Chasmics

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Some years back I read The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas. I remember the basic plot, but what struck me most was the phrase “fly the pie.” As the king was on the road, periodically his entourage would come to a halt, as “the king decided to fly the pie.”

As I recall, it was never explained exactly what this entailed, except that everyone had to stop while this happened. What could it mean? Of course, I could look it up on Google, but that would shatter a spellbinding mystery. So, there are the obvious speculations:

Some kind of birding activity. The king puts on his leather glove and releases the hawk, etc, however that sort of thing gets done. This gets points for credibility, plus birds fly and all that. There is a bird of prey called a “kite”after all.
A euphemism for defecation. This is pretty funny, and anyone who's ever been on a road trip will recognize the necessity, but I can't imagine Alexander Dumas thinking, “You know, this would be more realistic if people went to the bathroom more.” Besides, only the king gets to do it. That might be flattering to he king, but it seems less realistic than simply not mentioning the need or the activity. Besides, who would want to read about that? Before you think about sending an email, that was a rhetorical question—I don't really want to know.
Least likely of all is “fly the pie” is equivalent to “fly the airplane.” Technologically too advanced for the period Dumas was writing in, and Dumas didn't write science fiction. I think. Anyway, were Dumas to introduce such a device, I'm sure it would play more of a role in the story—perhaps even providing an exciting, daring aerial rescue at the last minute.
The king could “fly the pie” the way a college kid could fly a frisbee, or the ancient Greeks would throw a discus. I like this explanation the best, and there's nothing that makes it impossible. Plus, I get this image—the king, whirling about madly, clutching a fresh apple pie, only to hurl it towards the trees, laughing maniacally and pointing as the pie explodes on a nearby pinetree trunk. All his attendants and so on would have to pretend to be amused by this, or lose their jobs (and maybe even face the guillotine). I heard some of the French kings were like this anyway, so it isn't impossible. (It makes the musketeers admiration for the king a little odd, though. I mean, they're supposed to be champions of the downtrodden, or at least they ought to be. Serving an irresposible king like that makes them seem weak, or like chumps. Of course, this was written in the age of kings, so what else can you do? It opens up a whole realm of speculation, perhaps for another occasion though.)

Another good question is why the musketeers were called “musketeers.” Wouldn't that imply that they used muskets? But they used swords, not guns. Admitedly, I've always been bored by sword fights in the movies, but there's a romanticism to them that you don't get with a bunch of guys fighting with rifles. More light and noise, but less finesse. And I guess finesse was what Dumas was aiming for.

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Pies are inherently funny. There will be more entries concerning pies.

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Some things strike you as being funny when you're trying to nap and a cat is on your chest. Because when you start laughing, then the cat digs in to your skin to keep from being dislodged; and your natural desire to be scratched and injured will make the dumbest things seem like the height of hilarity. It's all part of nature's way of keeping humor managable and contained, so that only licensed humorists will be able to make you laugh. Otherwise, we'd have too much fun, and that would strike you as chaos...chaos in the flesh. Or at least a nice suit.

Of course, in the above paragraph, read “me” whenever I wrote “you,” “I'm” for “you're,” and “my” for “your.” Except for the “you” after “Because when;” that should be an “I..” And for “natural desire” the reader may substitute from any item from a menu of their own creation, at no extra charge, subject to availability.

So, I guess you could just say this has nothing to do with cats, or humor, or anything you're familiar with, and chalk this up to some kind of random, uncategorized, half-assed madness, and consider me a disturbed individual. Well, okay, fair enough. That would make me pretty sad if you were to say that to me, and I guess I can't stop you. Except that you don't know who I am, and I haven't put an e-mail address anywhere here. So I guess the shoe is on the other foot, and for the moment, that foot is mine.

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I had a (fully clawed) cat resting on my chest, and I mentally referred to her as a “sleeping pie” because, let's face it, cats who are sleeping are always cute—the number of posters of same, emblazoned with “Friday's coming!” and what not, testify to this—also, I was tired, and Leela is pretty cute for a cat. (For the record, she was named after the Louise Jameson character from Doctor Who, and not after the gal in Futurama.)

So where was I? Oh, yeah, Sleeping Pie. This phrase made me laugh quite noticably, as I saw from the wounds in my skin, so I tried to classify why it made me laugh.

First of all, pies are funny. See one of the previous entries for proof, I can't be bothered right now. Secondly, a “sleeping” pie gives rise to all manner of speculation. Such as:

A sleeping pie could be a type of pie that just sits there on the shelf, resting. Resting for what? Are you sure you want to know? I didn't think so.
A sleeping pie could be a kind of Mickey Finn, ie, a sleeping potion given to the unwary. “I gave him two slices of the Sleeping Pie, you should be able to rob him with ease and find out who has the One Ring!” Wow, that's pretty scary! But remember, it is only speculation at this point and no cause for alarm.
It could simply be the name of the pie, as Shoe Fly Pie contains neither shoes nor flies. At least, one hopes that is the case. I would not want to eat such a pie otherwise. Gads, we have to eat enough flies and fly products as it is, and any visit to a bowling alley would put one off of eating shoes pretty much forever. (I am open minded, and those of you out there who would enjoy eating shoes of course have my sympathy and support, but I refuse to say you are a majority. So stop writing letters! At least, stop writing them to me. Please?) Where was I? Anyway, one can imagine a weary traveller asking for desert after consuming a pizza or some Philly cheese steaks, and inquiring about the name of the only desert left, being told “It's called sleeping pie because that's its name. Nothing more. Oh, it moves a bit less than the other types of pies, perhaps that's why as well. But it isn't anything to worry about. Much. Here's the name of a good doctor in town.” Also, key lime pie doesn't have any keys in it, I know for sure about this one. I hope. Hang on while I call my doctor...the only doctor in town. Argh, enough of these pies! Will they never stop tormenting me? Here, here, it is the baking of the hideous crust! (As Poe might have written, had he a lot less talent than he in fact, had.)

