Trivial Hoot Sixteen

Hey there puzzlers. Time for another trivia quiz. It's a Star Trek question, so put on your Academy thinking caps.

Here is a list of six Star Trek episodes.

The Naked Time. Tomorrow is Yesterday. The City on the Edge of Forever. Assignment: Earth. The Lights of Zetar. All Our Yesterdays.

One of these episodes does not belong on this list. Which one is the odd man out, and why?

Once again, the first person to answer correctly wins an ephemeral hoot and entry to our honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men and Women. Have at it my fellow Trekkies.

The Aztecs Had It Right

It's a big consumer orgy, a celebration of life that is also a season of buying lots and lots of stuff. Sure, it's lots of fun (except for the people who work hard to make it happen for all the rest of you), but it is also exhausting and expensive. We do it every year, year after year, and we call it Christmas. And I say it is just too much. Buying ourselves into debt in December, then paying for it all year until the next December, is madness. Which is why I'm advocating a return to a simpler, more American time. I say we should look to Mesoamerica for our authentic traditions and embrace the ways of our Aztec forefathers. Now they knew how to have a consumer orgy/celebration of life.

First of all, they didn't do it annually. They did it only once every 52 years.

The Aztecs knew that the earth would eventually come to an end. Their religion taught that there had been four previous worlds and they had all died. They knew that this one would be destroyed by earthquakes. They knew that this destruction would happen at the end of one of their calendar's 52 year cycles. They just didn't know which cycle it would be. So once every 52 years they would would spend five days getting ready just in case history was ending. They'd get all their stuff, plates and pots and whatnots, break them, and throw them away. They'd clean up, make the house all spick-and-span, douse any fires they had burning, and then climb up on the roof to watch the end of the universe. It was like everybody going off to visit Milliways at the same time.

The priests were also looking to the skies, but they weren't just sight-seeing. They were looking for the Pleiades. When it reached its zenith and continued on they knew that the world had not come to an end and it was time to begin the New Fire ceremony.

First they had to light a fire. This was terribly important because if the fire was not lit the sun would not rise in the morning, having been destroyed forever. Since it was so important they naturally started the fire on some guy's chest. Everyone was pretty nervous as they did their best boy scout imitations, including the guy they were using as a hearth. Once the fire got going everyone would breathe a sigh of relief, then they'd take the fire off the guy and get it good and roaring. The fellow with the burned chest was then cut open and his heart would be removed and thrown into the fire. Let the party begin!

The fire would be carried to a temple in the capital city where it would be used to light specially made torches. Runners would then take the flame to all parts of the empire and it would eventually light every hearth in the land. Imagine the beauty and joy of the ceremony, the New Fire being carried into town, the warmth of the flames, the renewal of life and the connection of every home in country to one another and to the universe.

Then, of course, came the consumer orgy. Since everything had just been broken up and thrown away everybody would need to buy all new stuff. Happy New Fire! Here's a pot. Here's a new obsidian knife. Here's a floor mat. And we've got to pick up a whole new set of household idols.

There would be much rejoicing, especially among the makers and sellers of stuff. And I imagine that everyone was pretty thankful that this wonderful day usually only happened once or twice in a lifetime.

So I say, let's get back to the good old days, the old time religion of the Aztecs. Sure, it had some gruesome bits, but it still beats having to go through Christmas every year.

By the way, what's the Nahuatl word for humbug?

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-Four

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. No put the foundations under them.” – Henry David Thoreau

Dream. Dream wild dreams. Then dare to do the work to follow those dreams to the wild places where they are true.

Intellect and Romance Triumph Over Brute Force and Cynicism

Extreme Awesomeness

It's the Least Wonderful Time of the Year

The holiday season.  Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, HumanLight, Kwanzaa, Festivus, Eid al-Adha, Boxing Day, Feast of Stephen, Soyal, Yule, Life Day.  Phooey.  Flummery.  I suppose humbug would be traditional.  In my line of work it means that my time and energy are at their greatest premium.  So this is my annual announcement that you will hear less from me than usual.  I'll try to surface for air from time to time, but don't hold your breath.  Enjoy your holidays.  Bah!

The Day it Rained Whale

Forty years ago today . . . this happened.



This may be the best news story ever broadcast. November 12, 1970, the Oregon Highway Division reasoned that the best way to move a dead whale would be to use dynamite. It went about as well as you might expect.

As the Blogoshere Turns

I really don't like Jar Jar Binks and I've never seen the appeal of cartoons designed to look like Legos, so it's saying something that the Video O' the Week is a Lego cartoon featuring Jar Jar Binks.  It's another great post on Electronic Cerebrectomy.

Fast Paced NBA Action!

It's where amazing happens! No, wait a second . . . I meant to say something dull, like "60 years of honoring great American books." If you're like me you are all a-tingle for the National Book Awards. Or perhaps I'm tingling because I forgot to take my medication this morning. Either way, you want to watch The Totally Hip Book Reviewer break down this year's finalists. No, seriously, you do.

Sherlock Holmes Versus Jack the Ripper!

By no means is Dust and Shadow the first time a Sherlock Holmes pastiche has pitted the great detective against Victorian London's most notorious villain, Jack the Ripper, but it is certainly the best I've read. First time novelist Lyndsay Faye did a wonderful job of writing in the spirit of Arthur Conan Doyle while cranking up the pace for the jaded modern reader.

I am by no means a ripperologist (a rather grim historical specialty), nor would I qualify as a Sherlockian, but I have some familiarity with the crimes and I have read the canonical stories a few times. I'd say that Faye folded Holmes into the Whitechapel case seamlessly, using the proper Watsonian narrative style. And I loved every minute of it.

Which really is something of an accomplishment. We know that when Holmes is trying to prevent the next murder he is doomed to failure, because we know the history. The next crime will take place because it did take place. Yet we are carried along with the adventure, wondering what twist will be put on the facts, what insights Holmes will have into the identity of Jack.

Faye gives us the Watson and Holmes that we know and love. If I have any quibble it is that Holmes seems to show a good deal of sympathy toward the story's principal female character, which is a role usually assigned to Watson; but then she was an impressive woman. The characters, familiar (Lestrade is particularly well drawn) and unfamiliar, are engaging. The setting, often a very important part in these stories, is vivid. The crimes themselves are gruesomely fascinating. Enough of the details are revealed to horrify, but not enough to sicken.

One of the things that makes Jack the Ripper such a good subject for fiction is the fact that the murders will forever remain a mystery. It frees writers to come up with any solution they wish. The solution here works and the ending is satisfying. This is a Guaranteed Good Read for anyone who likes a mystery, especially a Sherlock Holmes mystery.

Invaluable Advice

Very short book review here of a thin volume published in 1965 and written by that eminent expert in proper behavior, Miss Hyacinthe Phypps. I was attracted to the book by the illustrations of that illustrious illustrator, Edward Gorey, but I must say I was was quite taken by the wise advice that Miss Phypps provides for the eponymous subject of the work, The Recently Deflowered Girl. A variety of delicate social situations that a recently deflowered girl might find herself in are described, and the offered wisdom never fails to be sound. What, for example, would you say if you had been deflowered by an elevator operator, a famous crooner, or a Chinese detective? Do you know the proper response if you find that you have been deflowered in a Moroccan palace, on a cross-country bus, or at a séance? Of course you don't. But you would had you read this book. And you would surely have found the drawings by the wonderful Mr. Gorey to be helpful and illuminating. In a time when such advice is sorely needed I am gratified that this volume has been republished.

