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The Spin on Willy

2008-04-12T15:37:44Z

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.

Gygax Gone

2008-03-06T16:05:24Z

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.

The Red Phone

2008-03-05T15:58:46Z

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.

Rise of the Simple Machines [100 words]

2008-02-29T19:09:11Z

"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."

Where Do Your Ideas Come From?

2008-02-29T07:55:18Z

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.

Dream Log: Sabinoha

2008-02-18T23:05:30Z

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.

********************************************************************

I remember first learning Sabinoha when I was a child, barely old enough to walk. My grandfather was my first teacher. He took me by the hand and led me out to the open place between the quondams. Three boys stood frozen there in graceful poses, a length of rope looped around each one's left wrist and staked to the ground. Then they sprang into motion, on some unseen and unheard signal, feet whirling and thrusting, hips rolling, heads ducking, in a graceful and interlocking ballet of force and movement.

I watched a while. "Grandpa?" I asked. "Are they dancing?"

"Y-e-e-s," he agreed, smiling. "They dance!"

I watched a little longer. Their footwork, it seemed to me, was almost martial. A boy would appear to level a kick at his friend, only for that one to duck and weave away at the last moment. A punch would turn into a throw, which it seemed was only a tumble, brought up short by his arm-tether into a graceful cat-like landing.

"Grandpa?" I asked again. "Do they fight?"

"Y-e-e-s!" he agreed again, patting my head. "They fight!" I grew puzzled.

Several overseers happened by. The boys did not cease their athletics, but my grandfather, I noted, changed instantly. His shrewd eyes grew vacant and distant; his mouth became slack; his proud shoulders hunched into the stoop of a decaying old man. He shuffled and bowed and bobbed before the overseers, grinning idiotically.

"I do not know why we tolerate these monkey-antics," growled one to another. "Why should the Maputique squander their energies on their ridiculous play-antics, when they could be working harder for us!"

"Oh, stop," soothed her companion. "I rather like their dances, and they harm nobody. It's all part of the color of life on the plantaona. Now, on the city spires, you see nothing like this; all grey and bustle...." They walked on, and as their backs shrank into the distance, grandfather reformed into his usual speculative self.

The boys labored onward at their play, which it seemed was both a dance and a fight, spinning and bending and flipping about one another. Then, suddenly, one performed a backflip over the other two. At the peak of his jump, the tips of his feet were easily twenty feet off the ground. I gaped.

"Grandpa?" I asked. "What are they really doing?"

He chuckled and clapped my shoulders. "You have already said!" he exclaimed. "They dance. They fight. They do remarkable things. Sabinoha!"

He whispered in my ear: "And you shall do it too."

********************************************************************************

On Work-Not is the great festival, and the overseers engage in an orgy of feasting that lasts for several days. Papa Rheo Rhupari reads from his book and tolls his bell the entire time, giving thanks to the spirits for the bounty of the harvest, and his chantings and pealings shake the entire plantaona. On such days the Maputique do not labor either. Thus has Work-Not become a festival for us as well, and we all practice Sabinoha.

"Show me your stake!" Grandfather demands, and I proudly show off my handiwork. It is a full six feet in length, intricately carved from a single piece of hellroot, charred in a fire until it is strong as steel.

"Now show me your rope!" he insists. I show him my tether, as thick as my thumb, woven from strands of honeymead vines, with a leather loop for my wrist. It is strong and will not break. Grandfather nods.

"Then you are ready," he tells me, beaming. "Now get into position; it is almost time."

The quondams are the scene of furious activity. Everybody is singing and dancing, beating on drums, happy but tense. Ours is not a celebration of success; we look forward to a victory that is yet to be. We have no bell, book or candle; we have no chariots of living fire to pluck captives from their primitive moonlets; we have nothing but sabinoha. But sabinoha is power, and it will defeat their magic yet.

I plant my stake close to Piquin, a good friend. He helps me drive it deep into the earth. It will not pull out. We embrace one last time, then join in the chant that is just beginning. The first of the Seventeen Shuffles begins.

Oh, Papa. We will roll your plantaona, as we have done all over the world. You may ring your bell all you like, but it will not be in your hand. You may read your book, but its pages will be torn from you. You will have the very devil of a time keeping your candle lit, when the wind whips around you as you fall endlessly through the mists below.

Plausible Sounding Falsehoods

2007-11-27T19:17:22Z

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.

Tales of the Tribe: Mighty Hunters

2007-10-29T21:17:57Z

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.

True Daughter Stories

2007-10-03T16:54:53Z

ONE

She is very sleepy. I have read her bedtime story and she is already halfway gone. I am tidying up things in her room before I turn off the light. Something on the carpet catches my eye. It is a pair of tiny keys, the sort that come with miniature locks on luggage zippers. I pick them up and show them to her.

"What do you think these go to?" I wonder.

"I don't know," she murmurs.

"It can't be your piggy bank." I scratch my head.

She stirs. "Perhaps they're magical," she speculates.

"That's interesting," I say. "What might a magical key unlock?"

"The future," she replies without hesitation. Then she rolls over and falls into a deep sleep.

This is my daughter.

TWO

We are eating at a restaurant. She has chicken strips and is diving into them with gusto.

"Want a bite of my steak?" I ask.

"Oh no!" she says around bites of chicken. "I can't eat a cow."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because," she says promptly, "cows are cute. They are very nice." She reflects for perhaps half a second.

"Also," she adds, "you can dress a cow up in fun clothes."

"Perhaps you could dress a chicken up," I suggest.

"Not at all," she replies matter-of-factly, emphasizing her points by waving a chicken strip in the air. "A chicken is not at all cute. It has a very sharp beak and will peck you. Clothes will not fit on a chicken. Chickens are not nice and are good to eat."

She masticates her chicken like a beast. "Not cows, though," she concludes, putting the matter to rest.

And that's that.

THREE

"I would like a hot dog please," she asks, very politely. We are grilling in the back yard. Unfortunately things are going rather slowly and the hot dogs are not even on the grille. I tell her this.

"Perhaps we should do a dance for hot dogs," Bonnie suggests.

"Oh yes," my daughter agrees, as if this makes perfect sense. "How do you do a hot dog dance?"

"How about this," says Bonnie, and begins a wiggly kind of shuffle.

"I wanna HOT DOG...I wanna HOT DOG...." Bonnie chants. The daughter immediately gets the sense of this dance and starts in as well.

"I wanna HOT DOG...I wanna HOT DOG...." the girls croon. Bonnie changes things up and starts shaking her booty around; my daughter mimicks her.

"WE WANNA HOT DOG! WE WANNA HOT DOG!" The younger one is now driving the bus, half giggling and half shouting, shaking her tiny butt and jumping around.

My son covers his face with his hands. "This is just wrong," he groans.

The ladies start bumping butts. "HOT DOG! we wanna HOT DOG!" they yell, completely oblivious to the neighbors over the back fence, or anybody or anything except their silly dance and chant.

The boy approaches me. "Could you please just put the hot dogs on so they'll stop?" he asks.

I do it, but they don't stop. They keep hot dog dancing all night.

Tunneling

2007-09-27T16:30:38Z

When I was a student in college, I was not a good academic. I hated schoolwork and didn't apply myself nearly as much as I should have done. This was particularly true because, I quickly discovered, there are all kinds of opportunities for goofing around at college that are much more fun than schoolwork.

I spent much of the five years at Rice doing things unrelated to my studies. Some of the things I did, I am sorry to say, were illegal and unethical and I wish I had not done them. But, a few of the things I did were illegal and unethical and perfectly wonderful, and I am forever grateful I did them. One such thing is tunneling, which is shorthand for the practice of exploring the steam tunnels that underlie the campus of Rice University.

I am a self-made tunneler. Nobody taught me to do it. Here is how this happened.

When I was a freshman in 1987, my friend John (jpender1nm) and I used to play a lot of ping-pong. The ping-pong table for Baker College, our home at Rice, was located in a basement-like room with its floor slab about 5' below grade. We spent a lot of time in that room, as it also had a pool table and a kitchenette, and neither of us wanted to spend every waking moment with our roommates, some of whom were freaks.

One day, while playing ping-pong, we began discussing terrorists. What would happen, we wondered, if bad people with guns took over the campus and forced us at gunpoint into this room?

"I would escape," said John.

"How?" I asked.

"Through those windows." There were some extremely narrow windows high on the wall that admitted cave-like levels of light into the room.

"You're going to kick out the window, push the screen bricks out of the way, and wriggle outside without being seen by bad people with guns?" I didn't like this idea. Mostly this was because John was a whole lot more svelte than I, even back in those days, and I wasn't sure I could even make it out the window.

"Okay, what's your idea?" he asked.

"I dunno," I said. "I heard there are some access tunnels somewhere around here. Maybe we can get into them somehow."

I don't know where I heard about the tunnels -- some upperclassman, I'm sure. Rice has a complex network of tunnels linking most of the campus buildings together; a decent map of them can be found here:

http://members.tripod.com/~tunnels/gfx/ricetun.gif

"Uh...I don't see any tunnel entrances around here," my friend said.

