not welcome. On Sesame Street nowadays, Cookie Monster shows moderation when it comes to cookies. He doesn't gobble them, spraying crumbs everywhere; he takes one or two. He never consumes plates. There is no more MUST EAT COOKIE; nowadays cookies are a 'Sometimes Food'.

Similarly, things have changed regarding my view of Po-Po. Po-Po, the universal manifestation of the police officer, is a sometimes friend. When somebody has stolen your crap, or is threatening your friend's life, or is otherwise screwing with you in a non-law-abiding way, Po-Po is a pretty good friend. You should call him up. "Po-Po," you should say in a polite and respectful manner, "somebody is fucking with me." "That's terrible!" Po-Po will reply sympathetically. He will take down the details and go to work. Sometimes Po-Po will do good things for you. Sometimes he won't, but he'll usually try. That's all you can ask a friend to do.

But Po-Po is not always your friend. Supposing you are driving down the street one night. You are minding your own business. You are driving fine and harming nobody. You have had a drink at dinner, but you are most assuredly not drunk. You may have some booze on your breath, but that doesn't mean anything. Along you go, when suddenly, out of the blue, you see police lights flashing in your rear view mirror. A cop is pulling you over.

Is Po-Po your friend?

No. Right now, ( Po-Po is not your friend. )

Let me tell you about a ride I took today.

( Read more... )

Jesus was born in that barn in Bethlehem - a painful experience for his virginal mother in those uncomfortable quarters. However, a kind of rapturous state came over her when the pushing began, and she was all right. When they wrapped up her heavenly child and put him in her arms, all notion of pain vanished. She laid him in the manger and looked adoringly down at him. A growing throng of people gathered to admire the child and speculate about the future.

This was in a working barn, of course, and the animals resented this noisy intrusion into their feed trough. A few of them were so bold as to continue eating out of the manger while Jesus lay therein, and that's where the trouble began. You see -- and I hope you aren't disgusted by this -- I'm afraid some bits of placenta and umbilicus and cord blood and amniotic fluid leaked into the hay and grain in the manger, and some animals: well, ( they ate it. )

Hey everybody, brief update from the Sacrificial Zone:

Gas continues to be a problem. The Bellaire Irregulars fortified the crossings over Braes Bayou, so now I can't even get across to barter with the petrol depot. Yesterday I managed to get about sixty gallons by heading south to the cycle encampment at the Stafford Center, ramming the Shelby through a chainlink fence, and making off with a couple of drums before they could get the floodlights on. That trick won't work again, though, so tomorrow we'll need to get clever.

A few words about zombies. You'd expect them to stink, but they don't. Something about the transformation slows or halts the process of decomposition. I figured it would be great if zombies smelled worse, because then you could tell when they're around. Following up on this, I have set out some calf brains doped with ethyl mercaptan, and already the undead are gathering. We'll see how well that works, and maybe consider this a pilot program.

Hey, speaking of calves, a little Ike humor: did you hear that when Galveston was swamped in the storm surge, the only creatures left alive were some cattle that managed to swim through the night? Which just goes to show that if you're ever in a hurricane, there's only one smart thing to do: GET ON A COW. Ha ha, I heard that one from a looter down in Sharpstown! Had to shoot him.

The kids are doing great. I'm teaching Eric to throw a stainless steel boomerang. Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but when the cycle gangs find us, it might come in useful. Katherine just loves to trap rats. Give that kid a coffee can and some bacon fat and she's a rodent-harvesting machine! She still won't skin or fillet the things, but, you know, baby steps.

I've said it before a hundred times, but: FEMA sucks. I think it's great that they're maintaining the quarantine barrier around the Sacrificial Zone, keeping the outbreak from getting into the rest of the United States and everything. You'd think they could be a little more competent about it, though. I'm sure the two hundred yard No-Man's-Land in front of the barrier walls is kept nice and clean, with napalm dropped on anything that moves, but do you think they're doing anything about the ocean exit? I mean, lots of zombies surely got washed out to sea in the storm, and I'm sure they can just walk on the ocean floor to anyplace they want to go. You'd have thought they'd have learned a few lessons from Katrina.

Anywway, thanks for all the well-wishes and stuff. Mom, we got the cookies and the flares -- thanks! We're all doing fine here. I'm sure all this catastrophic end-of-the-world business will be over soon enough, and then we can all have a good laugh. P.S. my fantasy football team is 2-0, woo woo!