Be Seeing You

A friend of mine has a disease called retinitis pigmentosa. That means that when he was a kid his vision started to deteriorate. By the time he was a teenager he was “legally blind.” That meant that he would never drive a car and never do the things he had dreamed of doing just a few years before. It also meant that he would continue to lose his sight. Every year it would be just a little bit worse, until his vision would be gone completely. Years would pass, decades would pass, but there would be no light at the end of this tunnel. Only tunnel.

So I'm pretty excited by this news out of Germany that scientists have developed an implant that could give my friend back some of his vision, possibly enough to read. We do, perhaps, live in an age of miracle and wonder.

For the Children

You've probably heard that phrase before. We have to do this, “for the children.” We must ban that, “for the children.” Those who would censor, restrict, or regulate always say it is “for the children.” When my state attorney general, Martha Coakley, helped draft a law to regulate naughtiness on the internet, it was “for the children.” Never mind that it was an unconstitutional infringement of the
First Amendment (a federal judge recently said so when she struck it down). When Tipper Gore got warning labels on CDs, it was “for the children.” When Joe Leiberman tried to regulate computer games, it was “for the children.” Smashing rock 'n roll records, banning pinball, burning Harry Potter books, it's all “for the children.” As Robert Heinlein wrote in “The Man Who Sold the Moon,” “The whole principle is wrong. It's like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can't have steak.”

One of the earliest moral panic episodes of the past century was the “great comic-book scare.” In his excellent book on the subject, The Ten-Cent Plague, David Hajdu gives us a history of comics in the 1950s, the men and women who made them, and the panicked, duped, self-serving, or just downright venal people who destroyed the industry.

Mr. Hajdu writes a good history of comics, delving into the lives and personalities of their creators as well as their social milieu. At first I thought this might be off of the main point of the book, the censorship of comics. Often in pop-culture histories the writer will take extended sidetracks into parts of the story that are fun to read and write about. While I enjoyed these section of the book I had, in my mind, judged them to be a minor flaw in the narrative structure. But I was wrong. By laying down a solid (and very interesting, especially for a comic book fan like me) foundation describing the writers, artists, publishers, and their work, it put many of the arguments of the anti-comics forces into a context that demonstrated the wrongness of their position.

Some may be surprised to read about what a big issue this was at the time. Public comic book burnings were held all over the country. Local censorship boards sprung up across the map. Congressional hearings on the subject were broadcast on live television. Major newspapers like the Hartford Courant wrote editorials calling for an end to the comics menace. Fredric Wertham's infamous comic-bashing book The Seduction of the Innocent was a bestseller. Publishers and newsstand owners were threatened with prosecution, years before the CBLDF was even imagined. It is a remarkable story.

I'd call this a must-read for any real comics fan and a good read for anyone interested in American history, pop-culture, art, or witch trials.

Trivial Hoot Fifteen

Hoo, it's been a long time since I've been in a question posing mood. We just watched the second episode of Sherlock here and noted that it echoed the canonical Sherlock Holmes story “The Adventure of the Dancing Men” in that Holmes cracked a code. In the original story it was a substitution code with stick figures replacing letters. The question then: what was the first letter that Holmes figured out? This should be elementary for even the most casual Sherlockians.

As always, the first person to give me the correct answer gets an ephemeral hoot and gets his or her name added to our list of Steely-Eyed Missile Men.

St. Lewis of Black

I've read some of the works of evangelical atheists, so I thought I knew what to expect when I was handed Me of Little Faith, a book on religion by avowed atheist Lewis Black. I was wrong.

Not entirely wrong. I expected funny, I got funny. I expected it to be witty, to use humor to cast a harsh light on some of the more ridiculous aspects of organized religion, and I got that. I expected a classic Lewis Black angry rant or two, and I expected the book to be profane and irreverent. Naturally.

I also expected it to take cheap shots at faith. I expected smug arrogance, like I've heard from Bill Mahr. I expected weak straw man (straw God?) arguments like I've read in Christopher Hitchens. I expected to see the inane “how can you believe in a big buddy in the sky” sort of junk that passes for reason I've seen way too often.

I didn't expect thoughtfulness. I didn't expect self-doubt, which is usually lacking in evangelical atheists and their equally fanatical counterparts, religious zealots. I didn't expect respect for people of faith. But that's what I got.

So forgive me Lewis Black. I should have had more faith in you.

Me of Little Faith is a funny, occasionally laugh out loud funny, collection of very short essays, mostly on the subject of religion. Some are clever, some are terrific, some are just a passing thought on paper. It includes a play that Black wrote a few years ago that he admits the critics didn't like, and I'm afraid I'm with the critics. And near the end it includes Black's idea for a new religion. One based on the idea that God, whatever He may be, wants you to laugh.

In that, I think I think I am luckier than the famously disgruntled comedian. I actually believe in that God already. Isn't that funny?

Give a Hoot . . . or Die

I love the shirt they're selling today at Woot.

Woodsy means business. And he's looking at you, punk.

Eat Food

Regular readers might recall my going on about Food Rules, Michael Pollan's pithy follow-up to In Defense of Food. Now I've gone ahead and read that book, subtitled “An Eater's Manifesto.” So should you, if you are concerned at all about food.

And you ought to be, you know. Concerned. We're living in an age when going to the market means filling our carts with the products of food science. The first two words of Pollan's famous dictum, “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants,” is no joke. Most of what we feed ourselves with today is not food but “edible foodlike substances.”

Mankind has been eating animals and plants for millennia. Only in the last few years have we begun eating products that are made in plants. What is this vast experiment in the way we eat doing to us? We are beset with obesity, heart disease, cancer, and diabetes. Scientists tells us that a child born today has a one in three chance of getting a diagnosis of diabetes sometime in his life.

Who is to blame for all this? Business, of course, is one villain. So is food science in the employ of that business. Government, in it's efforts to do something for us, as usual, does something to us. Surprisingly, one of Pollan's biggest villains is nutritional science.

At first I had trouble with this. Yes, I could see that scientific errors, hubris, and bad communication had caused many problems, but Pollan's condemnation of what is he prefers to call “nutritionism” seemed off. Surely it is good to know about vitamins, fiber, and such.