"Well, we haven't looked everywhere, have we?" I said. "There's a broom closet in this room; let's look in there."

The broom closet was locked. "I used to be able to pick little locks with a paperclip," I mused. "I don't think that would work on this lock, though."

"There's an old wire hanger here," John pointed out. "Maybe we could unbend it and, I dunno, jigger the latch somehow."

We fooled with this for a while, in the process no doubt irretrievably scratching up the drawbolt. We eventually got a flashlight so we could work on this. We realized that the bolt had a bevel on it and was barely seated, and as such it was possible to maneuver the end of the wire behind the bolt and gently tease it out of the frame. After a while we succeeded in opening the door.

It took us over an hour to get that first door opened. In the years to follow we would realize that most of Rice's locksets were built the same way and could all be opened. I taught myself to do this with two flat kitchen knives instead of a coat hanger, and could usually get a door open inside ten seconds.

Excited, we opened the door and discovered....a bunch of brooms. And a mop and bucket. Whee. "Oh well," I said, preparing to give up.

"Wait!" said John, and he moved the stuff in the closet out of the way. Behind them was a small access door, maybe 24" square, set almost at the floor level.

"That doesn't look like a tunnel entrance," I said dubiously, not wanting to pass through anything so small. When I thought about 'tunnels', I had a picture in my head of spacious, vaulted subway shafts, perhaps with open water conduits running down the middle. I certainly didn't imagine squeezing through tiny holes. HA HA.

We found a screwdriver and opened the access door, which was harder than it looked. A square of blackness was revealed -- clearly a larger space leading back into the underground.

John, being smaller, was elected to go look first. Or, rather, I should say, I told him I wasn't going, and he'd have to be crazy to go down that hole, and as it turns out he was just crazy enough to do it. I was a big chicken at the beginning, but not so much once we got into it. John wormed his body into the hole, with just his feet sticking out the access door, and looked around with the flashlight for a minute before crawling back.

"There's a shaft that leads a ways, then seems to open up into a larger space. But it's a squeeze for a while." His eyes shone. The unknown lay within our grasp. It was very dark in there, and very narrow, and a stifling heat radiated out from the open hole.

By this point we had assembled a group of interested parties -- people who thought they were just going to play a game of pool, but wound up getting sucked into something larger. We all agreed as a group that we were going to do it. However, I was damned if I was going to do it unprepared. "Get your gear and meet back here in 15," I said.

We came back wearing long sleeved clothes. I had a heavy duty flashlight, various tools, a baseball cap and a little first aid gear. I had no idea what we would find.

We crawled down the tunnel. It was really just a crawlspace, half-filled with pipes and wiring conduits. It was filthy and indescribably hot; some of the pipes carried steam, and their insulation wasn't completely intact. The space was usually 3' tall, allowing a comfortable crawl, but at the end it turned into a gap maybe a foot high. We had to squeeze to get out. Indeed, there was a larger space beyond. We bumbled around in it for a while before somebody found a light switch.

We were in the basement of a residential wing of the college. Various theatrical props were stored down here. The floor was one large puddle over half its area, and pipes hung low overhead. There was also a stair leading up to civilization, with a door that could be unlocked from this side.

"Wait!" I said. "There's another tunnel!"

It was even tighter than the last crawl. A shaft 2' wide by 3' high ran west for as far as the flashlight could shine its beam. The bottom portion of the shaft was filled with pipes, and some were hot to the touch. They were all filthy, roach and spider infested, and heat and humidity radiated from the tunnel.

I was the one who took the lead here. I had brought work gloves -- I have no idea why my parents had suggested I bring such things to college, but I was eternally grateful that they had. I found a section of scrap conduit that I could use to rest on the top of the pipes, so I could support myself on that instead of heating up my gloves on the steam piping. I got on top of the pipes and began laboriously squeezing my way down the shaft.

In hindsight this was incredibly stupid. I could have overheated and dehydrated in that space. I could have gotten stuck and never escaped. I could have reached a dead end and been unable to turn around or back out, and that would have been the end of me. I could have broken a steam pipe and been scalded. There are all kinds of bad things that could have happened to me, but they didn't happen, and I'm still here, so hooray.

The shaft was only about 60' long but it seemed like a mile long. At the end I spilled out into another open area -- a basement filled with abandoned kitchen equipment. These were the old residential kitchens, and there were two sets of decrepit and unused restrooms down there -- one set for white people and one set for the black service personnel. Two stairs led up from here. One led out via a service door; another wound up through the active kitchens and allowed one to eventually enter the suite of rooms called '2100' where the Baker collge president lived. There was also another tunnel, and this eventually led into the campus steam tunnels.

We ended our first foray there, but many more trips were made to explore the steam tunnel system. Sometimes these trips were with myself, John, and others from that original group, but often I went by myself. This was tremendously unsafe. If I knew then what I know now -- the terrible things that can happen to people who fool around too close to high voltage power lines and high pressure steam, both of which run through the tunnels in abundance -- I would never have gone tunneling. As it was, though, I was seized by the sense of adventure and discovery, and I tunneled as often as I could.

I learned a variety of skills in the course of my tunneling endeavors: how to defeat old-style Master locks (they've redesigned them since), how to make a crude bump-key to open key padlocks, how to move efficiently through cramped spaces, and how to avoid the fuzz. I eventually made it my goal to break into every building on campus, either through the tunnels or not, a goal I succeeded in during my senior year. I also used a fogger to attempt to defeat the motion sensor that protected the tunnel entrance to the library, and as far as I know no alarm was set off so I guess it worked. (or maybe it was just a shitty motion sensor.)

During my first few forays I found that somebody had drawn an icon of a slug on one of the walls of the tunnel, and there were occasional directions scrawled here or there. I decided to try to consolidate wayfinding in the tunnels. As such I became Slugboy, and created graffiti signage at every intersection indicating where you were going and how far to the next turn, signed with the slug icon. I also created a hand-drawn map of the tunnels which wound up being circulated, but I have lost track of it.

I acquired a reputation for being a tunneler, an activity that was viewed with a mix of admiration and repugnance by most people I came across. In 1988 this wound up getting me peripherally involved in one of Rice's more memorable stunts: the turning of our founder's 1-ton statue in the quadrangle. It happened like this:

I played D&D with a friend named Marc, who lived at Wiess college. Marc knew about my tunneling and B&E exploits. At one point he approached me and asked if I could talk with a friend who lived in that same college. They were planning some kind of a prank and needed some information.

I talked with them. Marc's friend was a Wiess upperclassman. He wanted to know if I could access the security light that shone on the statue, and the wiring for it. I told him I thought I could. It was a big mystery why this was important but I didn't push it because I didn't want this senior to think I was a dork.

Getting at the light was trickier than I thought, and I wound up actually breaking into Facilities and Engineering to look at the power plans for the Architectural building so I could figure out the right conduit and junction box. I got a copy of the plan to Marc and that was the end of it.

Eventually what happened was this: the pranksters wanted to turn the statue in the dark, and the security light was a problem. So, every evening they opened a junction box and disconnected the power to the light. Then, early every morning, they hooked it back up. Every night the cops would report that the light was out, but every morning the maintenance crews would find nothing wrong with it. Eventually the cops stopped reporting the defective light and stopped caring that it was out. This allowed the Wiess guys to turn the statue in peace.

I didn't actually know what they were going to do until after the fact. I knew they were planning something big but I didn't figure it out until I passed by the statue that next morning and said "Holy Crap!" Then I had to keep my mouth shut because people were getting into trouble and I didn't want to get booted out of Rice or get anybody I knew into trouble.

Anyway, it seems like everybody who was at Rice at the time wants to claim that they were part of the statue turning crew, and I don't want anybody to get the wrong idea. I was *not* one of the planners of this prank and I wasn't at all part of its execution, but I still played a bit part in it and I'm proud of that.

I stopped tunneling when I graduated; I was afraid that if I got caught I would be thrown in jail instead of getting my wrist slapped. Also, in 1990 the G8 summit was held at Houston, and many of the tunnels were sealed off to prevent terrorists from doing bad things, so this made tunneling less fun. After 9/11 Rice has adopted a zero-tolerance policy regarding steam tunneling, so it is my understanding that this is not something that students routinely engage in anymore.

However, my tunneling experiences have actually benefited me tremendously in life after school. Other than being a great general primer in building infrastructure, I have done a lot of work at Rice over the years as a consultant. This last year, for instance, I concluded a project to replace the air conditioning systems at Baker. New pipe has been run through all those crawlspaces that John and I traversed in our first tunneling run ever. In the course of doing that project I displayed an uncanny understanding of the space constraints and pipe runs that other consultants could not have shared. It was a little weird for me to revisit that ground.

A final note: I work a lot with a guy named Richard, who works for Rice Facilities. He told me that one of the first things he had to do when he got to Rice was try to figure out a buggy security light, and it would up being pesky students who were screwing with it. I got a funny look on my face and I had to tell him about what happened. Fortunately we had a good laugh about it, and he actually likes me working on his campus better because I have more tunnel-time than most of his maintenance people.