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“I've got it!” said the old man, his voice shaking with excitement. “We'll make everything into a sausage!”

“Even bees?” asked the child. And the room was stilled.

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I can't speak with any authority, only from personal experience, but one of the most annoying things about flies is the noise they make when they wander about. In fact, I have to wonder if it bothers them. “There's that damn noise!” thought the fly, as he went in search of more areas to soil. “That buzzing, droning sound! It makes it impossible to think, that sound! I wish I knew what was making it. As it is, it is so irritating that all I can do is follow my instincts mindlessly. Fortunately, I'm good at that.”

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Why don't elevators have Error buttons? You know, you get in one, your “pal” says “The fifth floor” and you push the 5 button. Then he says, “Oh, sorry, did I say five? I meant ten.” And so you push 10, but now you have to stop at five. And you know how elevators are. When they stop and there's no one there, they're all like, “Hello? Helloooo? Anyone there? Well...okay. I'll just wait for a long time, just in case.”

How much better if you could push a button and undo some of the buttons you pushed by mistake. Everyone would be a lot happier on elevators, in fact, pushing buttons like crazy might become a new kind of game at the workplace.

Telephones are the same way. Of course, if you misdial the sixth number out of seven, you don't have to call the incorrect number in order to dial the correct one; you just click the reciever and start over.

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Insects have adapted (and arguable invented methods to adapt) to the world in myriad ways. They're pretty smart, and will no doubt outlive us all. Their cousins probably live on countless planets throughout the universe. Some of them, with technological, phiosophical and artistic achievements far beyond our own.

Humans would be love to be half as clever and adaptive. But we try. I give us that.

But what about cats? Well, as I try to write this, my cat is snug against the CD drive on my computer, so I can't remove the CD that's in there now. I could move her. I could. But I'd rather wait until she found somewhere else to rest.

I fear for our insect conquerors.

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Speaking of cats, have you noticed that they are a lot like beers? You always think, “One more won't hurt....”

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As of April 30, 2004. To be continued....

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I wonder where the guy who invented bottlecaps got the idea. I expect he created a new form of bottle (shorter than most) and thought, “Corks are so old school. I need something with mad props.” So, to clear his mind, he went on a sea voyage and happened to be looking in the ocean once, and saw some jellyfish. “Yeah, like that! Something that could wrap around the neck of the bottle and protect it. Only made of metal, and not jelly. Cos I don't think the 'cyber' concept is invented yet. And without the stinging tentacles, because I don't think beer drinkers are ready for that.” Well, maybe he didn't think of that cyber bit, but you have to cover all the bases or historians will just reject your ideas.
Ahem. Anyway. Um, really, if you look at bottlecaps, they look like jellyfish, don't they? Be honest, now. Yes, yes, jellyfish don't have logos on top or cryptic slogans or jokes underneath their bells, but I imagine these concepts came at a later date in the evolution of the bottlecap. I'd be willing to place money (but not a lot) that the first bottlecaps were just plain metal...in line with the jellyfish concept! “A 'logo'?” yelled the bottlecap inventor. “What madness are you howling!” (I can imagine “what madness are you howling” would be a great deterent to most salesmen.)
Where were we? Well, I bet after dealing with those salesmen, the inventor thought, “A jellyfish uses stinging cells as defense...but I'm right out of those. And the jelly I like has all rotted and stuff, and never really worked, anyway, curse the luck! Wait, I'll use unpenetrable metal instead!” And so we have bottlecaps now.
Well, actually now, we have plastic screwable caps on most beverages. But even though there are jellyfish that look plastic screwable caps (you could look it up on the internet and you'd find out what everyone already knows), I'd bet that these evolved from the earlier, more primitive bottlecaps, and not from screw-top jellyfish and what they and their sea-faring brethren already know.
It makes you think, doesn't it? Wait, don't answer that.
At any rate, man, being clever, was already combining traits from different animal orders for his refreshment needs. Why, the bottle-opener might have come about because of the claws of the sea-faring crustacean! Like lobster claws. Perhaps folks told the bottlecap inventor, “Hey, your invention rules! But I can't get at the beer without breaking the bottle. And I hate that.”

A digression: Before bottle-openers, I imagine the only way to open a bottle was to break its neck (origin of the phrase "I'll break your neck!"). And of course, even if you're very careful, you'll no doubt be drinking bits of glass (which is why pirates said "Arrr!" a lot). There were contests as to who could break the bottle highest on the neck (so to spill the least amount of beer) and whoever broke the highest got to select a food item from the mayor's larder. This was generally cheese, since the mayor caught on quickly to the scheme. Okay, I have to apologize-- I just made all that up.

