Frustratingly, my brain decided to wake me up at 2 a.m. this morning so I could lie in bed and ponder possible scenarios for this Saturday's "Doctor Who" finale. Really, of all the things I could have been doing, I had to spend an hour or so pondering Donna Noble's significance in the weakly-put-together universe of a man who enjoys 70s disaster films and a fair bit of camp. But there we are.
I am theorizing that Donna turns out to be a time lordess or some such thing. This would be another one of those things where a time lord is hiding in a human form that is totally unaware of being anything else. The Doctor did this last year, as did the Master. If this were the case it would validate all the "Donna is gonna die" stuff, because effectively she does die. Remember the emotional turmoil that John Smith (the Doctor's human form) went through in knowing that he would be giving up his life and the woman he loved and so on to become the doctor.
Here are random reasons I think this:
- Donna was saturated with Huon particles, the things that exist in the heart of the TARDIS
- Donna's godlike status. The Doctor is often referred to in godlike terms, but in this season Donna is also taking that billing -- something that didn't happen with Rose or Martha. Remember the Roman family that decided to worship the Doctor and Donna as gods. Remember the Ood talking of how "the DoctorDonna" would be remembered for all time.
- The coincidences of the Doctor running into Donna or her family multiple times
- The fortune teller proclaiming: "What will you become?!" before running away in fear
- Donna is sitting in the Shadow Proclamation and hears a steady beat -- a second heart?
- Donna's habit of being, albeit unwittingly, just as clever as the Doctor.
- Donna constantly refers to herself as "just a temp." A temporary human, perhaps?
Reasons I think Donna might become the Doctor:
- The crazy Dalek refers to the Doctor as the three-fold man, suggesting a multiple-doctor finale. I think Donna could be one of them.
- The Ood referred to the Doctor and Donna as a single entity: "the DoctorDonna." OK, they're aliens, perhaps their English isn't so good. But it's an interesting mistake to make for a race of beings that are telepathic. Perhaps they saw/sensed something.
- The names Doctor and Donna sound similar
- In the trailer for Journey's End Donna is the only one in the TARDIS.
- In one quick shot of all hell breaking loose on the TARDIS, you see Donna's leather jacket hung on one of the foundations -- flung there in the way that the Doctor always flings his coat when running into the TARDIS.
- In Donna's alternate universe, the Doctor dies and his sonic screwdriver falls from his hand. This shot was held for a strangely long time, in that "here's a clue" sort of way. Perhaps she picked up the sonic screwdriver and, thanks to the strangeness of flux universes, now has it on her.
Reasons I think Donna might become the Master:
- In the alternate universe in which she never saved the Doctor, all kinds of bad things happened, but conspicuously absent was any mention of the Master.
- That beat Donna hears could be the war drums that the Master hears.
- In the episode when the Master failed to regenerate, his body was ceremonially burned and a ring fell from the funeral pyre. Donna may somehow have that ring and it may be similar to the watches that held the Doctor's and the Master's true identities when they were human.
- The crazy Dalek refers to a Dark Lord returning. We assume this is a reference to the Doctor, but why would a Dalek refer to him as a Dark Lord? They also hate the Master and surely that would be a more appropriate name for him.
- The Master ran away in the Time War when faced with the Daleks' Cruciform. Now, suddenly that is being rebuilt. Who best to deal with it?
- Donna hates it when people underestimate her -- a trait one would expect from the Master, whose greatest weakness is his own vanity.
Other random thoughts:
- There is a consistent theme of maternity. Sarah Jane Smith is maternal toward her son, Captain Jack is maternal toward his Torchwood team (kissing them on the forehead when they think the end is nigh), Rose's mother returns in this episode and was always central to her life, when Martha Jones teleports she goes to her mother's house. But Donna's mother is not maternal in any way. The Doctor does not have a mother.
- The Doctor does have a gun-toting daughter out there somewhere.
- With his little wrist-watch thingy, Captain Jack can move through time again, right?
- I'm pretty sure that whatever the case, Donna dies. Catherine Tate isn't contracted beyond this season and there's no mention of her being in the Christmas special filming.
- David Tennant is in that filming, so this regenerating nonsense is a ruse.
- Almost certainly whatever actually happens will be hugely disappointing. Remember that last year the whole thing was resolved by having Martha get the world to believe in fairies (the Master was somehow defeated by having the whole world say the Doctor's name at once -- insufferably reminiscent of when we are all expected to clap to bring Tinkerbell back to life).