What to Expect When You're Expecting an Abomination

2007-09-21T14:18:41Z

When I was posting to talk.bizarre, I designated December 1 as what came to be known as Fail to Suck Day. On this day I urged people to only post original material -- no followups, no lame chat sessions, just something original and something good. For several years, reading talk.bizarre on December 2 was a brain-exploding experience.

In 1996 on Fail to Suck Day, I posted this to announce the expected birth of my son, who came along the following April.


Excerpts from WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING AN ABOMINATION

Chapter 3: Your Developing Monster

THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS: Conception to Week 4

Around day 14 of your cycle, an egg is released from one
of your ovaries.  The fringes at the edges of the Fallopian
tubes propel the egg into the reproductive tract, where it  
is now vulnerable to the merciless assult of the Dark Seed
of Tssug the Many-Armed.

Once fertilized, the egg drifts gently to the uterus and
implants itself in the uterine lining.  The growing impkin
will take sustenance from the mother's bloodstreem -- sometimes
by direct absorbtion of nutrients, but more frequently through
use of its small-yet-sharp prenascent claws and fangs.

                    QUESTION AND ANSWER: 'AM I DOOMED?'

                    Many new mothers fear the cataclysmic orgy
                    of rending and tearing that birthing the
                    spawn of Evil will entail.  In the early
                    weeks of your pregnancy, you may experience
                    doubts about your ability to mother a monster,
                    carry a darkling to term, or survive extreme
                    pelvic trauma.  These fears are perfectly
                    normal, but will soon pass.  As you grow into
                    your role as a vehicle for global annihilation,
                    you will soon come to anticipate the birthing
                    event with a bloodthirsty eagerness.  Praise
                    Tssug the Many-Armed! IA! IA!

WHAT HATH WE WROUGHT?: Weeks 5 Through 8   

Week 5: * The embryo has fully functioning gills.
        * It has a simple brain and nervous system.
        * Four shallow pits have appeared on the head.  These will
          later develop into eyes, ears, mouths, or other organs
          beyond the ken of Man.
        * The embryo has the beginnings of a jaw, fangs and poison sacs.
        * The stomach and chest are developing.  The heart can be seen
          as a large bulge at the front of the chest; by the end of the
          week it will start beating.  A short while later, it will stop.
        * Four tiny limb buds have developed, but the suckers will not
          be visible until later.
Week 6: * The embryo is now the size of an apple seed, but already it
          can kick your ass.
        * The embryo still has a tail.  It might go away.  It might not.
          Do not second-guess the Dark Seed of Tssug the Many-Armed!
        * The mind is still poorly developed, but already it feels
          hate towards those who would oppose it.
        * You may experience urges to drink or smoke.  These urges are
          coming from the embryo; already it knows what it likes.  Do
          not oppose the will of the diabolic entity growing inside you.
Week 7: * The head looks large and is bent on to the chest.  A face is
          forming, but not one any mother could love.  
        * The eyes are on the sides of the head and still sealed, but
          even now they burn with the inner fire of a dark and malignant
          intelligence.
        * The arms and legs are clearly visible, with clefts at the end
          which become fingers and toes if you're lucky.
        * The outline of the demon's nervous system is complete, and vile
          schemes of world domination already echo through your embryo's
          tiny mind.
        * The embryo is now the size of a small grape -- a grape that
          shall one day ROCK THE WORLD.  Praise Tssug! IA! IA!
Week 8: * The embryo can now be called a 'fetus', which means 'Harbinger
          of Doom'.
        * A face is recognizable -- a cruel face; the face of our Master.
        * All the major internal organs are fully developed, with a few
          unusual additions.  
        * The tentacles have descended.
        * The Abomination moves around a lot, although you can't feel him
          yet.  Just wait until he gets his bones firmed up, though.  Ho ho.
          *Then* you'll feel him.

                              QUESTION AND ANSWER: 'WHAT ABOUT TWINS?'

                              Sometimes the Host Mother develops twins
                              or even triplets, for the Dark Seed of Tssug
                              is fecund and takes what it wants.  However,
                              there is little danger of multiple Sons of
                              Shaitan being born upon the earth.  The forming
                              fetuses are already aggressive and swiftly 
                              initiate hostilities.  Most often the strongest
                              embryo survives after a brief struggle, but
                              conflicts have been known to continue through
                              the second trimester as the vicious ur-Fiends
                              play games of cat-and-mouse throughout your
                              pelvis.  On rare occasions, two fetuses 
                              survive harmoniously for several weeks, but 
                              the dominant darkling will invariably devour
                              its brother in its unceasing quest for blood
                              and destruction.

THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD: Weeks 9-12

The Enfant Terrible looks much less human.  The discomforts of early pregnancy
will begin to wear off, only to be replaced with the discomforts of harboring
a bloodthirsty fiend the size of a chicken's egg.  You may still be emotional,
lashing out at loved ones with blunt instruments.  You will need to urinate 
less -- such is the Dark Power of Tssug the Many-Armed!

    * The fetuses' external ears are well developed, so beware of voicing
      seditious thoughts.
    * Tiny fingers and toes have formed.  Larger fingers and toes, already
      weeks ahead of their smaller siblings in development, will devour the
      new digits.  Thus is the cycle of the perversion of nature renewed.
    * Your breasts will feel heavier.  This is the way he likes you.
    * Get in the habit of always standing straight.  It won't help you any,
      but you should appear proud before the adoring worshippers.
    * You should start to notice weight loss.  You should steadily lose
      body mass to your parasite's gluttony at the rate of several pounds
      per month.  If, close to delivery, you are not a dessicated husk,
      alert your health care provider.

                            QUESTION AND ANSWER: 'WHY MUST I KILL?'

                            There is an unquestionable link between mother-
                            hood and the urge to kill.  Do not be concerned;
                            this is perfectly natural.  Your growing finkboy
                            requires the release of fear and agony that only
                            premeditated murder can provide.  Do not deny him
                            the sadistic stimulation his misdeveloping body
                            requires.  Remember: now you're killing for TWO.

                            As in all things, remember moderation!  Do not
                            arouse the suspicion of the authorities with a
                            noticeable rash of beheadings or flayings in the
                            ritual manner.  Avoid overindulgence, taking part
                            in only the most grisly and violent of massacres.
                            Naturally, an exception should be made for all
                            worshippers of Shakul Pain-Bringer -- these must
                            be slain at all costs, that accursed Shakul's
                            body might be infested with maggots when Tssug
                            the Many-Armed's hosts are victorious on the
                            Shattered Plains.  Hail Tssug! IA! IA!

FEAR AND LOATHING BEHIND THE ABDOMINAL WALL: Weeks 13-16

Now into the second three months of pregnancy, you should be feeling 
healthier and more energetic than in your first trimester.  Don't be fooled;
you're still doomed.  In these weeks, the last vestiges of thought of 
rebellion should slip from your mind; even now does the Dark Seed of Tssug
take root in your thoughts as well as your belly.  

     * Your pregnancy starts to show as a gentle rounding of the stomach.
       Occasionally your imp's crest will bulge across your abdomen, not
       unlike a shark cruising for hapless swimmers.
     * His head looks too large for his body.  If you think this will
       change, you are sadly mistaken.
     * The Loathesome One has a fine downy hair on his face and body.
       This is known as lanugo, and serves no known purpose.  Later,
       when the child is born, these hairs will strengthen and be used
       to snare insects, lizards and small birds for food.
     * He can suck his thumb.  Hell, he can suck YOUR thumb.  He may try
       for any promising target he can see as he peers balefully out
       your navel, so make sure to wear garments that cover your midriff.
     * He can hear your heartbeat, and it frustrates him.  He may claw
       and scrabble at your diaphragm trying to silence the organ.  You
       may wish to quiet him at such times with draughts of aqua regia.

                        QUESTION AND ANSWER: 'SHOULD I GET AN ULTRASOUND?'

                        The Dark Seed of Tssug the Many-Armed is gifted
                        with powers beyond our comprehension.  It is 
                        difficult for some mothers to understand that the
                        tiny being growing inside them will one day bring
                        wrack and ruin to all that is goodness and light
                        in the world.  This lack of understanding can
                        lead some womb-slaves to make errors in judgment
                        regarding their nascent charges.

                        Some mothers, curious as to their child's progress,
                        choose to have an ultrasound examination conducted.
                        Know you, then, that whereas mundane infants do not
                        mind such scrutiny -- yea, may not even notice that
                        they are being observed -- be assured that the
                        Abomination-to-Be is aware of your pryings into what
                        it considers its inviolate domain.  Its sense of
                        hearing carries well into the lower registers, and
                        the noise made by the probe shall alert it to your
                        unauthorized attentions.  The last thing your OB/GYN
                        will ever see is that tiny face, bright and fierce
                        with the supernatural wisdom of the ages, turning to
                        face the careless one who dares disturb its musings,
                        then casually dispatching the unbeliever in a whiff
                        of ozone and brimstone.  IA! IA!  Bright Is The Light
                        That Burns In The Darkness!