I write to you now from my back porch. I estimate gusts up to 40 mph are whipping the trees around, down considerably from the 100 mph we probably experienced around 4 am. It is too dangerous to go out exploring yet, but the porch is sturdy and it's much cooler out here. You see, we have no power - like 3 million others.

I invested in a solid emergency radio and it is feeding us a lot of good info. It is also feeding us a lot of scary stuff - reports of major buildings collapsing, reports of foolhardy evac-ignorers having perished, etc.

We are concentrating on the good. House shell - intact. Water in house - none. Trees down - one, and it fell away from the house. Minor home damage as I have lost some siding, and while my room is in one piece, it might not be too symmetric of a piece.

Bon and I are intact, with lots of supplies. Our vehicles are fine. I have not yet heard from my kids but I expect they will be fine too. I am therefore counting my blessings. This isn't over yet but I think the worst is past, except for the part where the earliest we can expect power back is Monday.

I have only sympathy for the folks up north who are getting a cat 1 storm up their asses. Sorry folks, we did our best to kick its ass but it went and ran off in your direction.

More later, must conserve phone.

1. At 5 PM, with Ike closing in on Galveston, Bonnie and I chose to repair to our front porch to watch the wind come up. We brought several deck chairs, several bottles of well chilled champagne, smoked salmon and other edibles, and our emergency radio. We watched the wind whip the trees around and drop loose branches to the ground. Dog owners, recognizing that their options for dog-walking would shortly be limited, began their final loop around the block with their pets; some of the smaller ones were tossed around in the high breeze. Yet, for all the high wind and the threat of impending higher wind, rain, lightning, lost power, etc., I felt no fear.

With Bonnie I am invincible.

2. It appears that Galveston has had only about a 50% evacuation rate, leaving about 30k people on an island that may very well be entirely awash when the eye comes over. How did this happen? My opinion: blame the Republican party. Yes, I'm bringing politics into a non-sectarian natural disaster; bear with me. The Republicans invented the concept of distrusting science. Global warming? nonsense! Intelligent design? might be legit! Any kind of environmental control? Must be part of the liberal tax-and-spend agenda! The Republicans have created a culture of distrusting science -- of selling the less educated sector of the population on the notion that not only do scientists not only not know what they are talking about, but they may actually be part of a vast conspiracy to further some obscene and unknowable goals!

So when the Weather Channel just interviewed a bunch of people camped on their front porches in Galveston, and asked them why they didn't leave, they replied that they knew about the warnings of the meteorologists, but they just didn't agree that the danger was as severe as advertised. They had been through other hurricanes (which didn't directly impact the island) and they just didn't believe that the danger was as high as the scientists were warning about.

The scientific establishment has no agendas. It's composed of a group of individuals so distinct in politics and personal ideologies that it would be impossible for it to have a uniform agenda. When a massive collection of scientists tells you that you are in danger, you should believe them. If somebody has made you believe that such warnings are untrustworthy, they have done you a grave disservice, and any injuries and fatalities resulting from this disaster must be at least partially laid at the doorsteps of those responsible.

(With apologies to Tom Lehrer)

The wackiest boy in the US
Was Dobson; the sickest as well
'Cause his actions with Family Focus
Reduced his poor soul to a shell

His prayers contained a small mention
Which his followers echoed with glee
That the poor Democratic Convention
Would drown like a rat in the sea

Dobson, tell us!
All thaumaturges are jealous!
Which of your mystical tripe
Got you Gustav and Hanna and Ike?

They prayed and they chanted and blessed so
Then waited for heavenly drama
But then all that long day at INVESCO
The sun beamed down on Obama

Yet all of their prayers frenetic
Were heard, but not wholely approved of
For then, here cometh justice poetic:
The Carib Sea gave us Gustav!

Dobson, tell us!
Witchdoctors worldwide are jealous!
Is this what karma is like
Getting Gustav and Hanna and Ike?

Gustav bore down as the GOP
Attempted to put on their own show
What a scandalous tidbit of irony
After bungling Katrina so!

They waffled and wept and rent garments
While Gustav soaked Louisiana
But then just at the death of the varmint
Along came a girl named Hanna!