Cripes I'm a loser.
Showing posts with label ideas that will never come to fruition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ideas that will never come to fruition. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Transitional
My second year of university finally comes to an end this week. Like the Democratic Party nomination process, it has dragged on for far too long, with my last lecture actually having taken place more than a month ago. In the interim I have had to try to stay mentally in tune for exams.
The exam process in Britain is comically archaic, placing massive groups of students into large halls and gymnasiums to sit in uncomfortable chairs and scribble out essay questions for two hours. It is an unnecessarily stressful set-up that forces me to develop ridiculous patterns and superstitions similar to when I played sports. You know, the "I always wear these socks and I put them on in this exact way" sort of thing. Before every exam I have to do 100 push-ups and 300 stomach crunches, eat two pieces of toast, and text Fflur; I buy a £1.03 bottle of water at the Somerfield, wear jeans and a T-shirt, come to the exam equipped with three black ink Bic Cristal pens, and keep my phone in my pocket (even though they tell me not to).
So far this technique has been relatively effective -- I don't feel that I've tanked on any of the exams. There was a time when I had hoped to achieve stunningly high marks, but that desire has subsided somewhat now that I am less gung-ho about carrying on to earn a PhD. I had been considering that route earlier in the year but then went to speak to my advisor about it. In talking to her I made a flippant remark that perhaps my idea for a PhD project would work better as a chincy TV programme and she laughed a little too revealingly.
The nature of Welsh society is such that it's probable my account of our meeting would get back to my advisor, so I want to stress that she did not say anything to put me off the idea. But something about the meeting -- possibly just the act of explaining my project to another person -- caused me to lose some of my fire for PhD work.
The aforementioned project has now been converted into a venture that Llŷr (and maybe possibly perhaps Annie) and I will tackle next summer.
But first there is this summer, which will be occupied by the writing of a book that you probably won't read. Tentatively titled "Cwrw Am Ddim; a rhesymau eraill i ddysgu'r iaith" (a), it is the non-fiction account of my experiences learning Welsh, moving to Wales, etc. I am attempting to write it in a more prose style, a la Dave Eggers, with the ambition of carrying on to write fiction in the future.
I had written an outline about a year ago but really only started in on the thing last week, with most of that time being used to restructure the 25-page outline. I have no idea whether 25 pages is a lot or a little for an outline. Considering that everything else I have ever written has been sans outline, it feels like quite a lot. Note, however, that everything else I have ever written remains unpublished.
(a) "Free Beer; and other reasons to learn Welsh"
The exam process in Britain is comically archaic, placing massive groups of students into large halls and gymnasiums to sit in uncomfortable chairs and scribble out essay questions for two hours. It is an unnecessarily stressful set-up that forces me to develop ridiculous patterns and superstitions similar to when I played sports. You know, the "I always wear these socks and I put them on in this exact way" sort of thing. Before every exam I have to do 100 push-ups and 300 stomach crunches, eat two pieces of toast, and text Fflur; I buy a £1.03 bottle of water at the Somerfield, wear jeans and a T-shirt, come to the exam equipped with three black ink Bic Cristal pens, and keep my phone in my pocket (even though they tell me not to).
So far this technique has been relatively effective -- I don't feel that I've tanked on any of the exams. There was a time when I had hoped to achieve stunningly high marks, but that desire has subsided somewhat now that I am less gung-ho about carrying on to earn a PhD. I had been considering that route earlier in the year but then went to speak to my advisor about it. In talking to her I made a flippant remark that perhaps my idea for a PhD project would work better as a chincy TV programme and she laughed a little too revealingly.
The nature of Welsh society is such that it's probable my account of our meeting would get back to my advisor, so I want to stress that she did not say anything to put me off the idea. But something about the meeting -- possibly just the act of explaining my project to another person -- caused me to lose some of my fire for PhD work.
The aforementioned project has now been converted into a venture that Llŷr (and maybe possibly perhaps Annie) and I will tackle next summer.
But first there is this summer, which will be occupied by the writing of a book that you probably won't read. Tentatively titled "Cwrw Am Ddim; a rhesymau eraill i ddysgu'r iaith" (a), it is the non-fiction account of my experiences learning Welsh, moving to Wales, etc. I am attempting to write it in a more prose style, a la Dave Eggers, with the ambition of carrying on to write fiction in the future.