But as I read I began to understand what Pollan was driving at. Science is a reductionist discipline. It has a tendency to look at the bits and pieces of something, see what they do and how they work together. The problem is that food is a complex subject. We don't yet really understand all the dynamics of the interaction between the complex things we put on our plates and the complex beings that do the eating. But nutrition science learns something about a part of our food and goes from there. The classic example is the “lipid hypothesis.” You know it as the concept that fat in our food is bad for us. Fat is to be avoided. Science said so. So now there are low-fat versions of everything. They're more chemical than food, but the label says it is good for us because it is low-fat. Problem is, it turns out that there really isn't much evidence, all these years later, that fat in food is all that bad. Sure, overindulging in anything isn't the best idea, but fat is an essential part of our system. It makes your brain work, for one thing. But fat was the enemy, so it had to come out of the foods that we had been eating. Pigs were bred so that they'd be less fatty (and less tasty). And butter was right out. My parents always had margarine on the table. No unhealthy butter for us. There was overwhelming scientific consensus (how we love that phrase) that this new miracle of food science, margarine, was good, and butter, which was higher in fat, was bad. Margarine had some fat, but not as much, because it was made with a wonderful new invention called trans fat. I think you know how that worked out for us.

In fact, since nutritionism took over from traditional cuisine American waistlines have increased as have our medical bills.

Perhaps you are still diligently searching the grocery aisles for chemically jiggered low-fat versions of your favorite foods. You haven't heard that scientific consensus has shifted away from it? Why do you suppose that public health officials have been slow to correct themselves? What are they afraid of? Pollan suggests that they are afraid that “we'll come to the unavoidable conclusion that the emperors of nutrition have no clothes and never listen to them again.”

More than an attack on food science, In Defense of Food is a call for mindfulness about how and what we eat. It is a reminder that the brightly colored packages in the middle of the grocery store may contain attractive and tasty products, but they are not really food and they are probably not very good for us. It is a call for a return to a more traditional diet with foods that have been traditionally grown, not manufactured in a factory or doused in chemicals, injected with hormones, or otherwise “improved” to make them more profitable. It is a Glenn Guaranteed Good Read and as long as you plan to eat in America, an important one.

As the Blogoshere Turns

It's been a good week in Lake Blogosphere.  I've bumped into a few things that I rather liked.

I found our Video O' the Week via Folderol.  It's on a baseball blog called Foul Territory and shows the Texas Rangers, my current favorite team (go Rangers, beat those Yankees!) celebrating their division championship.  While normally such locker room celebrations feature champagne showers, the Rangers had a special ginger ale-only celebration for outfielder Josh Hamilton, who is a recovering alcoholic.  That, my friends, is what we mean by the word "team."

Our Cat O' the Week is also a video.  Incurable Insomniac presents Cat vs. Printer -- The Translation (warning--NSFW language).

In the Picture O' the Week our Canadian correspondent Calvin gazes south from his Cave of Cool to remind us that the presidency of Barack Obama contains an element of positive change for America that is as beautiful as it is exciting.  And if you think I'm being hyperbolic, you obviously haven't been paying attention for the last couple of centuries.

Finally, the Post O' the Week is by Bill Peschel.  It's a true tale of a literary hoax involving Jean Shepherd (of A Christmas Story fame), Theodore Sturgeon, Frank Kelly Freas, Ian and Betty Ballantine, saucy bawds, and seventeenth century sex scandals.  How can you not love that?

Geek-in-Chief

As you and most of the free world have probably heard by now, President Obama will appear on an upcoming episode of MythBusters. At first I wondered why. What is his hidden purpose? Then I heard the details. The arch-liberal has ordered Adam and Jamie to retest the Archimedes death ray. Clearly this is all part of a plan to replace our nuclear weapons with a solar powered alternative. Well that didn't work when Jimmy Carter tried it, and it won't work now!

I wonder if we can get people to start spreading that around the interwebs as a serious conspiracy theory? That'd be cool.

As soon as I heard that the president would be on MythBusters I knew we'd start seeing the Obama-haters making the usual idiotic comment about “more important things to do.” What some so-called patriots don't understand about the American system of government is that the president has two constitutional roles. He is the head of government and the head of state. In most of the world's nations these roles are separated. In the UK the head of government is the prime minister, the head of state is the monarch. In Germany the head of government is the chancellor, the head of state is the president. In Finland the head of government is prime minister, the head of state is the president. In America both jobs go to one person. As head of government he does important stuff like propose legislation, veto bills, run the executive branch, and command the armed forces. As head of state he is the embodiment of our national spirit. Like a walking, talking flag, he is the symbol of what we think of as American virtues. He hands out awards to writers and artists. He poses for pictures with Boy Scouts and astronauts. He calls the winner of the Superbowl and meets the World Series champions in the Rose Garden. And this president encourages math and science.

According to what I've read, the announcement occurred during the first ever meeting of a president with science fair winners. If that is so I am astounded. It seems the most reasonable thing in the world that the president would boost American science education in this way. If Mr. Obama is the first to do this then he deserves high praise for this wise and proper exercise of his office. And what better way to get lots of young people excited about science than to appear on the most popular of science popularizing TV shows, MythBusters?

Will a pro-science president encourage learning and lead to a generation of more educated Americans? It's plausible. And if things work out, we might even end up with a solar powered death ray.

Political What If . . .?

Marvel Comics used to publish an occasional comic book in which they posed “what if” question and told a story that was strictly outside of the “canon.” What if Spider-Man joined the Fantastic Four? What if Dr. Doom became a hero? What if Invisible Girl married the Sub-Mariner? (Ew, ick on that last one)

I like to play political what if. For example, the people of California are going to vote in a referendum next month in which they may decide to decriminalize and regulate marijuana use and growth. Far out, huh? Okay, just for fun, what if John McCain had won and he was our president now?

I'll just bet that he would have his Attorney General tell the Californians that it didn't matter what they wanted, the feds would continue to prosecute recreational and medical users. The 10th Amendment can be ignored by Presidents, the Commerce Clause allows Washington to override all state laws, and the will of the people be damned. The President would insist that the demon weed be destroyed wherever it is found to prevent the scourge of reefer madness.

Whew. Scary story. Fortunately, it is only a “what if.” Good thing we voted for change.

John

As just about everyone has pointed out by now, John should have been 70 today.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Another light week of monitoring the great blogophere brings us the Picture(s) O' the Week.  Love these takes on Starry Night from Popped Culture.  Go forth and be enlightened.

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number 24

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." -- H.P. Lovecraft

Fear of the unknown is primal. The unknown, after all, is where the monsters of our imagination live. Fear teaches us caution, which keeps us alive to cower another day, but, conversely, it is also fear that drives us forward, into the unknown. We are driven to explore, to find out what lives behind the mountains, what is inside the old house, the isolated town, the forbidden tome. We defeat the unknown, again and again, and keep fear at bay.

Of course, if you're writing weird fiction, you're going to want to fill that unknown with hideous, horrible, unspeakable creatures of eldritch power, unimaginable age, and a physical presence that calls reality itself into question. And maybe some tentacles.

I Have Great Taste In Music

You'll be singing it all day. Or not.

It's More Than a Game

With the Ken Burns Baseball series now in its tenth inning, my mind turned back to an earlier time. A time when compelling documentaries were shown on PBS, and snarky public radio guys made fun of it. Here is a broadcast of NPR's Only a Game from many years ago. You can listen to the whole thing if you like, but I'd skip ahead to minute 43:20 to hear the compelling story of . . . Candlepin.

This, by the way, may only be amusing to people from New England and the Maritimes, where we play a regional variant of bowling that is, frankly, more fun.