Well, we last left the inventor being confronted about his unopenable bottlecaps. And the inventor told the assembled rowdies, “Well, I'll go on a sea voyage, that helps me think.” And the rowdies passed the hat for sea tickets. But I bet the inventor saw crabs and lobsters before he even left the dock, and got the bottle opener idea right away, and cancelled his sea tickets. (He probably left a cold six in a stream and came back later to find the crayfish had uncapped all his brewskis, and they were all flat and bad tasting. And he was going to stomp the crayfish, but they had all fled, fearing just this scenario.) So the inventor pocketed the money. I bet he told the rowdies and other folks that he went anyway, just so he could charge the expenses to his clients. Man, what a bastard! I'm sorry I brought his story to light, now. And then he sold the idea to advertisers (which explains the bit about logos and slogans and “Sorry, you are not a winner” stuff). But they all bought it, didn't they? Advertisers--creeps, aren't they? Like lawyers. Hey, even my brother, who is a lawyer (and a good one) hates other lawyers. He laughs at all the lawyer jokes. But he'd probably hate this website. No, he wouldn't say so, cos he's my brother, but he'd think it. A lot.
Humph. Enjoy your screw-top bottles! You creeps!

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Nihila, the ancient Egyptian queen, hated everything, and usually burned it.

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He threw up his lucky charms. So begins one of the greatest works in the history of human literature.
Those six words shine like jewels in the firmament of the arts, beloved by men, women and children alike, celebrated, intoned, thought and cherished.
When heard, they evoke the chills of grand adventure and quicken the heart; when read, they open the vast doors of imagination, and send a knowing thrill down the spine as they unfold their wondrous world.
At least, that's how I imagine it will go, once I write the rest of it. Posterity, here I come!

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Just in case you're reading this in 2047, right now in 2004 there's this incredibly popular television program called SpongeBob SquarePants. (Do a Google search if your incredible futuristic minds have no idea what “television program” and “incredibly popular” mean. I'm probably not the best source for that kind of information. At least, not if you want accuracy.)
The show is made up of various action figures inhabiting an undersea realm. It's a lot like Toy Story (do a Google search) except that the toys are all recognizable action figures from movies. There's “Sandy” who is obviously Ben Affleck from Armageddon, and “Mr. Krabs” who is the Tim Curry character from Legend. “Patrick” is a Stretch Armstrong doll (not sure how he fits in, I guess I haven't seen enough movies), and “Squidward” is some kind of Charles Nelson Reilly action figure, from that movie starring Charles Nelson Reilly where people had an extra set of legs (I think it was called An Extra Set of Legs). Finally, there's SpongeBob himself, who is a piece of Swiss cheese.
Now, SpongeBob is the puzzle, here. Not because he's not an action figure—good heavens, how many movies has Swiss cheese NOT been a central figure? Pretty much NONE, I figure.
No, the reason SpongeBob is such an enigma is because I always figured that Swiss cheese, given mobility and the power of speech, would be much more intelligent and resourceful. But SpongeBob is an idiot, and what's more--
Hold on a moment, I'm getting an Advanced Communique from the Telepathy Archive Division (do a Google search), and they tell me that SpongeBob is NOT Swiss cheese. He is, in fact, an actual sea sponge. Well, I guess I could adapt my argument and say that I always figured that an actual sea sponge, given mobility and the power of speech, would be much more intelligent and resourceful than SpongeBob. However, I'm happy to be proven wrong, of course. Still, unanswered questions and all....
And I guess the real unanswered question is, why would anyone make an action figure of Ben Affleck from Armageddon?

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Have you noticed how super-heroes always choose names that are pretty immodest? Like Superman, for example. Now, granted, he can do everything in the world, ever, so maybe he has the right to call himself “Super.” I mean, he is better than everyone else, so, okay, bad example.
But how about the Fantastic Four? They're not as powerful as Superman, not as...totally awesome! (Swoon). Ahem. Well, so, what should they call themselves? Well, the Human Torch could be called Hot Guy. The Thing could be called The Whatever. The Invisible Girl could be the No-See-Um. And Mr. Fantastic could be called Mr. Pretty Decent. And the team name could be the Pretty Good Guys. (They blew stuff up a lot, remember.)
And just to be fair, Superman could call himself Really Good Guy. I mean, as long as we're diminishing expectations and all. The proceeding has been brought to you by the Overweening Fairness Commission.

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Speaking of names, you know we could've avoided a lot of torch-waving villagers (a fire hazard) if Frankenstein's creation was called something other than "Frankenstein's Monster."
I mean, "Monster" is just not a good name for anything, not a name you'd choose, I mean. I bet Dr. Frankenstein was not thinking, "I'll make a kill-crazy giant who will terrorize the countryside and hey, may even bring me to my inevitable demise!" Sure, he was a mad scientist, but he wasn't that mad.
So, what was Frankenstein trying to do? The book is a bit vague, but in the movies he's always trying to create a new kind of person. A better kind of person, too. He wants to make everything great. It's not really his fault that it came out cruddy (usually Igor is to blame).
So, I think we should scrap the name "Frankenstein's Monster," and instead call him "Frankenstein's Nice Try." I think that could make everyone all around feel pretty good, and I'm sure it would put a damper on those peasants and their torches. Who'd want to kill someone's "nice try"? That's just downright mean, and you should all be ashamed of yourselves. And put away those torches before you hurt yourselves! You're going to put out someone's eye, mark my words.