I had written an outline about a year ago but really only started in on the thing last week, with most of that time being used to restructure the 25-page outline. I have no idea whether 25 pages is a lot or a little for an outline. Considering that everything else I have ever written has been sans outline, it feels like quite a lot. Note, however, that everything else I have ever written remains unpublished.
(a) "Free Beer; and other reasons to learn Welsh"
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Things not to say
You know how every time you meet an anorexic they will do that thing of laughing nervously and say: "Oh my gosh, no! I'm not anorexic -- I eat all the time."
Usually I just frown at them and try to channel whatever fatherly aura I might have to communicate to them that I know they are lying. Tonight I decided what I'd really like to do is say: "Yeah, I guess you're right. No way you could be anorexic with those fat arms of yours."
Or, maybe I won't say that.
Usually I just frown at them and try to channel whatever fatherly aura I might have to communicate to them that I know they are lying. Tonight I decided what I'd really like to do is say: "Yeah, I guess you're right. No way you could be anorexic with those fat arms of yours."
Or, maybe I won't say that.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Hopefully Hillary Clinton reads this blog
A few weeks ago, I came up with the brilliant money-making scheme of trying to set myself up as a Welsh-language pundit for the upcoming U.S. election. At first I thought to pitch the idea to Barn, but I already write for them, so I know they haven't got any money.
Then I thought I might take back the mean things I've said about Y Byd's total and embarrassing incompetence, and try to work myself into their good graces in time for their March launch date. But then they "revised" their launch date again -- because they are totally and embarrassingly incompetent. (a)
The BBC might throw me on the radio in a pinch, I thought, but my strange fanatical devotion to the Beeb means I would want to actually prepare. I don't have the time or energy to be a legitimate pundit. Especially considering that my first reaction to Mike Huckabee's winning Iowa was: "Who the hell is Mike Huckabee?"
I'm not the only one who thinks that, though. John Bolton today on the BBC referred to Huckabee as "Mike Huckleberry." For our friends in the Home Nations, Huckleberry Hound is a cartoon character who personifies the Southern simpleton. Bolton's flub is apropos; Huckabee doesn't believe in evolution.
On the whole, I am not nearly interested enough in the election to do any punditing (at least, that's the case now. BBC Cymru, please check back with me in summer).
That said, the other night I found myself pondering the fate of poor Hillary Clinton. Some part of me likes Hillary (b) because she reminds me ever so slightly of my mom. Here's a picture of my mother planning an attack on a village in the Philippines. See the resemblance? But the difference between my mom and Hillary is that people like my mom.
Look at any internet forum that relates to Hillary and one word will show up over and over: Bitch.
Usually it will be written in all caps, followed by exclamation marks. For reasons that aren't wholly clear, a large number of Americans despise Hillary. Vehemently. With vitriol and venom. And even still I feel I am understating it. Think of that girlfriend you had who made you so angry that you were literally paralyzed with rage. This is how American conservatives feel about Hillary. Their eyes roll back, they go into spitting fits.
Knowing this doesn't make her particularly appealing to people like me, who feel abandoned by the American experience. While Hillary is almost certainly the best qualified of any candidate -- Democrat or Republican -- the fact that she is likely to perpetuate and possibly escalate the ridiculous polarization of America makes her unappealing.
Barack Obama, meanwhile, has Oprah's endorsement. Oprah is our queen. Except, whereas Britons doubt the head of their church is actually divine, Americans know that Oprah is holy. If the Blessed Virgin Mary were to return to Earth for just a day, she would spend half of it waiting in queue for tickets to Oprah's Christmas show.
So, our gal Hillary needs to sort out her image problem. At 4 a.m. Monday, amid an essay-fuelled panic, I suddenly came up with the answer: She should embrace it.
Although getting teary-eyed helps to show she's a real person, I think the best way for Hillary to combat her reputation as a bitch is to cheekily embrace being a bitch.
If I were her campaign manager, at her next debate I would have her wait for John Edwards to bait her on an issue. In her response she would say something like: "John, if you keep that up, I'll cut you with my devil claws." Then she would turn to the camera and quickly (and with a certain degree of apathy) make cat claws with her hand. In the likely confused silence that followed, she would say nonchalantly: "Well, that's what everyone thinks of me." And then she would go about answering the question in her usual way.