PRECIOUS AND FEW ARE THE MOMENTS WE TWO CAN SHARE: Weeks 17-20

Congratulations!  You have reached the midpoint of the accursed event.  By
this point, most of the routine dangers of carrying a vicious horror to
term are passed; ahead lie only the routine dangers of expelling a vicious
horror from your body while aiming for the least chilling demise possible.
Many women look and feel radiant at this point in the pregnancy -- in part
because of improvements to skin and hair tone, but largely due to the 
sexual component of the Abomination's blood magik.  Accept as many lovers
as possible during this time; the Dark Seed of Tssug the Many-Armed has
many lusts to slake.

     * Vernix, a white greasy substance, forms on the skin of the demonling.
       This exudation makes the diabolical fetus slippery and difficult to
       grasp; this will facilitate its escape into the air ducts upon its
       eventual birthing.
     * The darkling can now grip firmly with his hands -- a strangling
       reflex that will serve him well in the years to come.
     * Protective substances may be transferred to the impkin through your
       blood to help him resist disease in the first weeks.  This transference
       is a two-way street; do not be alarmed if you suddenly experience
       terrifying hallucinations or sudden drops in body temperature.
     * The bones and teeth are now fully solidified, but the spurs and
       horns are still soft and flexible.
     * He is moving around quite a bit by now, and may even react to noises
       outside the womb -- especially if they are rude or uncomplimentary.
       Do not mock the Spawn of Tssug, Archon of the Blazing Skies!

                      QUESTION AND ANSWER: 'IS A LONG TRIP ADVISABLE?'

                      There is usually no reason to avoid travel during
                      these last few months of your miserable life.  However,
                      there are certain adjustments you must make.  First,
                      be sure to take breaks to stand up and stretch during
                      long car or plane trips; good circulation is vital to
                      keep your fetus active, and the Dark Seed of Tssug is
                      at his most dangerous when he is bored.  Second, avoid
                      being scanned by metal detectors; your paranoid little
                      monster might interpret the searching beams as an 
                      attack by the forces of Shakul and his shambling 
                      minions.  Finally, you should wear loose and 
                      comfortable clothing that can easily conceal the
                      bruises and stigmata inflicted by the Abomination's
                      playful explorations of his new world.

                      You may at times feel urges to visit places you have
                      never been to, such as the icy wilderness of Antarctica
                      or some nameless ruins in Turkey.  It is the will of
                      your Dark Spawn that speaks to you now, and failing
                      to heed that voice would be ill-advised.  Cometh The
                      Long Night! IA! IA!

Sanford's Calico

2007-09-17T04:23:46Z

This appeared in the online magazine _Intertext_ in 1993. A handful of years ago I was pointed to a link to a story that seemed to be a reprint of a suspiciously similar tale that appeared in a foreign publication as early as 1987. I have no idea what happened here; I only know that I didn't crib my story from anybody else.

Sanford and I both work at the local lab; he's a computer jock, and I do
research in microelectronics. We rarely cross paths in the office, but we've
remained close since college. For instance, every Friday we make a point of
going to Garvey's Pub to drink and talk.

It was on one such expedition that we spoke of Sanford's Calico.

He had gotten the cat fairly recently, apparently from an animal shelter in
Phoenix. He had paid for all the papers and shots out of his own pocket, and
though the cost was only a fraction of that one might pay in a pet store, it
put a serious dent in his paycheck. Sanford claimed not to mind, however, as
the calico was delightful company and easy to care for.

It was an outdoors cat, according to my friend, and it preferred stalking
about under the hedges of his backyard to loafing on a sofa all day. Sanford
would just let it outside in the morning when he went to work, and when he
returned it would be standing by the door, meowing amiably and ready for a
good scratching. The eternal bachelor Sanford found this very pleasant.

It seems the calico (Sanford, eccentric as always, refused to give the beast
a name) was something of a hunter. More often than not, Sanford pull into the
driveway only to find a mouse or small bird lying dead and bloodied on the
front stair -- presumably as a gift for him. Sanford decided that, for all
its barbarism, this little ritual was incredibly cute, and would reward the
purring kitty with a tin of sardines for its trouble.

Did I mention how strange Sanford can be? I should have.

At any rate, the calico, being as subject to Pavlovian dynamics as any other
creature, accelerated its campaign against the local fauna (and occasionally
flora) in hopes of receiving its just piscine desserts every day. This
strategem seemed to work well -- the cat got its fish, and Sanford got a
regular supply of deceased delicacies on his walk. Sanford found this to be
a scream, and was considering keeping a kind of scrapbook of the calico's
"trophies". He thought nothing of the rapid denuding of the local background
wildlife population.

As a kind of afterthought, Sanford mentioned that on the previous morning the
calico had dragged in a mutant mouse. It looked perfectly normal in every
respect, except that its tail was scaled like a lizard's, and blue.

- * -

The following Monday Sanford did not come to work. He was also not there on
Tuesday, and the word came down the pipeline that he was AWOL. When he didn't
show on Wednesday either, I decided to check up on him that evening.

I pulled my rebuilt Catalina into Sanford's drive and parked it. The house
looked like a sepulchre: shades drawn, no lights, papers piling on the lawn.
It looked like Sanford had just pulled up roots and left. However, if you
knew Sanford like I know Sanford, you would know that Sanford never leaves
home without putting a tailor's mannequin in the window, presumably to ward
off really stupid and myopic burglars. I climbed to the front door and rang
the bell.

I had barely released the button when the door opened a crack. A moment
later it was flung full open, and Sanford was dragging me inside. "In!
Quick!" he hissed, and slammed the door.

Sanford looked terrible. He had huge, dark circles under his eyes, and the
stain on his lips told me he had taken up chain-smoking again. His t-shirt
had mustard stains on it, and he wasn't wearing anything else. In short, he
looked like a body found in a ditch, and I told him so. He seemed not to
hear me.

"Anybody see you? Anybody follow you here?" His eyes glittered at me in the
near-darkness. I shook my head. He looked relieved.

"Jesus.......you don't know what I've been through, man......." He looked
like he was going to collapse. I ushered him into his own living room and
made room on a recliner by clearing away a stack of newspapers. I knew where
everything was in his kitchen, so I fixed him some coffee and a sandwich and
tried to make him comfortable.

He looked a lot better after eating something. I pushed some comic books off
the sofa and sat down to watch him. He took a long pull at the coffee and
sat back heavily into the comfortable chair. "Sheez......" he breathed,
closing his eyes.

At that moment there came a noise at the back door. It was a grating sound,
of something rough being dragged across something metal. Claws on the screen
door -- oh! the calico. "Shall I let it in?" I asked, rising from my seat.
I stopped when I saw the look of horror on Sanford's face.

"No! Don't! The cat.....who knows what it's gotten into.......it's not safe,
man! Don't let it in!" It poured out in a rush of panic. I got him some
more coffee and tried to calm him down. When he seemed a bit less jumpy, I
asked him to tell me what this was all about. He looked at me with the
unwilling stare of a man forced to relive his worst nightmare.

"They're in the freezer......"

- * -

There were three things in the freezer. One was a pound of ground chuck roast
that had been in there long enough to be harder than a brick. The other two
objects were not hamburgers. They were sealed in zip-loc baggies.

The first contained a bird. It was the size and shape of a sparrow, but its
feathers were all colors of the rainbow. Its beak was curved slightly like
a finches', and it had eight talons on each claw. It had several wounds on
its sides and neck. Its tongue, protruding slightly, would have been six
inches long if extended fully. It was clearly not a local bird.

The remaining specimen was beyond "not local". It was not terrestrial.

It was the size of a large rat. It looked something like a wolf spider,
but stretched to the length of a shoe. It had thick tannish bristles with
spots, like a leopard's. At the end of its body was a vicious-looking
stinger. Its grasping palps were tipped with what can only be described
as three fingers and an opposing thumb.

Both creatures were severely mauled. There was no question that the calico,
fearless feline hunter, had been on one hell of a safari.

"Where'd they come from? What are they?" Sanford wanted to know. I couldn't
help him. But the calico could......

"Oh, no," said Sanford, backing up. "I'm not letting that cat back in here."

- * -

The cat chewed noisily on its Tender Vittles. Sanford looked strung out as
an addict, and he sucked on his cigarettes like they were full of gold dust.
We watched the cat eat, and waited.

Eventually the calico finished, burped, and curled up on the carpet to sleep
as if nothing had happened.

Sanford and I exchanged glances.

We watched the cat all through the night.

- * -

The next morning Sanford gingerly fed the cat some sardines. It mewed
happily as the can opener ran, and gobbled the fishes down as soon as they
were under its nose. Then we let it out into the yard.

It seemed to have a standard routine of yard-traversal: it would sniff every
plant and pebble in turn, as if conducting an inventory. Then it would
hunker down in the shade under the bushes and lie in wait for prey. There
in the shadows, it looked like a little tiger. We watched it from the
bathroom window with a pair of binoculars.

Over the next few hours, the calico made several attempts to bag a cardinal
which was trying to hunt up grubs on the ground. The cat would dash out from
cover, a blur of color, but the cardinal would swoop out of danger just in
time. The hunter would then pretend indifference, and would saunter casually
back to its hiding place, as if preparing for a lazy afternoon nap. Fifteen
minutes later, it would try again, with similarly poor results.