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Have you noticed that when people talk about personality types, they are always divided into four? I imagine this started with the four elements of Earth, Air, Fire and Water, which became the mediaeval personalities of Melancholic, Phlegmatic, uh, the Other One, and the Other Other One. Okay, I'll have to edit this one later. The other ones were firey and air-y but I can't recall the names. I know I'll remember them as soon as I post this. If I do, I'll put 'em in brackets.
[The others were Choleric and Sanguine. And yeah, I had to look 'em up. Damn it! Sure wish I was a genius and all.]
But Carl Jung posited four types, too, and people today talk about inner-directed outers, and outer-directed inners and such like that. There are lots and lots of self-help type books which posit different types of personalities. They always end up being four in number.
Note, too, that the simplest genetic table is also contains four spaces (for the various combinations of dominant and recessive genes). There are also four seasons, and four points to the compass.
What's up with the number four?
Notice, though, that in artistic things the most common series number is the trilogy: three.
Does this indicate somehow that four is the perfection of balance, but man's creations are less perfect, less balanced? Is that why these products of man have no correlation in nature? And does their very lack of perfection make them artistic? Does the lack of perfection make us seek them out as a way to experience what it is to be human, while the fours of this world make us feel trapped in something that doesn't change? If you prefer three to four, or four to three, what does that say about your personality, if anything?
What will happen if the question mark key on my keyboard stops working? I'm sure I'll cry bitter tears about that, so don't even say!
I know there's this whole thing called Numerology which probably explains this stuff, but if it's so right, why ain't it rich? I suppose I'll look into it someday cause I like keeping my mind open, but I think I'll develop my own thoughts on this, and maybe I'll write myself one of those four-types books. See you on the best-seller list!

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What are dreams?
Yeah, I know, that's a question that's going to be answered in 25 words or less. But they've always been a part of the human condition, they've been researched for hundreds of years, they've been warnings and portents and part and parcel of history. Religious and political leaders have had dreams which have outlined the paths of history.
What would we be, as a species, if we didn't dream? Would we still be living in caves, or would we be living in some silver spandex-clad future?
I kind of doubt the latter. It seems to me that the question “What if?” and the question “Why?” are a form of inducing waking dreams, which lead to changes and new ways of thinking. Which of course leads to further questions, further changes, further dreams. But that's not what I want to talk about here.
What I want to know is, where do dreams come from, and when they get here, what do they have access to? What kind of resources. Do dreams have access to future events? As I said, many religious and historical events came about because someone had a dream, which they called a Prophecy. The Australian aboriginies have a ritual called the Walkabout, which I do not pretend to understand, but I believe the dream world is involved. I honestly wish I knew more, so I could tell you here. Another topic to research.
Personally, I wear a pager at work, and the staff rotates being “on call” when we can be awakened at any time during the night. And I have had many, many dreams where someone says, “Let me push this button,” they push the button and a loud buzzing noise sounds...and I am awakened by my pager.
So, what exactly is going on, here? The way I see it, there are two possibilities. One: the entire dream happened in the fraction of a second it took for the pager to go off and my brain to recognize the sound, even though the dream itself seemed to go on for many minutes, if not hours. This is certainly a possibility. I can recall some dreams where I was speaking to people I knew, and upon waking, I could recall that the dream person looked nothing like the real person. But I knew who it was. Dreams deal sometimes with fragments of information, the same way our brains do. We see “an apple” and the brain registers the concept and goes on, without really looking at the details of the object in question. In the same way, the dream might present the concept of “Ted” or “Shannon” and we accept and go on. Maybe if we look a bit harder, we can see the details and remember the discrepancies when we wake up.
It may be the same way way with time. The dream may present us with “an hour” and again, we accept it and go on, even though the “real time” may be too small to be measured. The dream may simply hand us concepts one after the other without fleshing them out at all, and we go on. Like reading a book. We read the words and if the author is good, we see the people, the places, hear them speaking and watch them act. Just from words. Perhaps dreams work in the same way.
Again, this is plausible, but it seems to indicate that either our brains are capable of doing incredible things...or dreams come from some hidden place in our minds, something apart from ourselves, that have access to our thoughts and memories, and feed them back to us? I don't know about you, but that sounds a little unsettling. I mean, for the most part dreams are benign, but you always hear the one about, if you dream you're falling, and you don't wake up before the impact...you die! “Your dreams can kill you, say top researchers.”
The second possibility is, that dreams somehow have access to a wider area of perception than our regular minds do. That perhaps, they can access the future.
That would explain how the dream knew that my pager was going to go off. And it might explain those dreams of the religious and political leaders, those dreams of Prophecy. And if these dreams do access the future, maybe it means our minds can access the future as well, which would explain a lot of ESP folks. (One might know another's thoughts simply because they had already occurred in the future.) And it might explain those dreams people have which change the world. Dreams of new technology, new ways of thinking, new Whys, and new What ifs.
In the movie 2001, the aliens never appear, though at the end they are definitely in evidence as they watch Bowman adjust, age, die and be reborn. All this takes place in a few moments of screen time. My own theory is that the aliens are pansynchronous—a word I coined that means they exist simultaneously in all moments of time, simultaneously. For them, it's like having an array of still photographs around them. They can choose to see any one of them, at any time. Backwards, forwards, none of them are closed, unlike our own minds. They can visit any photograph and it is still happening. We can only view the past after it has happened. We can't view the future until it becomes the present, and then the past.
Maybe, unlike our conscious minds, our unconscious minds aren't shackled by time. They can pick and choose among moments past, present...and future. And cook those into our dreams. Maybe. Maybe....
Lots of folks have theories on dreams. I wonder, though, how many of those theories are developed to fit another theory. We may never know. Perhaps, perhaps it will come to us in a dream....

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As of May 31, 2004. To be continued....