We would then work in similar little comments at stump speeches. Possibly even go so far as playing Elton John's "The Bitch is Back" as she takes to the stage.
Pundits always want to tell you something the candidate hasn't. With Hillary acknowledging her bitchiness, the punditry would likely then focus on the fact that she is actually a swell person (which, reportedly, she actually is). Bill, and Hillary's staff, would underline this by always speaking positively of her.
By summer, the perception of Hillary as a bitch would be watered down to the extent that it wouldn't hurt her as badly. By that time, everyone but Obama will likely have fallen away and she will be able to contend for the Democratic nomination without having it be so much a contest of Really Likeable Guy That Oprah Approves Of verses Soul-Stealing Bitch of an Ex-girlfriend.
Damn, I'm a genius. You're welcome Hillary.
Of course, all that said, if I were in Minnesota on 5 February (when primary elections are held in the Land of 10,000 Lakes and 23 other states), I'd be voting for Obama.
There's no way I'd disobey the word of Oprah.
-------------------------------
(a) For those of you outside the Welsh-language world, Y Byd is a Welsh-language daily newspaper that has failed to launch for nigh eight years. Every so often they will claim they are close to launch. Then they "revise" those plans and push things back further. All the while, they keep selling subscriptions.
My claim that they are incompetent is giving them the benefit of the doubt. In truth, I sometimes suspect it is a scheme playing on the desperate hopes of Welsh speakers who want so much to see their language grow that they will hand over £156 ($300) for a subscription. Personally, I think Y Byd should be investigated. But when I broach the subject in Welsh, the general response from friends is akin to one's standing up in chapel and shouting: "Well, for fuck's sake! This Jesus fella's not going to show up this week either, is he?!"
(b) I once had a news manager who got really frustrated with journalism's a habit of using women's first names in second reference rather than their last names. So, whereas Tiger Woods would be referred to as "Woods" throughout a story, Michelle Wie would be referred to as "Michelle." The manager suggested this was a sign of our ingrained sexism. There may be something to that claim, but since said manager was a woman, I ignored her. For her sake, though, I'll point out that my use of "Hillary" on second reference is done for the sake of distinguishing her from the other famous Clinton.
Then I thought I might take back the mean things I've said about Y Byd's total and embarrassing incompetence, and try to work myself into their good graces in time for their March launch date. But then they "revised" their launch date again -- because they are totally and embarrassingly incompetent. (a)
The BBC might throw me on the radio in a pinch, I thought, but my strange fanatical devotion to the Beeb means I would want to actually prepare. I don't have the time or energy to be a legitimate pundit. Especially considering that my first reaction to Mike Huckabee's winning Iowa was: "Who the hell is Mike Huckabee?"
I'm not the only one who thinks that, though. John Bolton today on the BBC referred to Huckabee as "Mike Huckleberry." For our friends in the Home Nations, Huckleberry Hound is a cartoon character who personifies the Southern simpleton. Bolton's flub is apropos; Huckabee doesn't believe in evolution.
On the whole, I am not nearly interested enough in the election to do any punditing (at least, that's the case now. BBC Cymru, please check back with me in summer).
That said, the other night I found myself pondering the fate of poor Hillary Clinton. Some part of me likes Hillary (b) because she reminds me ever so slightly of my mom. Here's a picture of my mother planning an attack on a village in the Philippines. See the resemblance? But the difference between my mom and Hillary is that people like my mom.
Look at any internet forum that relates to Hillary and one word will show up over and over: Bitch.
Usually it will be written in all caps, followed by exclamation marks. For reasons that aren't wholly clear, a large number of Americans despise Hillary. Vehemently. With vitriol and venom. And even still I feel I am understating it. Think of that girlfriend you had who made you so angry that you were literally paralyzed with rage. This is how American conservatives feel about Hillary. Their eyes roll back, they go into spitting fits.
Knowing this doesn't make her particularly appealing to people like me, who feel abandoned by the American experience. While Hillary is almost certainly the best qualified of any candidate -- Democrat or Republican -- the fact that she is likely to perpetuate and possibly escalate the ridiculous polarization of America makes her unappealing.
Barack Obama, meanwhile, has Oprah's endorsement. Oprah is our queen. Except, whereas Britons doubt the head of their church is actually divine, Americans know that Oprah is holy. If the Blessed Virgin Mary were to return to Earth for just a day, she would spend half of it waiting in queue for tickets to Oprah's Christmas show.