Around 12:30 the calico slipped through surveilance.

"Where'd it go?" Sanford asked. I took the glasses, but the cat was not
in the yard. I berated him for letting it get away without seeing which
fence it had jumped, but he insisted that it has simply disappeared.
Naturally, I didn't believe him.

"Alright then, Mr. Know-It-Fucking-All," he blustered, "YOU track the little
bastard tomorrow." That gave me an idea.

That evening the calico left a gift on the stairs.

Owls don't have fangs. Do they?

- * -

The next day saw a repeat of the previous ritual, with one exception. The
technology level of calico-tracking had advanced a century or so.

We had fitted a small signal emitter, courtesy of the lab and its generous
after-hours policy, to the cat's collar. We had also borrowed an oscilloscope,
a receiver, an amplifier, a multi-band gain unit, several i/o boards, and the
most advanced terminal from my division. Sanford's bathroom looked like
Arecibo, and we could have heard a spider piss if it didn't put the seat up.
Ah, modern science.

The cat went through its standard motions of local hunting, the results
matching well with the previous day's foray. It bumbled around the yard
until almost three in the afternoon before vanishing.

We peered at the screen. One second ago, the cat had been licking its paws
in the middle of the lawn. The next moment it was simply not there. The
computer confirmed what we thought we had hallucinated: the cat had made an
instantaneous translation out of the range of our equipment.

Well, not quite instantaneous. A rigorous analysis of the shifting of the
signal wavelengths showed that, at the moment of transmission loss, the
calico had been receeding at a rate just under the speed of light.

- * -

The calico did not return that day. However, Sanford and I were awakened
around midnight by the familiar scraping at the door screen, and we admitted
the wayward cat. It bore with it a small creature, something like a cross
between a parakeet and an oppossum. It was thoroughly mauled, and quite dead.
Further investigation showed that its left ear was pierced with a ring holding
metallic tags with bizarre spidery markings.

It took two pots of coffee to calm Sanford down.

- * -

Sanford got rid of the cat. I don't know how, or where it wound up, and I'm
sure I don't want to know. Science is good for lots of things, but there are
some mysteries that don't bear looking into.

I live in Melbourne now, designing printed circuit boards. It's kind of
dreary work, but it's a long way away from Arizona.

I figure when the aliens come to find the predator that has been hauling off
their pets, this is the last place they'll look.

Dialogues: At the Checkout Stand

2007-09-14T14:11:50Z

I don't want people thinking that I go around all the time fucking with people. I don't do that. I'm almost always unfailingly polite and mellow, sometimes to a fault. However, there are times when I just can't help myself.

"Hi."

"Good evening, sir. Thank you for shopping Randalls."

"Uh huh."

"We hope you had a pleasant shopping experience."

"You say the same thing every time."

"I'm sorry?"

"Every time you check my groceries, you say the exact same things."

"Ah, well....we're supposed to."

"Manager gets on your case if you don't?"

"It's store policy."

"You have a store policy for what you say to people?"

"Yes, we do."

"You have -- what -- a kind of checkout stand litany you learn?"

"It's in the binder they give us when we start."

"A binder! A full binder? Is it big?"

"It's not too big."

"Jesus. Everything you say has been prewritten for you?"

"I guess."

"Shit. Well, don't let me get you in trouble."

"Okay, uh, would you prefer paper or plastic, sir?"

"Let's see....How's this: Today I shall select the plastic bags."

"Very good, sir. Would you like your groceries double-bagged?"

"Yes, grocery person, I would appreciate two fine layers of plastic bags, with my groceries placed therein."

"The total is fifty two dollars and nine cents."

"This I can see from your informative digital display. I confirm your tally; you may proceed with PAYMENT RITUAL."

"How will you be paying today, sir?"

"Today I shall be using this small rectangle of plastic."

"Is that credit or debit?"

"This is a credit card. Here, also, are two forms of identification and a library card, and this is a photo of my wife whose maiden name I CAN confirm upon request."

"Thank you, sir. Please swipe the card."

"I am now swiping the card. I have now swiped the card. The card is swiped and shall be returned to my billfold."

"Here is your copy of the receipt...."

"I shall treasure it always."

"....here is a pen, with which you shall sign our copy of the receipt...."

"It is indeed a fine pen for signing."

"....here is our copy of the receipt."

"I note that you have cunningly marked an 'x' near where I am required to sign."

"Yes, sir."

"That was very wise. I shall now sign the receipt adjacent to the 'x' that you have marked."

"Thank you, sir. Will you need any assistance with your groceries?"

"Your kind request is duly noted. I personally shall supervise the handling of these vital and fragile groceries."

"We thank you again for shopping at Randalls."

"And I thank you for your cool efficiency and touselled good looks."

"Have a nice evening."

"May Wotan guide your hand."

Christmas on Other Planets

2007-09-13T19:21:00Z

I think I wrote this originally because I had writer's block, and I wanted to break it by writing something -- anything! Since then it's appeared on a dozen internet joke lists, always without attributing the author. Oh well.

AKAA

The Akaavians' poisonous respiratory byproducts have entirely destroyed all surface vegetation on their homeworld -- particularly distressing since the Akaavians love the Christmas Tree ritual, yet disapprove of artificial plants. Beautiful are the Yuletide kelp fronds, hundreds of yards of waving light-bedecked strands, disappearing into the murky depths below.

BEEG

The Beeg celebrate the birth of Christ by straining and devouring plankton from the oceans of their homeworld. This is a daily activity for the Beeg, but on Christmas Eve they strain with particular exuberance, chopping the surf into mountains of snowy froth.

CHODHAI

After a steaming bowl of Yrrch (traditional Veng pudding), the Chodween lurch out into the methane snow and gargle melodically outside the portals of burrows belonging to their elders. They do not leave until they are pelted with Jaguay, a form of pot-sticker, or they are forced indoors by meteor showers. The elders, wise in their advanced years, usually hold out for the latter.

DAGGOTH

The Daggoni, pessimists of the galaxy, give ten Christmas presents every year to each of their offspring. Traditionally, one will be lethally booby-trapped, but in recent years loving Daggon parents have been sabotaging two or more gifts. Few Daggoni children waken their parents early on Christmas morning.

EIDUR

The Eidurskalds sing of their greatest hero, Mangthulassen, who reputedly bested Christ in a series of nine contests including painting, riddles and the javelin. Eidur nativity scenes typically place the manger in obscure, dimly-lit corners, usually behind some kind of diorama involving giant serpents being wrestled.

FFORF

The mayfly-like Fforfors spend their entire adult lives joined in copulation, with the exceptions of Christmas and the running of the Preakness. This makes them understandably irritable during the Yule season, and their gifts rarely outrate shiny pebbles, or a box of office-size staples.

GESSEL

The Gess are long dead, but their automated servants remain and recall well the Christmas rituals. On Christmas Eve ten billion stockings are hung on two billion cold chimneys, beautiful organ music echoes across empty pews, and spidery metal figures recycle untouched slime-yak dinners as they cool at the banquet tables.

HIZUZ

Hizu scientists, using genetic material from a burial shroud, have successfully cloned Jesus. The Hizu do not believe in transsubstantiation, but science has taken a hand and allowed them to have a full Christmas Mass anyway. An efficient juicing device can service an entire congregation off only one Messiah.

IRRIDIA

The Irradiants, an ancient race, have long ago outgrown the constraints of time and space, escaping into multi-dimensional lattices of thought and energy. Nevertheless, they retain vestiges of mortality and still practice Christmas ceremonies, although the lack of tangibles has shunted the holiday into the realm of the abstract. "You have given me the gift of Impressionism!" blinks one Irradiant to another excitedly. "Please accept in return an original concept in Number Theory."

JENEER

Juvenile Jenee spin cocoon-like shells and remain tightly sealed within until adulthood. Santa must visit each child every Christmas, and the strain of worming his way into each spore-capsule begins to wear at the jolly old elf before the morning comes. "Here's your DAMNED DOLL," he grates out on his last visit, picking bits of stickum out of his beard.

KHWEE

On Khwee, the Christmas tree is the most feared predator of the forested highlands. Its bright baubles jouncing enticingly, the dread Tannenbaum lures hapless prey within reach of its tinselled tentacles and drags it into its concealed toothy maw. Khweer farmers hunt such monsters and dance about their embalmed bodies each Yuletide, in hopes of a benevolent Spring planting.

LOY

Christ has visited Loy most recently, and there hasn't been time for his life and death to achieve legendary status. "Eh," shrug the Loyo to each other, "He was just okay." As a nod to piety, however, on Christmas most bars offer 'happy hour' rates all night long.

MAGWAY

The Magwegians firmly believe that Christ died for their sins, and on Christmas they attempt to repay the favor. "DIE FOR CHRIST!" scream the Piety-Enforcement Troopers of the priest caste, blanketing the streets of the panicked cities with their disruptor beams.