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Have you ever noticed how potato chips taste a whole lot better when they're in a bowl, rather than in a bag? (A clear glass bowl is best.) Why do you suppose that is?
Maybe, it's because they're happier in the bowl. They can see what's going on around them, and it's probably a big outdoor picnic with games and people having fun. Or, someone's watching a great movie, with thrilling explosions or devious aliens (or maybe even both!).
Whereas, in the bag, you're just in a bag. A dark bag, filled with moaning depressed fellow chips, all of whom are griping about their lot or wailing for forgiveness. I imagine such an atmosphere would be pretty uncompelling.
So what does that have to do with taste? Outside the bag, you have a wonderful time glimpsing fun all around you, true, ending with crunching teeth or first smothered in “dip,” but that extra zest of experience makes you square your “shoulders” (work with me here) and give a really good crunch of yourself. You're the same chip inside the bag, but no glimpse of this better, happier world. There you are with the rest of those losers in the bag, and remember, contents may have settled during shipping—you know what that means, chip dust. That plays havok with your allergies I bet. It's probably a lot like working in some horrible office where everyone hates his or her job, the difference being take-home pay (probably better for you chips). So, from dank bag to rank gizzard, with perhaps only a stop in some dip that should have been thrown away before it went “bad.” Its no wonder the first group tastes better, they have more to taste for. I bet the second group actually shudders as the teeth close in on them. Have you ever eaten anything that shuddered before as you were biting it? Let me tell you, it's an experience you will never forget, and not in the good sense. I'm sure they also let out little moans. And I bet they get stale and soft a lot faster, probably because they just hate themselves so much.
Now, you might be asking, why should I help a race of giant enthusiasts enjoy themselves if it the whole plan ends when they eat me? Well I must say that's typical of your attitude and that's a good reason why you'll never be a good potato chip. You might as well stop trying now, you don't have what it takes I'm here to tell you. It's just not your “bag,” ha ha ha.
Yes, I know you already have the hat. You should seriously reevaluate your career path. Maybe being a hot dog is more in your line, or perhaps a nice jar of relish? Either way, you'd be refrigerated. I imagine you'd like that, wouldn't you.
As for me, I wish I had a bowl. A nice glass bowl. Instead, I'm surrounded by increasingly morose bags, half-filled with sour, dispirited and desperate chips. I think I hear them, murmuring and whispering....
The lights. Oh my God, what happened to the lights?

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I think it's a sure sign of genius when someone sprays a vaguely cheddar cheese taste on small crackers and sells them in a box. Where's the genius, you ask? The genius is in making the crackers shaped like little smiling fish! Rather than some dull geometric shape, one can chuff vast handfuls of mock sea-pals!
If that's not the howl of genius I hear, then I don't know what is! Just to be safe I'm going to make sure the doors are all locked.

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I saw a sign on the back of a truck today that said MIDDLE EARTH BARBER CORPS. As I got closer though, the words changed to VEHICLE MAKES FREQUENT STOPS! Wow, I knew Elven magic was powerful and all (and I can understand why the Middle Earth Barber Corps needs to stop frequently--they must dull their shears on the dwarfs' beards daily) but I didn't think they could change the very words on a sign! I mean, without repainting it. I could do that, that's not magic at all and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
I asked my cats about it, and they were unconvinced of what I had seen.
Cat 1: "It's just your bad eyesight. It always said the vehicle part. You just can't read at a distance, and your brain tries to make sense from inadequate hints. When you got close enough you could see what it actually said."
Cat 2: "Yeah, you really need new glasses, man."
Cat 3: "I hate everything."
So, even my cats are in on this conspiracy. I guess I need to be careful and atch-way y-may ep-stay.

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I don't think I've ever seen a “Director's Cut” that I've liked better than the original. “Aliens” seems bloated, dumber and more pointless. “Lifeforce” lost its drive and focus and added ridiculous bits. Well, yes, “Lifeforce” already had ridiculous bits, but you didn't notice 'em cos the movie moved so fast. And “Legend”? It seems tired and overly precious and lots dirtier (in the filth-flying-though-the-air sense) and I, for one, just wanted the film to get the heck on with it. Granted, the theatrical version of Legend seems like it was made by Italians...perhaps there's not really a good version of Legend out there. It would make sense. “Star Trek The Motion Picture” may have had its problems in the theatre, but the “new” version out on DVD just seems...wrong. Given the passage of years and the improvement of film technology, you can basically redo anything, but is it a good idea? I mean, why stop with the special effects? Why not replace Leonard Nimoy with Tom Hanks, and William Shatner with Russell Crowe? (Boy, did I just give some casting director a great idea. There's another million I'll never see.)
Well, I seem to have gone off topic. Like that's never happened.
So, more isn't always better. In many cases, like Star Trek, it's the picture of an era, a form of historical document. In a hundred years, this stuff will be seen as fine art. And you don't put a mustache on the Mona Lisa just because it makes it new and different. Well,, you do if you're Marcel Duchamp, but he's a special case (and another topic).
The cut of George Romero's “Dawn of the Dead” that I first saw was about 20 minutes longer than the standard cut...mostly containing scenes that fleshed (sorry) out the characters. There was a later, R-rated version released which was much more comic-book-like, very slick and professional, but without the resonance of the first version. So, finally, a “director's cut” that I like? Well, guess again! Lo and behold, it turns out Romero prefers this second version. So I still don't like “Director's Cuts.”
I wonder why Romero prefers the short version? It's very slick, and maybe he's just tired of being the “independent” “maverick” who never gets any “jobs”. It must be tempting to want to work in Hollywood and get films made on a steady basis, instead of the cult hero whose projects are either cancelled, direct-to-video, or given to other directors. “Resident Evil,” yes, I mean you. They just did a big remake of “Dawn of the Dead” here in the crawling chaos of 2004, and Romero's new project “The Ill” shows that it got cancelled. Then again, it was about vampires so not a big loss.
I wonder what cancelled films would have been really great movies? I bet if you talked to the writers, they'd say “All of them.”