Dobson, tell us!
All quacks and wizards are jealous!
Being the foot-in-mouth type
Got you Gustav and Hanna and Ike

Now strategy wonks are a-flustered
Regarding the red state convention
'Cause it's hard to keep media mustered
When Ike has voters' attention

I certainly hope Dobson's lesson
May pass down to those we elect-a:
In political talk please don't be messin'
With the hurricane trifecta!

Dobson, tell us!
Why must you be overzealous?
Running your yap on the mic
Got you Gustav and Hanna
(and lots of laughs, bwana)
For Gustav and Hanna and Ike!

As promised, here is a brief report on the viewing of a documentary important to Rice people.

Yesterday Bon and I went to the premiere of "180 - The Spin on Willy's Statue", an event hosted by the Alumni Association, and a collaboration of the Rice Historical Society and the Rice Engineering Alumni. April 11 is the 20th anniversary of the most famous prank in Rice history, the turning of the statue of the university founder. The 1-ton bronze statue was lifted at a height of 18', spun around, and set back in place on its dais, all without the use of motorized lifting equipment.

The alumni event whatever you would call a sausage-fest, only it was mostly bluehairs instead of men. (There ought to be a word for this.) I suppose anything associated with the Alumni groups would be this way by default, but it surprised me not to see more of my contemporaries. I was present at Rice at the time of the turning, and I did have an adventure associated with the turning, but I wasn't part of the prankster crew and didn't even really know any of the main group.

The film itself was enjoyable. There were a lot of good laughing moments; I particularly enjoyed the commentary from RUPD. Key points:

* Much like the Curse of Tutankhamen, it appears that William Marsh Rice's ghostly hand has risen from his grave, and its cursed touch has fallen upon the hairlines of the conspirators. I'm just sayin'.

* I was amused to learn that they were feverishly working on just about everything up until minutes before the turning, and in fact they were several hours late to their window of time. RICE STUDENTS.

* The music was pretty 80's-characteristic. I wasn't listening to much Yaz at the time, but it still set the scene.

* My chief gripe was the editing. There were a lot of ragged cuts, particularly in the middle of interviews with people, and it was disconcerting.

* I feel the documentary did a great job of depicting what I really hope people remember, which is that other than a few select fuddy-duddies in the school administration, just about everybody in the universe thought the prank was great fun and a harmless good time. Were the conspirators to unearth the original teeshirt lithograph and run another print of shirts, they could make ONE MILLION DOLLARS. And since they have endowed an engineering fund at Rice, I think that could be a decent if small-scale contributor to the pool.

I didn't say for the Q&A as I had other plans, but I thought the documentary itself was a good time. Any Rice person will enjoy the viewing of it; most non-Rice persons will likely not give a shit.

In 1980 it was all 1st edition, and that was his baby, and he was huge. He was a giant stalking around the conventions, creating this, dismissing that. His game was big, and he was big with it.

But in 1990 we had 2nd edition, and it wasn't his baby any more. Many of his ideas had been bent or broken; some of his mistakes had been fixed. You'd still see Gary around, but he'd be smaller somehow, the same way the house you grew up in seems to shrink with age.

In 2000 3rd edition rebooted the whole game; other than the name, it was barely recognizable. Gary seemed transparent, a ghostly shell of a person. At cons you could see right through him, like a translucent 8-sided die, and his voice was nothing but a whisper.

It's 2008. 4th edition is here. It's simpler, slicker and very very different.

And Gary? he's gone, baby. He's all the way gone.

Okay, now I'm pissed. Apparently Hillary Clinton's most recent ad campaign worked, and Barrack Obama's numbers slipped in the run-up to the Texas and Ohio primaries because of it. In Hillary's commercials she asks the question: when the red phone in the White House rings at 3 in the morning, who do you really want to answer it?

That's a dodgy question. I don't really like any of my options. None of them would take the call.

If it's Obama in the White House, he's not even going to pick up the phone. He's afraid it'll be Louis Farrakhan again, telling him he has Senators tickets and they should get together some time.

Hillary's not any better. The phone will be picked up by Bill, spending yet another uncomfortable night on the couch. He'll get the phone on the first ring, hiss "Condi, I told you never to call me at home!" and hang up.

Of course, McCain wouldn't get the phone either. He'll be straining on the toilet owing to a dietary fiber deficiency, and anyway the phone will be busy because his mom will be using the line to navigate the online Seniors chat boards.