Mr. Monk and My Mental Vacation

I just took a little business trip. It involved four flights and lots of time sitting in airports, so I figured I'd need to bring an extra book. It needed to be small and I wanted something not too challenging. That would usually mean an old Star Trek novel, but this time I grabbed a Monk mystery.

Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse was kind of fun. It is the first in the series by Monk writer Lee Goldberg. The troubled detective and Natalie, his Dr. Watson, investigate the murder of a firefighter's dog. If you are familiar with the Monk TV series you can probably guess that Monk is, coincidentally, called in to investigate an unrelated murder that is, in fact, related. Then, through a series of remarkable observations, leaps in logic, and what seem to be lucky guesses, Monk solves the crime.

The Monk mysteries aren't the kind where you are intrigued by the puzzle. They are the kind where you enjoy seeing the engaging characters overcome a problem. And the characters are engaging, but only if you've seen the TV series and have a fondness for it. As a stand-alone novel this is pretty weak stuff. Not that Goldberg doesn't try. He works to flesh out the characters and does a nice job, but the fun of something like this is that you already know the characters.

A book like this doesn't really want a review. It is light, simple reading for people who enjoyed the series; pleasant, if you don't let yourself think too much about it. Good for planes, trains, and those days you want to give your brain a vacation.

Shine On Harvest Moon

Stan and Babe in a tribute to tonight's Harvest Moon.

As the Blogoshere Turns

A short spin of the Blogosphere this week as we focus on the Cats O' the Week. Jaquandor warns of of the impending danger of Laser Cats!

Yesterday my mother told me that my niece is going to play laser tag. I told her what that meant and spent the next five minutes assuring her that no one would lose their eyesight.

Cats would be awesome at laser tag.

OK Woof

OK Go has a new video, with doggie goodness. You know you want to watch it.

As the Blogoshere Turns

I've had a pretty full week and haven't had a whole lot of time to myself, but I did run across some good stuff that I thought I'd share with you.  Once again, if I can't produce a good blog myself, the least I can do is point out some that you should be following.

Our Video O' the Week is from Popped Culture, with an important message for the god in your life.

Our Picture O' the Week is from the Gunslinger.  Yvonne Craig.  Bikini.  And I just lost half my readers.

For the rest of you, check out the overall Post O' the Week.  It is from 27b/6 and is the most fun that a blogger can have with a troll.

A Little Family Update From Afghanistan

I just wanted to share this picture of my cousin, Sgt. Hughes, at Forward Operating Base Gardez. Her husband is also serving in Afghanistan, as is her brother. Recent news from that front in the Global War on Terror Overseas Contingency Operation leads me to be both cautiously optimistic and increasingly concerned.

I am proud to be associated with such people.

Tribbles!

I just love everything about this poster.  Via

Work Work Work Work, Hello Boys, Have a Good Night's Rest?

My time is consumed by work lately.  I won't be back here for a few days at least. 

Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Answer Fourteen – The Shipless Trek

An official Hoot to Jaquandor who correctly answered our last trivial question. Skilled craftsmen have carefully inscribed his name on our illustrious honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men.

The only episode of Star Trek that did not show the interior of the Enterprise was, as Jaquandor told us, “All Our Yesterdays.” It began with Kirk, Spock, and McCoy beaming into the library and meeting Mr. Atoz. It ended back in the library.  Scotty was only heard on the communicator and never seen.

This episode was also memorable for featuring Mariette Hartley as the scantily clad Zarabeth. Spock was quite taken with the temporally exiled beauty and they engaged in some highly illogical canoodling in the cave. According to the novel Yesterday's Son, this resulted in a Spock's son, Zar. The Trek Trinity met him by taking a little trip through their old friend, the Guardian of Forever.

One more fun fact about “All Our Yesterdays;” it was the third and final episode directed my Marvin Chomsky. Mr. Chomsky, who also directed “And the Children Shall Lead” and “Day of the Dove,” has a famous cousin -- a guy from MIT named Noam. Marvin has three Emmys. Noam, none.

Secret Knowledge About Books

Facts about books that they (you know, them) wouldn't tell you.



It's true, you know, about where blogs come from. But it isn't pretty to watch. No, not at all.

Via: PWxyz

GTA Amherst

Video games can't be art, huh?



XKCD just makes the world a better place.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Greetings fellow travelers in Blogistan. Since this blog is fairly dull I consider it a public service to point out blogs that are fairly interesting. Here are this week's clever bits.

Our Picture 'O the Week comes from the Gunslinger and is memory of the good old days when the future was cool and belonged to us.

Kudos to Calvin, he of the Canadian Cave of Cool, for finding this charming moment that is The Video 'O the Week. It represents everything that is good and right about sports, so it is a pretty rare site these days.

The overall Post 'O the Week is to be found on the Back of the Cereal Box. It's all about when nature goes horribly wrong! No, not really, but it is quite interesting.

August 32 Again

Yesterday's annual celebration of Mootday went off without a hitch, as usual. Breakfast was eaten at around breakfast time. Crossword puzzles were completed in short order and we all gathered at the diner to discuss the Mootday Parade. With budgets tight this year it was decided that we would only have local high school bands perform, and that was pretty much okay with everybody except for Ed Brickellhause, who lobbied hard for the inclusion of an Irish bagpipe band that he quite liked. Martha Little said the thing could be classed up by including a string quartet on the back of a flatbed and everybody said that it would be very nice. As a twist on the usual acrobats and such we all agreed that shooting a guy out of a cannon would be swell. As always clowns of all sorts, including whiteface, auguste, tramp, rodeo, harlequin, mime, jester, and politician, would be strictly prohibited.

This supremely unimportant discussion complete, lunch was eaten, with many cheeseburgers, clam plates, grilled cheese sandwiches, and hot dogs consumed. Mac and cheese was also a popular choice. Pies included apple, blueberry, lemon meringue, and strawberry-rhubarb. After this some chose to walk in the park while others retired to front porches. The breeze was shot.

In the evening fireworks were discussed. This went on until we all ran out of beer at which point we all went on up to bed.

Mootday 2010

Tomorrow, as you surely know is August 32, Mootday! It is the one holiday dedicated to insignificance. Nothing of importance is to be done on Mootday, and we'll be celebrating it here as we always do. The annual discussion of the theoretical Mootday parade will begin promptly at 10:00 A.M. Ice cream will be eaten, as will pie. Strolling, cloud watching, and sitting in the shade will be enjoyed. Things will be left undone, but may well be discussed. Happy Mootday everybody.

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-Three

“All truth passes through three stages. First it is ridiculed, second it is violently opposed, and third, it is accepted as self-evident.” – attributed to Arthur Schopenhauer

Schopenhauer probably never said it, but I still like it. It reminds me that if I find myself in opposition to a new or not widely held point-of-view, I should address it with an open mind, generous heart, and a civil tongue. In other words, listen to Wil Wheaton.