NANG

The Soothsaying Guild on Nang is terribly jealous of the three seers who successfully found the Christ-child the first time. Determined to get a piece of the action for the Second Coming, Nang magi spend most of their time around Christmas dilligently following anything that might be a star. A recent terrible tragedy saw over 70 starry-eyed wise men dive into the heart of a raging monsoon in hot pursuit of a falling weather balloon.

OOBLIK

The Ooblimps, greenish sacs of fibers and helium, waft silently through the swirling red mists of their gas giant world. Every Christmas, using means of communication undetectable to modern science, the Ooblimps mass near the equator and form the shape of an evergreen greater than ninety thousand miles across on the long axis. Meanwhile, in the moonlet of Ooban II, the primitives look up and wonder, extending their tendrils to try to touch the shimmering plant-form high above.

PROTEUS

Sports are all-important on Proteus, and since Christmas Day coincides with the first day of Sproing-Hockey Season, religion gets to take a back seat. However, Proteans are somewhat reverent and therefore have found ways to make do. "Please remain standing for the Paean of Life and a brief Mass."

QUOQUA

The entire planet of Quoqua actually is one single enormous entity, a gigantic sentient anemone with bones of heavy silicates. It broods much of the time in its loneliness, or grapples asteroids for food. Only on Christmas does Mighty Quoqua contemplate the Higher Truth. "Christ died for *me*?" wonders the living world to itself. "Cool."

ROOD

The mysterious world of Rood is populated entirely by male humanoids with long sandy hair, well-trimmed beards, simple raiments and humble miens. They converse in long parables, each revealing wisdom beyond his years. Every Christmas a few of them disappear, although how or to where is unknown. The rest of the year, Rood's lack of defenses makes it a promising target for slavers.

SSURMA

The monstrous Ssurmani Empire plans an offensive every Christmas against Terran-held sectors, when readiness is expected to be at a low. Every year this ploy works; they make major gains at Human expense and throw lavish banquets to celebrate. In a sense, therefore, the Ssurmani observe our holiday. Give them a thousand years and they'll be gobbling chocolates out of Advent Calendars like everybody else.

THAYLE

The Thayli have transposed the legends of Jesus and Santa Claus. Every Christmas morning, delighted Thaylings scuttle upstairs to see if their carefully-hung mandible-protectors have been festooned with loaves and fishes. Meanwhile, the Elves as a race are generally blamed for nailing Santa to the chimney.

UUR

There are over thirty million distinct religious sects on overpopulated Uur, each having a holy day on Christmas. The intense spirituality of twelve trillion Uuri, each concentrating on the adoration of their holy figures, generates a kind of ecclesiastic critical mass. "Stop!" moan the countless saints, prophets and angels, each forced to manifest a thousand times over. "Have you no mercy?!"

VUVUV

The Vovians, a warlike people, hunker down in their bunkers and await the inevitable Christmas offensive from the Other Side. The tracer fire streaks across the sky in seasonal reds and greens. Holiday Schtorb-cakes, sent in packages from home, are routinely scanned for fissionable materials.

WYUTH

Bloodthirsty Wyutai trim their Christmas trees with the integuments of their foes, and burn Yule candles made from the fat of their enemies' children. In their mythos, Christ was not simply crucified, but was then staked out, flayed, and painted with acidic bongfruit juice. He did not go easily, though, crushing fully a thousand skulls of unbelievers before being overwhelmed.

XUCHA

The Utopian Xuchans have everything they could ever want, making Christmas gift-giving difficult. The tradition has therefore evolved to destroy a possession of one's friends and associates on Christmas Eve; the more catastrophic the loss, the better. The personal touch is still important, however; among the wealthy it is considered the pinnacle of poor taste to use atomics.

YIKLI

The Yiklin do not celebrate Christmas, but they have recently intercepted Earth television broadcasts and are fascinated by our seasonal programmes. "Pa Rum-Pa-Pum-Pum," they sagely burble to each other, squatting in their steaming mudbaths; "Pa Rum-Pa-Pum-Pum."

ZIM

The Zim love Christmas. Every year they gather together their families and friends to celebrate. They feast together, and dance and sing in harmony. They pray solemnly to God above, in appreciation for the sacrifice of his only cherished son. They exchange gifts and goodwill, vowing to improve the lots of all Zimkind in the following year. These perverse practices have earned these brutes the label of 'Galactic Refuse'.

Dialogues: Persimmon Talk

2007-09-13T15:02:15Z

I like to describe this as 'mostly true'. I did actually go out and do interviews. However, I didn't let the pesky details of reality get in the way of telling a good story.

Andrew: Hi.

Dema: Hi. Whatcha got there.

Andrew: It's a persimmon.

Dema: A persimmon.

Andrew: Yes.

Dema: What, pray tell, are you doing, standing there with a persimmon in your hand and a stupid grin on your face?

Andrew: I'm preparing to do some interviews.

Dema: Interviews.

Andrew: Yes, interviews. Concerning persimmons.

Dema: Why?

Andrew: I don't know. I'm hoping I'll be able to write an article about what happens.

Dema: Why would anybody want to read about persimmons?

Andrew: I'm damned if I know.

- * -

Andrew: Hi. Waiting for the bus?

Girl #1: Uh, yeah.

Girl #2: Hi.

Andrew: Hi. Look, I'm writing an article and doing some interviews. Mind if I ask you some questions?

Girl #2: No. Are we going to be in the papers?

Andrew: No.

Girl #1: Is that a dictaphone?

Andrew: Yes. Now -- do you recognize this?

Girl #2: Is it fruit? Like, a mango or something?

Andrew: You're close.

Girl #1: It looks kind of like a tomato.

Girl #2: Oh, gross, it's mushy.

Andrew: It's a persimmon.

Girl #1: Oh.

Girl #2: A what?

Girl #1: It's a persimmon.

Girl #2: Oh. So, what do you want to know?

Andrew: Well, I was kind of hoping for the girl-on-the-street, gut-level response to persimmons.

Girl #2: It's definitely mushy.

Girl #1: Can we taste it or something?

Andrew: No.

Girl #1: What?!

Girl #2: That's stupid. Why not?

Andrew: It's the only one I've got.

- * -

Andrew: Could you please state your name?

Earl: Earl ********.

Andrew: And what is your profession, please?

Earl: I design hydraulic systems for the fire protection industry.

Andrew: How long have you been in the business?

Earl: Thirty-seven years.

Andrew: Thirty-seven years ?!

Earl: Yeah. Thirty-eight in October.

Andrew: That's a long time to be working at anything.

Earl: Started right out of school.

Andrew: Thinking about retiring?

Earl: (laughs) Always thinking about it.

Andrew: Earl, I'd like to ask you a specific fire protection question, and I'd like you to give me some suggestions, if you don't mind too much.

Earl: Okay.

Andrew: Earl, I'd like you to imagine that this object is highly flammable and terribly valuable. I need to protect it from fire. How do I go about it?

Earl: What is this thing?

Andrew: It's a persimmon.

Earl: Like, the fruit?

Andrew: Yes.

Earl: This is really weird.

Andrew: I know, I know. That's the question, though.

Earl: Well.....it's pretty wet. It can't be in all that much danger of burning down.

Andrew: So you would define this as a light hazard occupancy fruit?

Earl: Oh, come off it.....

Andrew: No, no, stay with me here. Okay, supposing I wanted to cover this persimmon with water from a standard nozzle. How would I space the sprinklers to maximize protection?

Earl: This is ridiculous. One nozzle would cover the whole thing.

Andrew: Okay, suppose this persimmon is thirty feet tall and filled to the brim with flammable and hazardous liquids. How would you protect it?

Earl: Um, well I suppose I'd spray it like any other petroleum vessel.....

Andrew: Good.....good.....

Earl: I'd probably run eight lines down the sides, spaced equally of course, delivering water to six nozzles per line.

Andrew: How would you hang the pipe?

Earl: We'd have to build a free-standing pipe stand.

Andrew: Yeah? Why?

Earl: Ever try to tack-weld fruit?

- * -

Andrew: Hello, I need to speak with somebody about fruit prices.

Operator: Hold, please.

Andrew: Thanks.

...................

Gary: Gary *******.....

Andrew: Hi, Gary. I have some questions about fruit prices and supply; can you help me?

Gary: I'll certainly try.

Andrew: Great! Oh, by the way, this is for an article I'm writing; do you mind if I tape this conversation?

Gary: .....nnnnnnno.....

Andrew: That's great. Now, Gary, I'm particularly interested in persimmon information. Does your company move any persimmons?

Gary: Yes we do, but they're in low demand.

Andrew: Why is that?

Gary: Hot climate. Persimmons are pulpy and go bad quickly. They're also not in season for very long.

Andrew: Which stores do you sell to?

Gary: Our best customers are the Fiesta chain of supermarkets. They're the only people who buy them very much any more.

Andrew: I guess persimmons must be kind of expensive, then.

Gary: It's not cheap. I mean, supply and demand, you know.

Andrew: Sure. So, how much do you sell persimmons for these days?

Gary: Well, we only sell at bulk rate.

Andrew: Right, so can you tell me what that is?

Gary: About forty dollars per pallet.

Andrew: How much fruit is that?

Gary: Roughly eighty to one hundred pounds.