So, our gal Hillary needs to sort out her image problem. At 4 a.m. Monday, amid an essay-fuelled panic, I suddenly came up with the answer: She should embrace it.
Although getting teary-eyed helps to show she's a real person, I think the best way for Hillary to combat her reputation as a bitch is to cheekily embrace being a bitch.
If I were her campaign manager, at her next debate I would have her wait for John Edwards to bait her on an issue. In her response she would say something like: "John, if you keep that up, I'll cut you with my devil claws." Then she would turn to the camera and quickly (and with a certain degree of apathy) make cat claws with her hand. In the likely confused silence that followed, she would say nonchalantly: "Well, that's what everyone thinks of me." And then she would go about answering the question in her usual way.
We would then work in similar little comments at stump speeches. Possibly even go so far as playing Elton John's "The Bitch is Back" as she takes to the stage.
Pundits always want to tell you something the candidate hasn't. With Hillary acknowledging her bitchiness, the punditry would likely then focus on the fact that she is actually a swell person (which, reportedly, she actually is). Bill, and Hillary's staff, would underline this by always speaking positively of her.
By summer, the perception of Hillary as a bitch would be watered down to the extent that it wouldn't hurt her as badly. By that time, everyone but Obama will likely have fallen away and she will be able to contend for the Democratic nomination without having it be so much a contest of Really Likeable Guy That Oprah Approves Of verses Soul-Stealing Bitch of an Ex-girlfriend.
Damn, I'm a genius. You're welcome Hillary.
Of course, all that said, if I were in Minnesota on 5 February (when primary elections are held in the Land of 10,000 Lakes and 23 other states), I'd be voting for Obama.
There's no way I'd disobey the word of Oprah.
-------------------------------
(a) For those of you outside the Welsh-language world, Y Byd is a Welsh-language daily newspaper that has failed to launch for nigh eight years. Every so often they will claim they are close to launch. Then they "revise" those plans and push things back further. All the while, they keep selling subscriptions.
My claim that they are incompetent is giving them the benefit of the doubt. In truth, I sometimes suspect it is a scheme playing on the desperate hopes of Welsh speakers who want so much to see their language grow that they will hand over £156 ($300) for a subscription. Personally, I think Y Byd should be investigated. But when I broach the subject in Welsh, the general response from friends is akin to one's standing up in chapel and shouting: "Well, for fuck's sake! This Jesus fella's not going to show up this week either, is he?!"
(b) I once had a news manager who got really frustrated with journalism's a habit of using women's first names in second reference rather than their last names. So, whereas Tiger Woods would be referred to as "Woods" throughout a story, Michelle Wie would be referred to as "Michelle." The manager suggested this was a sign of our ingrained sexism. There may be something to that claim, but since said manager was a woman, I ignored her. For her sake, though, I'll point out that my use of "Hillary" on second reference is done for the sake of distinguishing her from the other famous Clinton.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Another brilliant idea that I will fail to cash in on
Occasionally I will think of brilliant things and then I will do nothing about them and be upset when someone else shows some initiative. To that end, I want the world to know at least that this was my idea first:
Tracking devices as fashion accessories
I realised today via a Facebook conversation with Charlotte that if the marketing was done right, millions and millions of people would willingly, eagerly, wear tracking devices -- allowing any and all to know their every movement.
Social networking sites and blogs and constant texting and so on indicate that there are large numbers of people who don't like the idea of being out of contact for even short periods of time. It's as if we are all a bunch of co-dependent girlfriends.
What I envision is a fashionable, waterproof, lightweight bracelet for ankle or wrist (your choice, of course) that allows for satellite tracking. That tracking information is then transferred to a social-networking-esque website that works in conjunction with Google Maps to allow your friends to know exactly where you are on the planet at any given time. The site would also work with Twitter, so your friends can know exactly what you are doing, too.
What fun! You would never ever ever ever ever be alone again.
Imagine: You're at the Starbucks and you're bored. If only you had someone to talk to. You click on your mobile web access and go to AlwaysThere.com. The site keys in on your location and shows you that your friend, or, rather, that girl who took poli sci with you in freshman year, is only 500 yards away. You quickly "wave hello" (or some other similar action via the SuperHello application), a message that she receives on her mobile phone, and within minutes you're hanging out together. How cool! How hip!