After all, you don't want to be the schmuck people are laughing at for the rest of the century. Do you want to be like Louis Spohr, today remembered only because he called Beethoven's Fifth Symphony “An orgy of vulgar noise?” Or Friedrich Nietzche, who addressed the question of the intellectual capacity of women by suggesting that women who became scholars had something wrong with their sexual organs. Lord Kelvin was chilly to the idea of x-rays, calling it a hoax. Pasteur's theory of germs was called ridiculous. Plate tectonics was long held to be as reasonable as the flat-earth hypothesis. What will be tomorrow's self-evident propositions? Once, people turned hoses on those who demanded racial equality. Tomorrow, will those opposed to marriage equality be widely seen as similarly evil? Once, we knew that the platypus was a fraud. Tomorrow, will someone find a yeti (probably not, but wouldn't it be nice?).

The other side of this coin is that if you find yourself in the minority position you need not despair. In time you may find yourself in a position to laugh at those fools at the institute who called you mad.

Of course, there is a danger in this. I've seen this quote, or some variation on it, used by crackpots to encourage each other. Some things really deserve ridicule. And some things should be violently opposed. I've seen the quote used by truthers and birthers, racists and zealots, and generally people who are evangelizing for some pretty crazy notions. Just because you are being ridiculed and opposed doesn't mean that you are the sole possessor of Truth. It is, after all, just possible that you're nuts.

It's the End of the World, and They Know It

And I feel fine. The other day I was out for a healthy little walk, breathing in the bus and truck fumes of a dull little city just north of Boston. It's a drab, unimaginative place, so any flash of color easily catches my eye. What's this, I say, as I cross the street. Someone has slapped a sticker onto this grimy metal pole. What is it this time? A rock band? A political candidate? Nope, it's the end of the world. Judgment day, it says, is May 21, 2011. Wow. Best get my things together.

Lord, I do love the rapture. The concept that God would call the saved to heaven, leaving the rest of you poor sinning slobs to hell-on-earth, was invented in the 18th century. It was pretty much unknown to Christianity before that fun-loving bunch the Puritans started stirring the theological pot. It was really taken up in the 19th century, of course. What was it about that century? It seemed to be filled with energetic madmen and geniuses, doing wonderful, terrible, creative, destructive, and amazing things.

Take William Miller. His careful study of the Bible revealed that the rapture would occur in 1844. Jesus was coming and you all better get ready, he preached, and a lot of people heard the call. He soon had a national movement of believers, one of the largest Christian sects in American history. The date was finally narrowed down to October 22. And how did that work out? History calls it the “Great Disappointment.”

But that was by no means the end of the end of the world. Careful studies of the Bible has revealed date after date. Do you remember this poster? It was all over the Boston area about 30 years ago.

It's a concept that will never die. And why should it? It's a powerful image, a great motivator, and a real cash cow. It has been the basis of movies, bestselling books, and computer games. But it's all going to end now. After May 21, not even nine months away, things are going to be very different, if you can believe this bumper sticker (and if you can't trust a bumper sticker, what can you trust?).

It turns out the mind behind the sticker is Harold Camping, a radio preacher. His message is that God wants you to quit your church, get ready for the May 21 rapture, and for the rest of us we'll just have to suffer until the end of the world on October 21, 2011 (mercifully short, at least).

Now, you might want to dismiss Mr. Camping, but I'm not so sure. After all, he has a good deal of experience in this predicting business. His original big prediction was that Jesus would return to earth in 1994, on September 6. As far as I can tell, that didn't happen, but he's bound to be right sooner or later. Maybe he's due.

So what can I say? Hope you got your things together. Hope you are quite prepared to die. Looks like we're in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye.

Trivial Hoot Fourteen

Hello again to all you trivia fans, and especially to all you Trek trivia fans. That's right, I'm celebrating my return to blogging with a Star Trek trivia question. As always the first person to get it right gets a prize of inestimable value, a hoot, as well as a place on our glorious honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men. OK, without further nonsense, here is our latest trivia question:

Only one episode of Star Trek (The Original Series, dammit) did not show the interior of the Enterprise. Name it.

Simple, no? Some quick Trekkie will make fast work of this one.

As the Blogoshere Turns

I've been not-blogging for most of this month, but I'll dip my toe back in with a look at a couple of things that tickled my fancy.

Our Picture O' the Week is on Electronic Cerebrectomy.  Shazam!

Our Post O' the Week is on Popped Culture.  It is a helpful introduction to beards.  There are, of course, only three kinds of people without beards; women, children, and those who seek to emulate them.

What Happens in Jellystone Stays in Jellystone

Um . . . wow.  Well, as long as they're happy, I guess.

Update

Sorry for the blog silence.  I've been distracted lately.  Back to normal nonsense soon.

What Should I Eat?

It's a serious question these days. I don't mean the simple “fries, rice, or mixed vegetable” sort of choice. I mean the more basic question of what should we eat to be healthy, happy people. That is, in essence, the whole point of eating.

It should be pretty simple, but we are confronted with a thousand choices at the local mega-mart. And while most of us eat the great American diet of mostly meat, a little veg, and lots of highly processed stuff with loads of simple carbohydrates, we all should know by now that it is not proving to be the healthiest way to live.

A few years ago I read Michael Pollan's excellent The Omnivore's Dilemma. It changed the way I think about food in America. I recently read and enjoyed his brief little manual, Food Rules.

Mr. Pollan says that when he was thinking about this subject he came up with a bit of advice that pretty much summed it all up. “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” This little manual is organized around the three parts of that sentence. Each section provides “rules,” pithy little thoughts to get us thinking about food and to help us remember some sound advice. Rule 1, “Eat food,” is, as the author says, “easier said than done.” Most of what passes for food in our supermarkets are products of food science. Highly processed chemical concoctions, that stuff in the jar, bag, or box is not really food but an “edible foodlike substance.” As Rule 19 puts it, “if it came from a plant, eat it; if it was made in a plant, don't” The second section, “Mostly Plants,” suggests what sorts of good food we should be eating. It mostly comes down to eating like an omnivore, choosing a wide range of good, wholesome food. The third part, “Not Too Much,” might just be the toughest. We Americans do love to super-size. We like to fill our plates (Rule 52: “Buy smaller plates and glasses”). We like to eat, as a recent fast-food chain ad suggested, until we feel full. And we eat when we are bored or upset. But when you consider what overeating is doing to us, you might agree that “food is a costly antidepressant.”

Not every rule in the book will work for everybody. That's okay. If it gets you thinking about food and making better decisions, that's all that matters. I found myself putting a bottle of goo back on the supermarket shelf because of this book. Who knows? This little volume might just make me healthier, happier, and may even keep me from eating myself to death. Not too bad for such a quick read.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Our official Picture O' the Week is at the Gunslinger, and it is . . . beguiling.

Our Video O' the Week is Jane Austen's Fight Club.  It's been all over the place but I think the first place I saw it was at Folderol.  If you haven't see it yet, you should.

The Cat O' the Week is another one from the Gunslinger.  He's just keeping Papa company.

Finally, the Book Review O' the Week was written by Jaquandor.  I'm not sure if I'll read the book, but I enjoyed reading the review.

Kitchen Science!