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I'm sure you know the word “Dinosaur” comes from Latin words meaning “terrible lizard.”
Did you realize that means Fred Flintstone named his pet “Terrible”?
So, whenever “Dino” runs out of the house (pets do this), he has to roam the neighborhood, bellowing at the top of his considerable lungs, “Terrible! Terrible! TERRIBLE!” And all his neighbors bellow back (using their own prehistoric lungs) “It's not that bad!” “Yeah, shut up, some things are okay!” “Shaddap ya drunken philosopher!” You see, that last guy was confusing Fred Flintstone with that ancient Greek philosopher who was always walking around with a lantern looking for an honest man. This is because the ancient Bedrockians had so little history they were always getting it all mixed up. Good for them that they knew Latin, though, huh? Even I don't know Latin, and I've been told I'm kind of clever with that stuff I did. Once.
So, Fred Flintstone naming his poor pet “Terrible.” Of course, what can you expect from a man who can't even swear properly?
Now, what I'd really like to know is, what did people mean when they called Dean Martin “Dino”? Did they think he was a Flintstone pet, or did they think he was terrible? I can't speak about the former assumption, but really he wasn't terrible. He did some good songs. And he did that thing, you know, that he was famous for. That wasn't half bad.

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These things are all getting longer and longer. I mean, they're supposed to be little tiny things. They're still tiny things, but they're not so tiny anymore. They're half damned essays! And the essays page isn't even populated yet, as of today. What to do? Um...let me, get back to you on that.

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As of June 30, 2004. To be continued....

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I wonder who named that food called "borscht." I know it's probably Yiddish or Slavic or something, but man, it sounds just like the noise you'd make coughing it up again.

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If clouds were life-forms, I wonder what their lives would be like. You drift around and stuff, occasionally darkening and pouring water on people. Then you see them shake their fists at you. Sometimes, you can snow on them too. Hail, sleet, ice, those rains of fish or blood you hear about--the possibilities are endless it seems. But then, if you (as a human I'm talking now) watch clouds as they move across the sky, you can see parts of them kind of tear off and disentegrate.
I wonder if that hurts?

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You know how sometimes when you try something, and it doesn't work, so you start hitting it or banging it to make it work, and it still doesn't work, only now you're afraid you've broken it and it may never work, so you try again but very softly and all hoping Man-I-hope-I-didn't-just-bust-this-stupid-thing-Please-work-just-this-once-Sorry-about-calling-you-"stupid"-but-I'm-slightly-going-crazy-here and eventually you realize that it's not broken but just isn't going to work and the thing to do is to sit back and try to relax and let it cool down a bit, do something else and come back later to it and maybe it will be all right? Well, this July has been a lot like that. See you next month.

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As of July 30, 2004. To be continued....

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When will people learn that pizza is a right, not a priviledge?

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I thought up a new word, “electroniclowns.” Admittedly, this sounds like something Forest J Ackerman would have coined, but he didn't, I did. So, if you want to use it, feel free (I won't charge anything) but you really ought to give me credit. It's the decent thing to do, after all, unless you're one of those rotten electroniclowns.

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There was this chap that no one liked, and he made this special kind of cake-mix that you could use to coat your house in a protective layer of cake. The idea was, it would make your house all warm and toasty and nice to be in, and also, if you fell down and stopped working, you could eat cake while you waited for better times.
The problem was that the cake was as inferior in ingrediental make-up as the chap who invented it (as you'll recall, no one liked him) and it rotted rather swiftly. Soon, the house-holders who had been foolish to trust this man found that their houses rotted into funguous masses of black, rotten horror, which collapsed into swirling pools of ichor, sometimes with valuable furniture or memorabilia trapped inside.
Well, several countries (Britain, Spain, Italy, Japan and some of those other places that are all foreign) issued a review of this even-less-liked chap's invention, and it was a scathingly negative one.
It was titled “The International Pan of House Cakes.”

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You know what would be a great device? A remote control for traffic lights. Just think: you're driving along when, ahead of you, the light turns yellow. With the push of a button, you turn it green again, and drive on through! I'd probably wait for the programmable remote, though, the one where you can tell it that the lights along some certain path should all be green while you're driving through there.
Then, naturally, there would be Remote Wars between opposing drivers, with more and more powerful remotes being wielded by drivers. In fact, you might drive with a passenger whose sole function was to Remote the lights. (Remember how they laughed when you spent all that time playing Xbox? Now you can laugh right back!)
Criminals could use the remotes to elude the police, but then the police could remote right back so the criminals would get pancaked by a semi—a semi filled with retired fruitcake!
I bet this idea makes someone a billion dollars, and I bet they don't give me a dime for all my brainstorming.

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I read a lot of “blogs” on this “internet” thing. And I've discovered that I no longer watch the electroniclowns on the network news anymore. And you may beg to differ (go ahead, beg! Beg!) but I think I'm better informed because of it.

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I took some pictures of the Moon recently. I used this huge zoom lens that I have, and a teleconverter, and while they weren't perfect, they were pretty cool.
The thing is, I don't know if the Moon thought I was a paparazzi, or if the Moon was frightened by the lens, or what, but...I haven't seen the Moon since.

If any of you know the Moon, would you mind telling it that I just wanted to take some pictures, and I wasn't trying to wreck its privacy or be snoopy or anything. <Scuffling feet> I just wanted some pictures of the Moon. Also, mention in passing that I would like to take more, so that if it sees me, it will know what's going on and not get all scared or offended.
Thanks!

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Have you ever been in the drugstore, walking down unfamiliar aisles, and you suddenly spot something that sounds like a solution to one of your problems? “Oh, hey, I have [some symptom, “owl-shaped eyes,” or whatever]! This sounds perfect!” And you purchase the product, bring it home, and then start to read all the caveats?