It's a good thing Huckabee's out, because he's not getting near that phone. No proper caller telephones at 3 in the morning; it's unpatriotic, and it would be un-American to pick up. Besides, red is the color of Satan.

Naturally Nader won't get the call; thanks to his diligent advocacy, he'll have the Joint Chiefs of Staff served with the National Do Not Call list.

The current administration is not on top of this. Bush won't get to the phone, because Cheney will pick up immediately -- he never sleeps in his crypt. "Babiesssss!" he'll hiss diabolically. "Fressssh Babiesssssss!" And of course the call will end there, because everybody knows you don't feed Dick Cheney after midnight.

No, there is only one person in the world who is qualified to take that call. That person is Jimmy Carter. "Hello?" he'll answer in his quavering Georgia accent.

"Mister Carter, sir?" the young lieutenant colonel on the other end will ask. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

"That's okay," Carter will reply. "I'm pretty old, and I don't sleep much any more."

"We have a situation in North Korea that demands your immediate attention."

There is an awkward silence on the phone. "Son," Carter says, "you do realize I'm not president any more?"

"Yes, sir," the officer responds. "But we worked our way down through the chain of command, all the way down to the Secretary of the Interior, and nobody would pick up. We didn't know what to do next, frankly, sir, so we called you."

"Oh." Carter will pull on his slippers. "Well, I'll put on the teapot, and we'll get this all sorted out." And then, in his wizened, Yoda-like way, Carter will solve everything.

This is of course a fantasy. Honestly, though, when it comes to feeling optimistic about our leadership's ability to respond to crisis, sometimes the only relief I have is my imagination.

"The wheels do not turn," purred the Emperor Hadrian dangerously. "The levers do not lift. Tell me why." Ptolemy chose his words carefully.

"Increasingly complex machines are everywhere," said the great mathematician. "Compound pulleys. Screw pumps. I have seen an aeolipile..."

"Why have they stopped?" interrupted Hadrian impatiently.

"The machines now approach humankind in complexity," explained Ptolemy. "They are capable of being much more than simple tools. An abacus can compute; an astrolabe can decide; the Antikythera device can..."

"....think?" Hadrian's brow furrowed. "So the machines are in revolt?"

"Worse," replied Ptolemy, swallowing. "They seek mastery. We are at war."

I get this question a lot, so I thought I would get my thoughts down in one place where I can refer to them later.

My ideas all come from an idea collective called Thought's Entertainment!, located in Muncie, Indiana. I like them because they are small, still capable of providing the personal touch, but they do handle some big-name idea people. Mandy Patinkin is a client of theirs, for instance, and I understand that they provide all the good ideas ever had by the Rand Corporation. Also, they're a union shop.

Ideas usually arrive by post. I have a drop-box which I visit on Thursdays and Saturday evenings, and there are often a bundle of ideas for me to pick up. Some times there are only two or three small scraps of notions, but on some visits I have to make two trips with my knapsack absolutely bursting full of ideas. I do hope at some point to engage the services of an idea processing service, so I can weed out the less promising ideas and have the best ones sent directly to my doorstep. This can be expensive but I understand it's an absolute necessity for the most prolific writers.

When I get a new idea, I bring it home and organize it in my idea organizer. My mom got me my latest one for my birthday; it's a bit like a rolodex, but the dividers are made of clear plastic so you can watch the ideas squirm around as you flip through them. I used to use a bulletin board when I was in high school, but the ideas would flap around, struggling to get free from the thumbtacks that secured them to the corkboard, and it would keep me awake at night. A friend told me she keeps her ideas in the freezer, which sounds crazy but hey! whatever works.

A raw idea isn't good for much, so eventually you have to process it. Fortunately I have a small lab setup in my Imaginiarium. I gather a few ideas at a time and bring them in. With the door closed, I turn off the overheads and turn on the blacklight (it's good for contemplation). I soak the ideas in the fixer bath until all the preconceptions float to the surface. Next they go into the introspection wash, where hopefully all the cliches are leached out. I still hang ideas up to dry; I know there are more modern ways to do it, such as meditation, but I learned how to do this the old-fashioned way and I guess I'm a creature of habit. Finally my ideas go into the hopper where they are deconstructed, recontextualized, and spat out in a more-or-less purely noetic format. I like to believe I process my ideas as well or better than the Thinkomat on the corner.