I recently did a bit of science in my very own kitchen. The purpose of the great experiment was to see if I could carbonate water at home. I pretty much live on soda water so the practical nature of this experiment is obvious. If I could introduce bubbles into my own filtered tap water I'd save money, save the planet by not using so many plastic bottles, and save my back from hauling all those liters home.

It's a simple procedure. All I needed was a couple of bottles and a tube with air-tight caps. One bottle was filled with ordinary water. The other bottle was where the science would happen. First I poured in white vinegar. The plan was that I would then introduce sodium bicarbonate to the vinegar. The mix of acid and base would produce carbon dioxide. I would seal the bottle with a tube running into the other bottle, forcing the gas into the water and making a lovely fizzy drink. What could possibly go wrong?

In my research on this subject it was suggested that the experimenter must be careful when initially mixing the chemicals. If they meet too quickly the experiment might not be successful. This was good advice, but it failed to take into account my butterfingered condition. The vial of of powder that I meant to gently place in the bottle somehow slipped from my hand and dropped into the bottle. The result was instantaneous and not at all what I intended.

The bottle I was standing over erupted into a small but spectacular geyser. My first reaction was to jump away, but as the geyser continued to spurt I grabbed the bottle and quickly maneuvered it into the sink. With the crisis over I took a moment to survey the result. I had managed to spray a vinegar and baking soda mixture over every surface of my kitchen, including counters, pots, pans, appliances, utensils, floor, and, of course, me. As vinegar dripped from my hair, over my glasses, and down my neck, I reflected on the harsh mistress that is science. All I had wanted was a refreshing beverage. Instead I had just douched my face.

Would this little setback stop me? If it did, then what would become of man's search for knowledge? I pressed on, using the remainder of my vinegar in a second attempt. This time I was considerably more careful mixing my chemicals. I am pleased to report that the second reaction was under control. I would call it a great success if it wasn't for the fact that the target water remained pretty much unchanged. It might have been a little bit bubbly with an almost undetectable carbonation, but for the most part it remained still.

I am, however, undaunted. I will make another attempt, just as soon as I finish cleaning the kitchen. And my girlfriend stops laughing.

Do Not Try This At Home

Amazing Colossal Man Myth?  Plausible.

This could totally happen.  The enraged Hyneman is nearly impossible to contain.

Via.

As the Blogoshere Turns

We've got a tie for Picture O' the Week, and both of them are from the same great blog, Popped Culture.  There's just so much to love in Monkey Knife Fight Club.  While I've got my money on Blip, I'm really worried about Jace.  I'm also loving this image of our old pal Woody.  Reach for the sky.

The Video O' the Week is from MobyLives.  It's terrific footage of Arthur Conan Doyle talking about Sherlock Holmes and psychic phenomena

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-Two

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” – Henry David Thoreau

Most of us are enslaved in one way or another. We are enslaved by our jobs and the circumstances that force us onto the treadmill. We live out our lives, never really free, doing what is expected of us. While the master may be the boss or family or someone else, the real slave driver is us. We resign ourselves to our fate and “what is called resignation is confirmed desperation.” We distract ourselves with games and entertainments, but it is hollow. We waste our time, which is the most terrible thing we can do. The problem is that we cannot free ourselves from our self-image. We fit in our slot and dare not move out. There can be no Lincoln from without come to free us. We must raise the Spartacus from within to see ourselves anew, to cast off our own shackles. We must find our own freedom and use the limited time we have on this earth wisely. Thoreau's grim observation is a call to revolution. Not the revolution of mobs but a revolution of the spirit.

Stop Studying in a Cave

It must be true.  Eight out of five dentists agree.

Could Your Spare Fifty Cents?

There he was, on the subway platform, right where I remembered seeing him before. He walked up to each commuter, spoke a few words, then moved on. I knew what he was saying to them, even though he spoke quietly. He walked up to me and it was a trip down the seedy, back-alley called memory lane. “Could you spare fifty cents?”

He's a beggar. A mendicant, if you will. It's his job, his career. The first time he asked me this question was a quarter century ago. I was a poor student trying to get around the big city. He worked the cars and platforms of the subway, asking everyone if they could spare fifty cents. I couldn't, and I wouldn't if I could.

Being panhandled had become part of my daily routine. There was the lady who stood near the Park Street Church and said “spare a quarter?” to every passerby. There was the big guy with the fancy leather jacket who worked the suits in the financial district. The woman who did her begging, always, she claimed, for her kids, and always seated on a step, sometimes in Harvard Square, sometimes in Boston. And any number of people who were just another part of city life.

The “spare a quarter” lady was memorable simply because of her regular habits. My girlfriend and I both walked up that street daily as we went to class, and every day we walked by “spare a quarter.” Her thick Boston accent turned quarter into “quatah,” repeated over and over. When we graduated we no longer took that route, of course. About a year later we needed to pick up some papers at the old school. We had planned to park my heap of a car in Revere, a working class suburb of Boston, and take the train from there. There was a storm rolling in and my girlfriend was in some doubt about the wisdom of taking the trip that day. I tried to cheer her up. “Don't worry,” I said, “at least we'll get to see old “spare a quarter” again. She smiled politely, still worried about the weather. When we got to Revere I began to look for a parking spot. There were plenty, because no one else was so dumb as to try to get into town that day. The storm was starting to rage. I drove us past the seawall and the car was splashed with salt water. The waves were beginning to break over the wall. I finally figured out that this was not the best day to go walking about. I turned the car around to head home and there, walking along the soggy sidewalk, was “spare a quarter.” She was a commuter beggar. We realized then that she must live here in Revere and commuted to her begging spot in Boston on the train. Begging is a job, it seems, like fry cook and stockbroker.

It can also be a scam. This is another thing I learned during my college years. I was in Boston's busy downtown shopping district, killing time between classes (I probably should have been studying). My eyes were attracted by a pretty girl (as they often were). She was talking to a couple of guys I recognized as fairly regular area beggars. They were rough looking, with grimy clothes. Street people, as they were called, the homeless. People who beg because it is all they can do to survive. She was chatting amiably. How nice, I thought. Perhaps she is sociology student, trying to get to know the lives of these people. Or perhaps she is part of some sort of outreach program. They continued to talk. They laughed. She gave one of the men a friendly hip-check and he put his arm around her for a moment. That was a little more familiar than I would have expected for an outreach program. Curious, and still trying to kill time before my next class, I continued to observe. The pretty girl eventually walked away from her friends. A few feet away, on a busy sidewalk, she stopped. She took her gold earnings and put them in her shopping bag. She rolled the bag up, put it on the sidewalk, and then sat down with it. She reached into her dark, well groomed hair, pulled it in front of her face, slumped over, and formed a cup with her hands, ready to begin her business day.

I have no doubt that some of the people on the street are truly desperate. You just can't tell the grifters from the truly needy. “I have no sympathy,” one coworker once told me. I wondered why. She was well off, intelligent, she lived in a affluent suburb and was active in local politics. No sympathy? “I worked my way through college in New York City as a panhandler.”

Now, twenty-five years later, here's that subway beggar. I'd seen him from time to time after school, but I hadn't run across him in years. I don't usually take this train; he must prefer the busier stations. His hair is whiter and perhaps a little thinner, but nothing is changed. Same clean, non-nondescript clothing. Same face framed by the same glasses. Same line, spoken in exactly the same way, every time, to every commuter. Begging, I guess, is a steady profession.