“NOT to be taken INTERNALLY. If ANY of this gets inside you, you will SHRINK to the SIZE of a COIN.”

“NOT to be used other than for its STRICTLY DEFINED USE. Any other USAGE will turn you into the tallest MAN in the WORLD.”

“If ANY of this TOUCHES your TONGUE, you will POSSIBLY BURST.”

“DANGER! Use of this product near WATER may cause DINOSAURS to ATTACK.”

“NOT to be used as a FLOTATION DEVICE, DAMN you!”

“Do NOT use near an OPEN FLAME. DOING so will DETONATE the SUN.”

I have a whole shelf of these things, all carefully put away. I'm not only afraid of USING them, I'm afraid of OFFENDING them.

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Remember how comic books would put on the cover, “Because YOU demanded it!” and would then go on to proclaim, “The ORIGIN of MEAT-GUN!”
Well, I don't know about you, but I never demanded any such thing. Had comics been run my way, it would have read, “Because YOU demanded it! ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS!”
I would have bought every issue, too. If, on the other hand, you demanded the origin of Meat-Gun...well, nice going. We could have had one hundred dollars.

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If they introduced a super-hero called The Astonisher, with the tagline, “He can do anything you imagine!” I'd say, “Well, I can imagine him buying me some cigarettes.”
You might get away with it, too. And if not, being on the side of justice and all, the worst the Astonisher could give you was a stern talking-to.

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If someone says to you, “I used to be a gorilla, but now I'm much smaller,” chances are good that you're talking to a chimpanzee. One way to be certain is to “Check his library”—if there are a lot of books about bananas, it's a good guess you've found your chimp.
One bit of bad advice is, “Check his pants.” It turns out that this is a threshold for many, many species, and now you've got a furious creature all mad at you, and you don't even know what kind of creature it is. You don't even know if offering it a banana would help.

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I think a pretty good mutant power would be to always know what the opening weekend business of any movie is going to be, down to the dollar. You could make some good money betting with your friends. However, they'd soon grow suspicious of your hidden nature, and you'd probably have to drift from town to town, making a few bucks here and there before your reputation caught up with you, and you'd have to move on.
But you'd know in advance which theatres had unpopular movies in them, and you could probably catch some sleep that way. And if the movie woke you up, well, free movie.

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You know, people need things. But I don't think things need people.

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I saw the Moon last night! I'm glad to know it was not gone permanently. I didn't take any pictures, because I didn't want to take any chances and mess things up again.

Hey, thank you very much to whoever passed the word on to the Moon. Kudos!

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Stephen Den Beste is an insightful, thoughtful, thorough and engaging writer. He has written brilliant essays on a wide range of subjects, from politics and history, to science and military matters, to anime and popular culture. In times when others have sounded alarms and raised the flag high, his calm, rational and reasonable words have brought needed sanity, at least to me. His website, denbeste.nu, is one that I visit daily, and I always learn something.

A couple of days ago, I learned that Mr. Den Beste has decided to cease writing for the web. In his latest, and apparently last post, he details the reasons. I'll summarize, probably getting many details wrong, but here goes.

Apparently, he deals with a flood of emails every time he posts, some supportive, some combative, some nitpicking, According to his final post, the anticipation of these responses started to make him hesitate to write, as he could imagine the letters; he began to hate the idea of posting his thoughts, and finally he decided it wasn't worth it. He wasn't enjoying it anymore. A cloud of electronic wasps took shape and overwhelmed the urge to share his insights.

In the past, I wrote him a couple of times (simple questions) which he graciously answered. I kind of feel bad that I did that, but I did and I can't take it away. So I was part of it. (I always hesitated before sending--I felt terrified, in fact--but I did anyway.)

However, what he may not understand, and what I barely kind of understand, and what I'm going to bark on about anyway, is the power of his thinking. It is so clear, so reasonable and so enlightening, that it's understandable why it's so attractive to want to become a part of it, to participate as well as read, to contribute to what is clearly a great, ongoing work.

Other web writers (notably James Lileks, who is also brilliant) have complained of this kind of attention, which from their point of view I can see as an annoyance. You write something, and a storm appears on the horizon. It may be a hailstorm or a storm of fresh candy, eitherway, there's a lot of it and there's no escape. You watch it form, knowing that you brought it about. The web brings the world closer, perhaps too close, so that's it's easy to see a great writer not as some unapproachable titan, but as a next-door neighbor. How many sit-coms have you seen where the “wacky” next-door neighbor was actually a moronic pain-in-the-rear.

It's a shame that neighbor had his final say, and Mr. Den Beste will post no more.

Brilliant thinking will not disappear from the web, but the internet is much poorer now.

Mr. Den Beste, I will miss your work.

Thank you.

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As of August 31, 2004. To be continued....

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I recently read Frankenstein for the first time. For the most part, rather dull it is. After about 100 pages of flowery talk and flouncing fancies, with a bit of harumphing about the Dark Arts, the Monster is created and escapes in a couple of paragraphs! Then there's some other dull bits with a couple of distant murders, and finally F catches up with the FM and the M tells his story about living in a hovel and that story goes on forever! And it just goes on from there, with a bunch of yearning and aching and rueful regrets, etc. Then everyone DIES! How they managed to spawn a multi-million dollar monster legacy from this...this...this THING completely escapes me, like most other things.