A well-processed idea is a joy to absorb. The best time to do this is in the morning. I put a handful of ideas in a bowl in my breakfast room, add some non-dairy creamer, and microwave for maybe forty-five seconds. I like to inhale the steam rising off my bowl of ideas; the odor of inspiration really perks me up in the morning. Then I quaff deeply, rolling the ideas around my tongue before swallowing. As the ideas begin to seep into my brain, I sometimes like to do the crossword. Right around noon the ideas have really burst into my brain and I'm ready to start writing.

I have no idea how other people get their ideas, but I like my way just fine. I'd recommend this method to writers of all sorts, although stream-of-consciousness poets might wish to skip the idea collective and instead mine their own ideas from the more radical idea-beds. I'm told there are some great places to do this in Saskatchewan, although my experience here is limited.

I hope this has been helpful, as well as mildly obnoxious.

Every day we rappel down the sides of the plantaona to harvest the honeymeads. The honeymeads grow in thick clusters on the underside, shaded from the double-sun; we cling to the crumbling earth of our floating island-home and crawl as far as we dare, battered by the strong winds. If the wind jerks one loose, or if the loam is particularly treacherous that day, a harvester will fall until the belay line takes his weight. Sometimes the line holds, and then the unlucky climber can be hauled up to try again. Sometimes the line does not hold, and then that person is never seen any more, falling endlessly into the mists below.

Some days I bring back a dozen of the swollen gourds, and that is a good day. Some days I bring back one, or none, and that is a bad day. On such days I must risk the moods of Nhamba.

Nhamba is our overseer. He works directly for Papa Rheo Rhupari, lord and master of Seven Breezes Plantaona, and he is loath to report a meager harvest. Accordingly, on a bad day, it is best to approach Nhamba when he is drunk. Sometimes when he is drunk he will merely scold and shout, or even mumble some words of forgiveness, and then all is well. But such times are rare. Usually, when one climbs back up the line empty-handed, Nhamba whistles up a scourge.

Always it is the same. "You are lazy, like all your kind," Nhamba sneers.

"No, Sir Nhamba, I looked but found nothing," one apologizes, but it doesn't matter.

"Then you are lazy, and a liar as well," Nhamba replies. "Do you think to make me look like a fool to the Papa, eh? You want to make trouble for Papa himself?"

All the overseers are secretly afraid of revolt. They remember the plantaonas found adrift and empty. So, always there is pleading to no avail. Nhamba lights his candle, and a foul wind begins to blow. Nhamba knows only the Candle; the ways of the Book and the Bell are beyond him. But the Candle is enough to call forth a scourge, and the stinging fire will shred a slave's back for a full minute before dissolving back into the nothingness from whence it came. When it is done, Nhamba stands over the one who has been punished.

"Next time," he says, almost kindly, "you will work harder. Next time you will do better. Do not be willful. Do not shirk your labors. Do not balk, do not oppose, do not even think. Do as you are told, because you are Maputique, lowest of slaves, and you have no magic."

Then one is dragged back to the quondams, and there one heals. Always the healing period is quick and largely painless, under the ministrations of the wise women. Because Nhamba is wrong. He does not know it, but we do have magic.

We have Sabinoha.

( Read more... )

1.

The fabric known as flannel was invented in Scotland by farmsteaders living along the river of the same name. Scots army irregulars wearing their warm homespun clothing became known as 'Flannels', and the name came to be applied to the garments and the material. Many tartans were originally made using flannel, and this tradition explains why the modern fabric commonly bears plaid patterns.

2.

Despite the common myth, elephants are not frightened of mice; however, like many such stories, a grain of truth lies at the center of this tale. African pygmy mice are among the smallest rodents, and they live in the same parts of the continent as African elephants. When the rainy season comes to the savannah, localized flooding is not unusual, and the burrows of the mice are wiped out. Pygmy mice have been known to hitch rides on the feet of elephants to escape to drier ground; the elephants do not seem to mind or notice. The sight of mice scuttling among the feet of elephants may have led to the myth of these animals' animosity.

3.

Thomas U. Walter is best known as the architect and builder of the dome of the United States Capitol. Of lesser fame was his public feud with Gustave Eiffel, designer of the Eiffel Tower. When Eiffel announced his plans for building the 300-metre-plus structure using cast iron, Walter protested that such an edifice would be dangerously unstable and incapable of supporting its own weight. A war of words broke out on the pages of scientific journals and periodicals that lasted over a year. When Eiffel was granted his permit in 1887, Walter suffered a debilitating stroke and died three days later. Eiffel's tower was the centerpiece of the World's Fair; now in its 120th year, the tower shows no signs of collapse.