Andrew: Jesus! That's a lot lower than the sale price.

Gary: (laughs) Yeah, those middlemen will screw you if you let them.

Andrew: I mean, they were selling persimmons for, like, a buck-fifty a pound, and here you're telling me they get if for a third of that?

Gary: Hey, those big markets need a big margin to operate.

Andrew: Well, if you don't mind my asking, what kind of mark-up do you add to the buying price from your growers?

Gary: Well, it's not too big. It's not a 200% mark-up.

Andrew: Sure. Sure. Gary, do you earn a commission?

Gary: I'm sorry?

Andrew: Do you earn a commission for selling fruit? Such as persimmons?

Gary: Yes. Yes I do.

Andrew: How much?

Gary: I'd rather not say.

- * -

Andrew: Hi, Bud. We spoke on the phone.

Bud: Hi. This is Jim *******, our foreman.

Jim: Hi.

Andrew: Hi. Can we speak in your office?

Bud: Sure.

...............

Andrew: Now, correct me if I'm wrong here. I need a prototype for a product that we're thinking about marketing, and I want a plastic model for display purposes. Can your plant do that?

Bud: Probably. What kind of object are we talking about?

Andrew: Well, it's easier just to show you. I'm looking for a heavy-duty, impact-resistant carrying case for a fragile object. It should be easily portable, and should fit below the seat of an airplane.

Jim: Injection molding.

Bud: We can probably do that.

Andrew: Now, what I need, though, is for it to be constructed so as to accommodate an object of this approximate shape, size and consistency......

Bud: Oh, I see......

Andrew: Yes. Now, I don't want you to think that I need a carrying case to actually carry around a persimmon, ha ha....

Bud+Jim: Ha Ha!

Andrew: Ha. No, but that's the best way to design it. Assume that I need a special case to ship really delicate, expensive persimmons.

Jim: What are you really carrying?

Andrew: I'm afraid I can't tell you that.

Jim: Is it, like, organs or something?

Andrew: I'm sorry.

Bud: Well, like Jim said, we can probably produce something using Keflek. It's sturdy, it's fairly cheap.....

Jim: We can use injection molding, which will keep costs down.

Bud: Now, were you thinking about a briefcase-type design?

Andrew: Yes. This needs to be something that works -- that is the most important point to this whole thing, guys -- but it also needs to be professional-looking.

Bud: We can manage that.

Jim: We can use some laminate struts to cushion shock.

Andrew: How about foam packing?

Bud: It won't hold the form very well.

Jim: I think we have some Poly-210 stock left.

Bud: Given any thought to color?

- * -

Andrew: Hi.

Dr. Ishida: Hello. What's the problem today?

Andrew: Well....I have a kind of embarrassing question.

Dr. Ishida: Okay.

Andrew: My wife and I are just starting to use birth control, and we're experimenting with condoms. I guess I just need a little advice.

Dr. Ishida: That's okay. What exactly do you want to know?

Andrew: Um, well, I've never used one before......

Dr. Ishida: I see.

Andrew: I was kind of hoping you could demonstrate, you know, proper condom use......

Dr. Ishida: Yes.

Andrew: .....on this persimmon.

Dr. Ishida: What?

Andrew: Could you show me....

Dr. Ishida: Get out of this office.

Annoying Questions Answered

2007-09-13T02:05:15Z

Long ago I used to very much enjoy writing things and posting them to the usenet newsgroup, talk.bizarre. In the early to mid nineties, talk.bizarre was a vibrant and fun community of unique people, and it was fun to participate. All good things end, however, or at least fade away, and so my involvement in talk.bizarre gradually dropped to zero. Still, I have retained many fine friends from those days, and I am pleased to stay in touch with many of them through livejournal.

One of the hallmarks of the ethos of talk.bizarre was harsh sort of 'repel the invaders' cultural mindset that tended to prevail. Usenet has always had an extremely noisy signal, and it was always my desire (and that of many others as well) to attenuate the noise by encouraging clever, creative posts -- and, at times, discouraging dull and insipid postings. To that end, I would frequently respond to posts that annoyed me in, well, a somewhat cranky tone -- but in a way, I hope, that also tried to be inventive.

Here are a selection of some of these responses.

Alissa Writes....
> Hello, my name is Alissa and I am in the United States of
>America. I need help with love. What do you do to hurry/help love
>if a guy says he isn't ready for a girlfriend, he will be in a
>few years, he thinks you're fine, and you can't wait a few years?
>Please leave all your tips here so I can read them. Oh, by the
>way, he sits across from me in Science class.

Hi Alissa! My name is Andy and I, too, am in the United States of
America. I can't tell you what grade I'm in, but federal law
prohibits me from coming within two hundred yards of your school.

Most importantly, you should know that this probably isn't the best place
to talk about love. I mean, after all, this is talk.bizarre. Love
isn't especially bizarre, unless you're William S. Burroughs, in which
case it is.

Still, I'm moderately helpful and friendly for a complete bastard, so
I'll do my best to assist. First of all, Alissa, when a boy tells you
that he's not ready for a girlfriend, it means one of three things: one,
he thinks you look like a poodle in a skirt; two, he has some disappointing
physical defect; or three, he's one of those wispy sensitive guys with
Depeche Mode haircuts who aren't worth your time anyway. None of these
options are acceptable. Alissa, my dear, what you *really* need is a
man -- a man who WELL CRUD THERE I GO violating those durned federal
statutes again. Nuts.

However: should you wish to go ahead and woo your boychik, I must point
out to you the remarkable variety of options available to a resourceful
girl in a science class! A brief perusal of your chemistry text will
reveal that several forms of alcohol can be obtained from your teacher's
stockroom. If biology is a portion of your curriculum, you might enquire
if Fly-Nap or some similar ether product is available. Either of these
two substances would be useful for bending Reluctant Romeo's mind to your
will. Failing these, nine out of ten bottoms agree that nothing persuades
quite like 3-10 VDC through gator-clipped nipples. Alissa, let technology
go to work for YOU!

Finally, it is with extreme regret and compassion that I must inform you
that your name is spelled all wrong.

I hope these few paragraphs have been informative and helpful, as well
as somewhat patronizing and insulting. Good luck with your romance,
and keep your eyes on your own paper!

John Writes....
: Yes, but more to ponder. What if you were in an automobile, traveling at
: the speed of light when it became dark. If you turned the headlights on,
: would you see anything ahead?

"Yeah, it ain't easy to get a 454 under the hood of a Datsun. Turned out I
had to jam it in there at a 45 degree angle -- can't even see out the
windscreen. Sure makes a good sound, though, especially in conjunction
with the music of semiautomatic arms fire.

"So, there I am, testing the fucker on the Interstate, when I realize the
Laws of Physics are pretty much for pussies. Wind resistance....shearing
stresses....you can knuckle under to this crap if you're a limp-wristed
abacus-jockey with five PhD's and tighty-whities, but I never cared for
math with more letters than numbers. Especially letters in a fucking
foreign language -- HEY, SPEAK *AMERICAN*, YOU PATHETIC LOSERS!!!

"I came to a decision, which was that I was going to go just utterly
fucking fast. I dialed the nitrous as high as it would go, and grudgingly
piped some into the engine as well. I emptied the ashtrays, rolled up
the windows, jettisoned the landmines and put my cap on backwards to
maximize the aerodynamics of my head. I took a deep breath and punched
it.

"As it turns out, light speed is about as boring as gross violations of
causality can get. The acceleration was kind of funky, which involved
Doppler-shifting X-rays into the visible spectrum (although I'm not
ruling out the drugs, you understand), but once the needle topped out
at .99c, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to see. Inky blackness
as far as the eye could see. I was feeling a little bit down about
this, you should know, and my urge to kill was strong.

"I got good and stoned at light speed, just so I could say I did it,
but it wasn't much help. Eventually I was advised by the goblins in
the glove box to open up with the Browning. I'm taking potshots into
the darkness, practicing my Zen marksmanship, when it begins to really
really irritate me that I can't fucking *see* anything. Before I
think it through, I hit the brights.

"There's this sudden shock, which caused me to drop the Browning out
the window. I loved that Browning, you know. We were soulmates.
Anyway, I was so lost in tears of self-pity that it took me several
minutes to notice I was cruising at .7c. The light pressure had
knocked me back down out of light speed. Cursing my rotten luck
and the pitfalls of classical science, I punched it as hard as I
could and tried to make it up to c with the lights on.

"No dice. The needle quivered up as high as .95c, but it could go
no higher, even when I threatened it. I was doomed to never be
able to witness the wondrous sights no doubt available to be seen
at light speed. Inspired to make my own mark in the field of physics,
I coined Fozzy's Uncertainty Principle, which says:

"'You can't both move at light speed AND know what the fuck
is going on around you. Asshole.'

"Disappointed, I cut the power and glided back down to legal speeds.
The energy given up by the Datsun manifested as an ion trail a mile
wide that devastated the portions of Kansas that lay in my wake.
I stopped the car and took a gander at the scorched glassy trail of
destruction that followed me down the road. Not for the last time,
I reflected upon the works of Oppenheimer and Fermi, bumming that
my own life is so dull and uninteresting.