Answer Thirteen – The Brothers

Congratulations to Melissa our newest Steely-Eyed Missile Woman. Melissa wins a big hoot for answering our last Trivial Hoot. She knew that the odd man out was Sheldon, because Leonard, Adolph, Julius, Milton, and Herbert are better known as Harpo, Groucho, Gummo, and Zeppo, the Marx Brothers. Hey, are there any Zeppo fans out there?

Stay tuned for Trivial Hoot Fourteen, which will be posted as soon as I come up with something.

You'll Laugh, You'll Cry, You'll Kiss Your Childhood Goodbye

Toy Story 3. You don't need me to tell you how good it is. Big time movie critics are calling it a masterpiece. That guy down at the store said he's already seen it twice. And a bunch of people you follow in Twitter said that they cried at the ending. So if you haven't seen it yet, you should go already.

And you probably already know why it is so good. It's not just the animation, which is dazzling. It's the well written characters and story. It doesn't take long before these cartoon toys are people you know and care about. There's adventure, there's comedy, there's good guys, bad guys, character development, joy, sadness, and redemption. Yeah, all that in a cartoon about toys.

It shouldn't be too much of a surprise. This is Pixar after all. But what's all this about grown-up people crying at the end? What's with all the men pretending they've got something in their eye? Well, not to give anything away, but what the grown-ups are weeping for is the passing of their own childhood and for the memory of that passage to adulthood. It is hard, after all, to put away our childish things.

Sometimes it is good to revisit them. Thank you Pixar. It's nice to be reminded.

Oh, by the way, I happened to see it in 3-D. I have no idea why it was produced in this format. The animators didn't use the capabilities of the process at all. See it in 2-D. It's just as good and you won't have to wear the funny glasses.

It's Not Dead Jim

Good news for people who read. Blogging isn't dead after all. This essay by Corey Doctorow makes the case quite well. If you're interested in this sort of thing, please read it.

I was going to post this link on my Twitter feed, but that seemed a bit self defeating.

As the Blogoshere Turns Episode 2

Our Post O' the Week come from Oz and Ends. It points out what happens when the mainstream media tries to cover science, and highlights the perfidy of a big drug company. All that and it's about my all-time favorite disease, diabetes!

Our Movie Review O' the Week comes from Calvin's Canadian Cave of Coolness. It's about Batman, which is plenty cool for me

Our Video O' the Week also comes from the Cave of Cool. It's called Key Lime Pie and you've just got to see it.

(edit: link fixed)

Happy Trails

There is something sad about the upcoming auction of Roy Rogers' stuff at Christie's. It seems to mark the final passing of a particular type of Americana, the singing cowboy. Seeing old Trigger, Buttermilk, and Bullet on the auction block is just plain wrong. They should be in the Smithsonian.


Action!  Thrills!  Adventure!  Romance!  Singing!  What's not to love?

Roy and Gene Autry and Tex Ritter and a whole bunkhouse full of minor players rode off into the sunset a long time ago. The place they made in American pop-cultural history should be remembered and honored. I'm glad that Roy's old group, the Sons of the Pioneers, still performs regularly, as do such fun western swing acts as Riders in the Sky. It's nostalgia, it's hokey, it's cornball, but I'm mighty glad that someone is keeping those campfire embers glowing.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Post O' the Week:
I commend to you this post on Culture Kills, possibly because I find the topic, fear, to be quite interesting, but mostly because of this line: “(clowns have testicles for a reason)”

Highly Illogical

Leonard Nimoy posted this on Twitter today. Something about it makes me happy. Maybe it's Shatner flipping a burger. Maybe it's the laughing Vulcan. Mostly though it's the image of DeForest Kelley doubled over.

Yes, I'm a happy, Trekkie fanboy.

Trivial Hoot Thirteen

Greetings you brilliant puzzlers you. I think I've got a pretty good one for you this time. I'm going to give you a list of names. You need to tell me which one does not belong, and why. Simple, no?

As always the first person to get it right will receive a free, if entirely ephemeral hoot, and join our illustrious honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men. Okay, ready for the names?

Leonard, Adolph, Sheldon, Julius, Milton, and Herbert.

There you are you smarty-pantses. Have at it.

Independence

This version of events is, I believe, not strictly accurate. Still, it is worth noting that America began with the word.

Pretty Little Tyrants

I was waiting for a train. I do that a lot. The tracks are elevated and the platform gives the riders a panoramic view of the parking lot below, as seen through advertising placards. To the left is tree, somehow surviving on a little patch of earth surrounded by concrete and asphalt. A flicker of movement caught my eye; a pair of birds. I lowered my book and stared at them. Perched on branches a few feet apart, they had dark backs and wings, with white chests. Each of their tails ended in a bright, white tip, as if they had been dipped in paint. I smiled slightly and watched them, my book forgotten.

To my left a woman, who had also lowered her book, asked me a question. “Do you know what they are?” “No idea,” I said, sorry that I couldn't help her. I had misunderstood; she didn't need help, she was offering. I am, you may know, The World's Worst Birdwatcher ™. She, it seems, was the real thing.

“They're eastern kingbirds,” she told me. “They feed by taking off, catching a fly, and then going back to the same perch. It's called hawking.” Right on cue, as she said the world “hawking,” one of the birds launched, flew a few feet from the tree, turned sharply, then looped back to the same branch.

I thanked her. I've learned over the years that birders, the real ones, not the “World's Worst” style like me, are kind and generous people, always willing to share their knowledge. I wished I had been more effusive in my thanks, but I just couldn't take my attention away from the birds. One of them flew out, turned around, and then hovered in the same spot for several seconds. It was quietly spectacular. My view was blocked when the train arrived. I briefly considered letting it pass, but I had flies of my own to catch. A pity, I thought, as I was unlikely to see them there again.

I was, of course wrong. A few days later I stood in the same spot and there, on the same tree, were my little friends. Next time I take that train I'll pack my binoculars. They'll probably have moved on by then, but who knows? Not me, certainly.

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-One

“It's a man's business to be what he is, and to be it in style.” – Lazarus Long

I guess I should point out that Lazarus Long is a fictional character. He is a long-lived creation of Robert A. Heinlein and was known for his aphorisms, among other things.

There's something about this quote that I find encouraging. Be you, with your own distinctive dash, with every step you take. That, in a nutshell, is your life's work. Go forth.

Trust Us

Don't you worry about a thing. This blog is protected by a high-tech blowout preventer. Go ahead, click the link. It will provide us with clean, reliable blogging, free us from our dependence on foreign bloggers, and it's perfectly safe. Besides, even in the million to one event that something should go wrong, we are prepared. Go ahead. Click the link. What's wrong? Don't you like America? Click it. You know you want to.

DRILL BABY DRILL!!!

If That's Wonder Woman, Where's Her Star-Spangled A--?

Yeah, that's the new Wonder Woman. I don't have a whole lot to say about this because, like most red-blooded American geeks, I haven't read her comic in years.