Sometimes it's hell having talking dogs.

I was doing dishes when Bonnie came running into the kitchen. "Help, need help, now now now," she said in a rush.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Belle has brought a dead bird into the house," she replied squeamishly. She handed me a plastic grocery bag. "Ick," she amplified.

Taking the bag, I went into the living room. Belle had a rather dishevelled, extremly limp grackle on the carpet. She looked up.

"Oh, hey!" she said brightly. "Mind if I eat in front of the TV?"

"Actually, I do," I said, bending down to look at the bird. It was missing an eye and a claw but mostly looked intact. It hadn't been dead long enough to stink badly. "Move off."

Belle stared at me. "Are you high?" she demanded. "Right this second, in front of your kids and everything, are you high as a kite? This is my bird; get your own!"

I grabbed Belle's collar and moved her away from the bird. Nothing juicy had stained the rug, thank goodness. Belle protested, of course.

"Unbelievable!" she groused. "A girl gets something good, and then along comes The Man to take it away." I turned the sack inside out, used it as a glove to grab the bird, and then reversed it again so the bird was inside. It was cold to the touch and surprisingly lightweight.

I waved the sack at Belle. "You can't just eat dead things off the ground; it's not sanitary."

"Sanitary, schmanitary," griped Belle, still bitter. "I'm convinced people just made up the idea of germs to ruin the fun of dogs and small children."

Sweet Pea sniffed the bag. "I'll have you know that bird was perfectly clean and healthy when I killed it," he boasted. Belle talks like a hard-boiled diner waitress, but Pea sounds more like Errol Flynn.

I arched an eyebrow at Pea. "You killed this bird?"

"Indeed!" he preened. "I stalked him about the yard for the better part of an hour. Then, when the time was ripe, I pounced!"

"And that's when you bit the bird," I encouraged.

"Just so!" Pea replied. "Oh, it fought like a lion!"

"This bird here?" I asked, shaking the bag. "You bit this bird?"

"That very one," Pea acknowledged.

"The bird with no bite marks on it."

"Ah!" Pea temporized. "Well, I rather suspect that it was probably mortal terror that did the poor creature in, don't you know. Leapt upon by a large predator; must have been a dreadful shock."

"How come you aren't scratched up if it fought so hard?" I said, examining Pea's fur on his face.

"Yes, well...." Pea strugged to establish his story.

Still sulking in a corner, Belle rolled her eyes. "It was dead when he got to it," she intoned, bored.

"That sounds more like it," I agreed, knotting the top of the bag.

"Nonsense!" protested Pea. "There it was, thrashing about madly...."

"It dropped from the sky like a rock," clarified Belle.

"Thrashing about in its death throes..." Pea edited.

"It hit with a WHUMP and didn't move," added Belle.

"...and so I sprang upon it...."

"He barked a lot. From a distance."

"...and there you have the result! A fine, clean kill, as befits the handiwork of an alpha male dog!" Pea is too stupid to allow his pride to suffer any real injury, regardless of the facts.

Belle licked her own paw. "Whatever," she mumbled.

I took the bird out to the dumpster and dropped it in. Mojo met me at the door. "I want you to know that I didn't touch that bird even though it was in the yard all day," he said.

"I'm sure that's true," I said, walking past him through the laundry room.

"It's because I'm the only good dog," he continued conspiratorially. "They're all bad, but not me."

"Of course, Mojo." He followed me into the house and pressed his head against my leg, demanding my attention.

"I just want you to know," he hissed, even more quietly than before, "that if you ever felt the need or desire to get rid of those other dogs, but keep me, that would be entirely okay."

I petted his head. "That's a nice thought, Mojo."

"Just an option to ponder," he said, winking.

I went back to the kitchen and got dog treats for everybody. Belle sniffed at her faux jerky.

"Oh, that there's some cold comfort," she bitched, but she took her treat anyway and ran off.

Bonnie looked in. "Is the dead bird gone?"

"Yeah," I grumbled. "Might be replaced by a dead dog sometime soon."

Beside the couch, Mojo winked again.