"Then I took some bennies, and I Knew No More."

Matt Writes....
: O.K. This may sound stupid (and I have no idea how it even started) but
: myself and my flatmates have been involved in a long running argument
: about who would win a fight between a lion and a polar bear. This
: "discussion" has been going on for so long that we have each entrenched
: ourselves in our relative positions and refuse to budge. Could
: everyone out there please give us some fresh and insightful opinions
: (apart from the obvious "who the fuck cares", "get a life" etc.).
: We have been assuming that environment is not a factor.
: PLEASE HELP US!!!

You betcha, Matt.

Your average student of interspecies hostilities will tell you, flat
out, that the polar bears will win. They have been stockpiling
warheads in their northern icy fastnesses at a tremendous rate since
the beginning of the Cold War, and seem to have the hardline military
mindset required to commit to a full strike. Lions, on the other
hand, have been hampered in their stockpiling efforts by increased
budget demands for health care and zebra stalking. Furthermore, lions
face a growing peace movement among a new generation of cubs for whom
global thermonuclear warfare is an alien concept. With the missile
gap growing with every decade, and the lion high command forced to
answer to a rising tide of resentment towards the current detente
policy, many analysts view the survival margin slipping inexorably
towards a future world dominated by ursines.

Here at the Center for Predatory Policy Studies, we find this view
simplistic and based in outdated thinking. First, spending for
advanced technologies among lions has consistently outstripped that
of the polar bears. As a result, leonine delivery systems are
decades ahead of their rivals', with greater accuracy, range and
hardened defenses. Second, lions have the organization and chain of
command necessary to wage nuclear warfare; the pride unit follows the
orders of lead huntress in battle and will do their duty. Bears, on
the other hand, may well be distracted by moral qualms or a passing
seal. Finally, lions enjoy overwhelming support in the League of
Non-Aligned Mammals -- a force with little military clout, but
sufficient economic sway to bring considerable pressure on the
resource-poor polarians.

A summary of our most current simulations show that the lions would
command a total, albeit hard-won, victory over the polar bears.
Although the polar infrastructure would be totally destroyed, with
surviving bears forced to flee under the icecap, large portions of
the veldt would be rendered uninhabitable. The leonine infrastructure
would likely suffer extreme destabilization, possibly resulting in
an agonizing slide into anarchy. Long-term projections show that,
in the aftermath of a total-commitment conflict, the true victors
in terms of global influence will likely be those who are geographically
isolated: the kangaroos, perhaps, or the sea otters.

For further information, write to:

Center for Predator Policy Studies
Under the Cattails in the Ditch
Big, Muddy, Fast-Moving River
Sandy Dry Place
Attn: Scruffy the Vole

Some Wit Writes....
: I have a mind teaser that no one can figure out can anyone help me? Here
: it is.....

: Two men escaped from prison. Their footprints led to the edge of
: a cliff which is perpendicular to the sea, some 100 yards below. The
: soil was mot disturbed anywhere in this area, except for the footprints.
: One man was over six feet tall and the other was barely five feet.
: according to the footprints, the taller man took a shorter stride. The
: shorter man walks heavily on his heels. The taller man walked behind
: the shorter man because he sometimes treaded over the the smaller
: footprint, but never the other way around. They could not have walked
: backwards over their own footprints since each footprint is without
: overlap. The two men received no assistance and they did not jump.
: How did they manage to leave the cliff without leaving any
retreating
: footprints?

1.

The two men ran for the sea. They were hotly pursued and growing ever
more frustrated. Abruptly, the cliff brought them up short. They began
to argue.

"You and your stupid ideas!" bellowed the shorter escapee. "I don't know
why I put up with you and your unusually short, mincing stride!"

"That does it!" exclaimed the larger convict. "That's about all I need
to hear from you and your faggotty walking-heavily-on-your-heels pace!
I shall kill you and make a hang-glider from your skin, using your bones
as the frame, tying it all together with your sinew!"

And that is exactly what he did.

2.

"I can't believe we got away!" shrieked Abdul, trying to keep up with
Shorty's merciless pace. The fins of the rocket were banging his shins.

"Believe it, baby," grunted Shorty, struggling under the nosecone's
heavier load. "But they'll never let us get away. They'll hunt us
down and kill us. Nobody robs a nuclear silo and gets away with it."

Abdul knocked his shin one last time and abruptly dropped the missile,
sitting down on a rock to cry. Shorty patted him on the back. "Hey,
buddy. C'mon, pal. Look, we had some good times, right? yeah? Here:
we'll end it all now. Bomb goes up; bomb comes down; screw the karma
and Fuck You Mister Man. Alright?"

It was alright with Abdul. Twenty years later, when the radiation
died down, all the authorities could find on the spot was a cliff
dropping down to an ocean that had never been there before.

3.

The two men grunted under the strain of their burden. Roddy, taller
and stronger, was hampered by the manacles that still held his feet
together. Orville, never the best physical specimen, cursed and sweated
like a pig. The load they carried was heavy -- some might say impossible --
but the drive for freedom can make ordinary men do extraordinary things.

"Okay, set it down," ordered Orville at last, and with a sigh of relief,
the two escapees eased their load to the ground. They stepped back a
moment to survey the cargo they had carried this long distance -- a
100-foot tall cliff, complete with miniature ocean.

Roddy had found it lying unnoticed in a beet field his crew had been
weeding. Roddy was not known for brightness -- this was his fourth trip
to the Big House in less than nine years -- but he had a feeling the
stray geological feature might come in useful. In the laundry room he
showed it to Orville, who was ecstatic.

"This is exactly what we've been needing!" Orville hissed. The two managed
somehow to conceal the cliff in the boiler room (Orville helped out with
repairs sometimes) until the annual fire alarm check. The pair wrestled
the escarpment in with the garbage truck and they were out the gate before
anybody noticed. From there, it was all footwork.

"Will it stop 'em?" asked Roddy, the surf lashing at his ankles. "Slow 'em
down a little, at least," his friend replied. "We better get swimming; the
tide's coming in."

By the time the warden's men reached the clifftop, Roddy and Orville were
two black dots far out on the surf, swimming strongly for international
waters.

Reposting: Escape

2007-09-12T16:40:01Z

I apologize for all these reposts of old material. I imagine some people are sick of seeing things they have seen before. However, much of my stuff is kept on a website owned by a company that I haven't actually paid any money to in about 8 years. At any time they could remove my stuff and it would be gone. So, I am feeling a need to preserve the things I would hate to lose track of. This story is one of them.

I wake screaming, again. The dream fades; I remember only images of fire and the dull KRUMP of artillery.

Strong hands seize me, as they always do. I am unceremoniously hoisted from the cage in which I am kept. I am bounced and thumped and wittered at in a tongue I do not understand. Suddenly, food is thrust in my mouth -- the same liquid gunk I am regularly dosed with.

I drift away.

- * -

My most recent clear memory is capture at the hands of Duc Phat's mercenaries. Bad directions led us too deep into the Mekong Delta during the aftermath of the Tet mop-up. We were surrounded and decimated, and we gave in.

I was beaten and tortured. I told them everything they asked, anything I thought they might want to hear, and still they threw me in the lightless pit to rot. I remember slowly starving down there, my lifeforce seeping into the root-tangled soil along with the last trickles of my blood and urine, unable to turn around or stretch my arms, without sight, voiceless, numb.

Then, light -- light and intense cold. Hands dragged me from my moist prison, but they were not the hands of rescuers -- only more torturers in surgical gear, battering me, poking me, weighing me dispassionately on a scale like a nice steak. I gave voice to protest, but something was wrong: I had lost the power of speech, and I could only scream inarticulately.

The 'Cong must have made some new psychoactive drug, because even now I cannot think clearly. My bones have been turned to rubber; I have difficulty manipulating even simple items; language returns only very slowly to me. I am rendered helpless.

- * -

The feeding session is complete. Now begins the humiliating ritual of waste-removal. My captors seem to delight in forcing me to urinate and defecate in my own garments. They diligently change my wrappings, revelling as I am exposed, naked, dependent on them for my every need.

Nevertheless, they will not break me. Their drugs must be wreaking havoc on my mind, for there are times when I begin to forget my previous existence and imagine myself to never have lived a life other than the miserable captivity I endure -- but I will not succumb. I WILL not!

I am not yet strong enough to fight back. Only recently have I gained the fortitude to pull myself erect on tables and slowly limp about with support. I can grasp some objects, but any thoughts of using a gun or knife must wait until later. I have learned a few words of their jabbering tongue, but I do not know enough to impersonate a guard -- and they are much larger and stronger than I, anyway.

I made a break for it recently. A door was left ajar. I arduously crawled out and into the vegetation, hoping to hide there, perhaps to catch and eat insects to supplement my liquid diet. However, my absence was detected almost immediately, and a search party brought me back, squalling and kicking, to be plopped in the tub.

But I will succeed. Every day I am stronger; every day my mind is clearer; every day I learn more about their defenses and weaknesses. I will not forget. They will not keep me here.

The first duty of a baby is Escape.