DC is rebooting the character in an attempt to give her some more fans. While I'm getting a little tired of all these reboots, it is also pretty clear that something needed to be done. She hasn't really been all that interesting since the days when she was rescuing Steve Trevor, palling around with Etta Candy, and getting tied up with her own lasso way too often. So Jim Lee has given her a new costume and J. Michael Straczynski has re-written her whole life, origin to now. It might not be such a bad idea. I mean, peace ambassador for Themyscira is not the sort of mission to engage a readership. War against crime, upholding truth, justice, and the American way, that can get your blood pumping. Peace ambassador? Anyway, the whole point of a continuing character is to be an ongoing vehicle for stories, so if we get good stories out of this then it was a good idea.

As for the costume, I'm just not sure. The original look, iconic as it was, was a bit goofy. It's pretty hard to be taken seriously as an ambassador or as a crimefighter dressed in a strapless bathing suit and go-go boots. And DC gave Robin pants years ago, so why not Wonder Woman? But the new look doesn't have all that much pizazz. Perhaps she'll lose the jacket in time. If bare arms are good enough for Michelle Obama, they should be okay for the Amazon princess.

At least she's still got the tiara and bracelets. It's just not Wonder Woman without the tiara and bracelets.

It Really is a Dark and Stormy Night, Isn't It?

As Holmes, who had a nose for danger, quietly fingered the bloody knife and eyed the various body parts strewn along the dark, deserted highway, he placed his ear to the ground and, with his heart in his throat, silently mouthed to his companion, “Arm yourself, Watson, there is an evil hand afoot ahead."

And that's only a runner up!

This year's Bulwer-Lytton Award winners have been announced.

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty

“Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” – Groucho Marx.


Sometimes a quote is just so perfect you can't add anything. I am forever a Marxist.

Oh, Poe

When a new biography of Edgar Poe comes out it gets right onto my to-be-read list, so I suppose it's some measure of how far behind I am that I am only now reading James M. Hutchisson's 2005 book, Poe. If you've been waiting all this time for my opinion I'm sorry. I'll try to read faster in the future.


Hutchisson's is the third major biography of the writer to come out in the last twenty years. Kenneth Silverman's Edgar A. Poe: Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance and Jeffrey Meyers' Edgar Allan Poe: His Life and Legacy were both excellent books. Silverman's study has been described as psychological, focusing on the mind of the man. Meyers looked more closely at Poe's writing and used it to illuminate events in his life. I wondered, what would Hutchisson bring that hadn't been covered before?


The answer, it seems, is his own point of view and interpretation of Poe's work. It makes for a pretty good read. Hutchisson's opinions are interesting, thought provoking, and occasionally frustrating.


An example would be his interpretation of what he sees as sexual imagery in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The fact that the narrator is excited by Dupin's imagination and the fact that they walk arm in arm is, we are told, Poe's signals that they are desirous of a “homosexual fling.” Similarly, the murdered women, who sleep in the same bed (not at all uncommon in the nineteenth century), are named L'Espanayes, which sounds a bit like “lesbians.” And their gate is “forcibly penetrated” by a man with a crowbar. Poe, it seems was giving his work sexual overtones that the common reader might miss.


I'm sorry, but . . . phooey. A twenty-first century scholar may see these things, but that's only because he is living in our post-Freudian world. To think that Poe deliberately intended this symbolic interpretation is almost as absurd as Marie Bonaparte's Freudian psychoanalysis of Poe by reading such symbolism as being unintended revelations.


There are a few other annoyances. Poe, we are told, was not a racist. I'm not sure what definition of racist is being employed here, but Poe definitely supported the institution of slavery based on the notion that black men were inferior. He was probably no more of a racist than the average slavery-supporting antebellum southerner. But as a man who had once helped a relative sell a slave (a fact not mentioned in this book) and a man who objected to northern writers partly because many of them were abolitionists, he was certainly no less of a racist.


And I may be nit-picking here, but I was disappointed when James Russell Lowell's famous description of Poe as “Three-fifths of him genius, and two-fifths sheer fudge” was misquoted with the wrong fractions. Not the worst mistake in the world, but since he gets the quote right only 76 pages earlier it does suggest the need for a bit of copy editing.


It sounds like I'm coming down a bit hard on this book.  In don't want to leave the impression that it isn't quite readable and interesting. Nonetheless, if you are looking for a biography of Edgar A. Poe, pick up the Silverman and the Meyers first.

Bionic Kitty

Happy Caturday, and it is a very happy Caturday for Oscar. He just became the first bionic cat. When I first heard about this I assumed that he had been given superpowers. Faster than a speeding bulldog, able to leap tall scratching posts in a single bound, that sort of thing. I was wrong.

Excuse me, I've got something in my eye.

The best headline of the year award goes to AP for Bionic British Cat Gets Faux Paws.

Please Come To Boston . . .

Superman is going to go walkabout America in an upcoming series of comics written by J. Michael Straczynski's. DC is running a contest for people who want to see the Big Blue Cheese walking through their town. But darn it all, he's not going to wander in the northeast. C'mon Supes, Boston needs you. You could walk the Freedom Trail. You could have a Lobster at Summer Shack. You'd have no trouble cracking the thing open. We've got a few villains here you could sort out. I'm pretty sure I saw Solomon Grundy on the subway last week. It might have been him. He smelled like a guy who had died in a swamp. Maybe you could just fly by on your way back to Metropolis. Seriously, we haven't had a superhero since the Creeper. The Creeper? Oh man. Seriously, Man of Steel, we'd love a visit. I'll put the kettle on.

Spinning Plates

Recently the Massachusetts RMV (what most states call the DMV) began offering license plates with the “choose life” message. The money raised from the sale of these plates goes to anti-abortion groups.

A lot of people have a problem with this. They argue that it is a political statement and the government should not be seen as endorsing one side over another.

I don't agree. I say that we should have more specialty plates. I'd like to see plates that support abortion rights. I want to see pro and anti gun plates, marijuana legalization plates, wind farm plates, casino plates, marriage equality plates, universal health care plates, immigration reform plates, war plates and peace plates. How about plates that identify our political parties (GOP, Dems, Libertarians, Green, Socialist, Whig), our religious affiliation (RC, UCC, UM, Baptist, Christian Science, Episcopal, UU, Scientology, Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, Orthodox, Reform, or Conservative Jew, Hindu, Shiite, Sunni, Zoroastrian, atheist), and whatever sexual proclivities we might want the world to know about (gay, straight, bi, polyamorous, B&D, S&M)? We've got plates that proclaim our affiliation to a sports team. Why not plates that tell the world our favorite store or designer? People who buy that one would get a discount when shopping.

There is, of course, a danger here. Once we open this thing up we'll begin seeing plates that support repulsive things. Imagine special plates for racists, sexists, homophobes, or Yankees fans. But that's the price of freedom. When you turn your license plate into a means of personal expression you're going to see rather a lot of personal expression.

Of course the alternative is to stop allowing these special plates. But then how would people who want to express themselves on their cars and send money to their favorite causes proceed? Bumper-stickers and donations? How quaint. And then what would our plates be for?