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Speaking of books, did you notice that around the same time Poe was foaming with ghouls, novels were frequently issued with two titles? "Frankenstein: Or The Modern Prometheus" was how the novel ref'd above was published. Others'd be like "A Rotten Man, or, Giles Gets His Dampers" or "Reprehensible, or, Beneath Contempt." Has anyone ever referred to these books by the second title? Did authors think that people would buy the book twice or something (because people would think it was a new book), or were they just trying to give readers more of a choice (“I read The Red Pencil, and liked it.” “Harumph, well, I read The Green MeatBall, and hated it!” [hankies flung and swords drawn])? Say that could be another book: Hankies Flung, or, Swords Drawn.

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I was driving in my car on a road the other night, and I saw this restaurant called Applebees which is a chain. You may, perhaps, have at one time seen one! Anyway, the "Apple" part of the sign was burnt out, so all it said was "bees" which struck me as quite the humorous affair. Imagine hearing someone say "Hey, let's go to this place that's called 'bees'! They might have thousands of bees in there! We can eat our dinner under a genuine threat" Then, imagine being right for once!

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Have you noticed that the word "smattering" doesn't seem to have any form other than its own gerund? People say "There was a smattering of newpaper advertisements around the old gentleman's leisure chair" but no one ever says "I think I'll go smatter some grass seeds on the lawn" or "That damn dog smattered our garbage again."

Likewise, the word "feckless" doesn't seem to have a positive form, ie, "feckful." Usually one hears of a "feckless youth" and it means a somewhat gawky, gangling adolescent covered in a thin layer of slightly sticky sweat. But no one would ever refer to a handsome, confident man as "feckful." Or "fecking," that's just too dangerous to say! Also "gawky" doesn't have a negative, "gawkless" which would be good to apply to things like sleeping cats or the resting elderly.

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I thought of a new kind of product that could be quite lucrative: Ghoul Chow. It couldn't be more foul than many cat foods (Sea Horror, Blanched Charnal, Humans-Faint-O'er-It, Mashed Deadcake). You could probably buy ghoul chow in large sacks, and it may be the kind that "makes its own gravy" and perhaps Ghouls ask for it by name! And they might have Senior Mix for old ghouls. There's a million dollars waiting for someone to open this market, plus, the Ghouls think you're “okay” and they won't, well, you know, um, eat YOU instead.

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When you're taking a shower, and as you're washing yourself, and chunks of you start falling off as you're doing it, I suppose like me you think, “This can't be a good thing.” But can you think of any circumstances when it would be a good thing?

Well, I can think of one: if you were a rampaging, radioactive giant monster who was stomping on, and threatening, and eating (ick) mankind—in short, doing all the things which consistute “Menacing Mankind” (above the level of “Bothering Mankind”)--then, yes, it would be a good thing if you decided to bathe and that turned out to be your destruction. I mean, can't you just hear the music take an upswing while the narrator talks about how this must have been part of the Grand Design of Things? I wish I could buy that soundtrack, you know, for everyday life!

But of course, if you are hearing that music, it probably means you're a monster from the fifties, so you're probably pretty old anyway and were just about to toddle off to Monster Heaven. You know, hibernating for millions of years followed by a few weeks of intense activity really takes it out of you. Plus, being millions of years old would probably make you pretty crotchety. Maybe that's why Godzilla et al were always rampaging: they were just darn cranky and, let's face a few facts here...I've never been to Tokyo, but in the films and pictures and stuff I've seen, and from what I've read, it's a riot of noise and color and flashing lights. It seems just the sort of place to make an old person all bitter and stuff. And if that old person was fifty feet tall and had atomic breath, well....

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As of September 30, 2004. To be continued....

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Have you noticed how we refer our pets' genders?

We say, I have two "male" tabbies, or my labrador retriever is a good "girl."

We never refer to them as "men" or "women." And as for "ladies and gentlemen," I think you can forget that! At least until they stop knocking my stuff off the tables. Ladies and gentlemen don't knock things off tables

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I had written earlier about how flies' own buzzing must drive them to distraction, which is why they've never achieved anything better than “fly.”

However, I have to wonder if the opposite is true for bees (who are, after all, frequently used as a metaphor for industriousness). Perhaps their buzzing (admittedly less lackluster sounding than fly noise) is something they use to keep up the pace, as it were. They may thrive on noise, which is why shouting at them has no effect.

So I wonder what would happen if they put a CD of John Cage's music into their little bee CD players. They would probably enjoy the buzzing and clanking of the prepared piano works, but what would happen when they "heard" his imfamous work, 4'33" (which consists solely of silence)?

Why, they would expect sound of course, and the unexpected silence would probably drive them berzerk! I bet this is how swarms start.

In fact, I would further bet that teenage bees, who play the work as a "prank," feel pretty bad about the mayhem they caused, and straighten right out and become productive members of (bee) society.

There's a lesson for us all in there somewhere.

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Surfing the internet used to be like visiting thr lbrary of congree and the british museum at the same time, while seated in the largest shopping mall in the world, surrounded by friendly people and helpful search engines.

Now, with popups, spyware, email farming, page hijacking and I don't know what else, it's like going alone into the bad part of town at midnight when the buses have all broken down, the police are on strike and most of the streetlights are burned out.

It used to be fun to go exploring. What amazing new things you could find. Now, you'd be a fool to do that.

Who's responsible for all the spyware and your farmbots and such? Creeps and jerks, to be sure, but perhaps something else. I've been thinking lately that perhaps there are things that actually live on the internet (like those things that live in hyperspace), and they have these powers, see, and their using our human brains to propagate themselves. Maybe these spyfarms and wreckbots and what-not are their way of reproducing and flourishing.

I'm starting to scare myself....

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As of October 31, 2004. To be continued....