And, yes, by law all the AlwaysThere information is available to the Department of Homeland Security (a), but that can be a good thing. What if the IRS makes a mistake and realises it owes you $100 million? You'd want them to find you straight away, wouldn't you?
(a)Yeesh if you look at the top of your browser window on the Homeland Security homepage it says: "Department of Homeland Security | Preserving Our Freedoms, Protecting America." Really? They really have that as their motto? Is irony dead?
Tracking devices as fashion accessories
I realised today via a Facebook conversation with Charlotte that if the marketing was done right, millions and millions of people would willingly, eagerly, wear tracking devices -- allowing any and all to know their every movement.
Social networking sites and blogs and constant texting and so on indicate that there are large numbers of people who don't like the idea of being out of contact for even short periods of time. It's as if we are all a bunch of co-dependent girlfriends.
What I envision is a fashionable, waterproof, lightweight bracelet for ankle or wrist (your choice, of course) that allows for satellite tracking. That tracking information is then transferred to a social-networking-esque website that works in conjunction with Google Maps to allow your friends to know exactly where you are on the planet at any given time. The site would also work with Twitter, so your friends can know exactly what you are doing, too.
What fun! You would never ever ever ever ever be alone again.
Imagine: You're at the Starbucks and you're bored. If only you had someone to talk to. You click on your mobile web access and go to AlwaysThere.com. The site keys in on your location and shows you that your friend, or, rather, that girl who took poli sci with you in freshman year, is only 500 yards away. You quickly "wave hello" (or some other similar action via the SuperHello application), a message that she receives on her mobile phone, and within minutes you're hanging out together. How cool! How hip!
And, yes, by law all the AlwaysThere information is available to the Department of Homeland Security (a), but that can be a good thing. What if the IRS makes a mistake and realises it owes you $100 million? You'd want them to find you straight away, wouldn't you?
(a)Yeesh if you look at the top of your browser window on the Homeland Security homepage it says: "Department of Homeland Security | Preserving Our Freedoms, Protecting America." Really? They really have that as their motto? Is irony dead?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Yes. And yes.
For 50 weeks of the year, I'm not really all that interested in going to Germany. But then Oktoberfest comes along and I am once again kicking myself for not being there.Apart from lack of money, my main problem this time around is that I don't have anyone to go with. The child bride doesn't drink and she's not really a fan of being stuck amid a huge crowd of drunkards. Considering that some 6 million people are expected to take part in this year's German boozery, it's a good bet that Rachel won't be found anywhere near Munich over the next 16 days. If anyone out there is interested in going next year, let me know. My only requirement for a travelling companion is that you be able to lie convincingly -- you will need to do this when we return home and the child bride asks if I drank too much.
"No," you will say. "He was very well-behaved. To be honest, I think he missed you so much, he didn't really enjoy being there."
For those of you playing along at home, two devastating wars and countless soccer defeats have resulted in a general disinterest in Germany and German things here in Britain. Oktoberfest gets very little play. To be fair, though, Britons have their own massive beer-drinking festival -- they call it "Saturday."
For international viewers, as a big thank you for providing us with beer, sausage, pretzels and two ego-boosting wars, Americans host Oktoberfest celebrations in towns all across the country, including places where German influence is almost non-existent, like La Mesa, Calif. (it is from that city's Oktoberfest that this blog gets its name). These events are similar to our St. Patrick's Day celebrations in that the focus is on eating and drinking and reinforcing comical stereotypes. We also do this with Mexicans and Cinco de Mayo.
One of the best single-location* Oktoberfest celebrations I've been to is held at Gasthof zur Gemütlickeit, in Minneapolis. A large tent is erected in the parking lot and then filled to heaving with people and a polka band that is loud and raucous on a Gogol Bordello scale. The band is so loud that you don't so much hear it as feel and think it; it becomes a constant, coursing through your skull, that, when matched with beer consumption, destroys your ability to string together coherent thought. Each time I've gone, I've walked away feeling that it was one of the best nights I've had all year.
*As opposed to those celebrations that take up several city blocks and feature several vendors.
Friday, August 03, 2007
List of potential titles for Shakespearean-themed porn films
As You Lick It
Romeo in Juliet
A Midsummer Night's Cream
The Hot and Horny Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Penis
Balling of the Shrew
Much Ado About Nuttin'
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
Romeo in Juliet
A Midsummer Night's Cream
The Hot and Horny Wives of Windsor
The Merchant of Penis
Balling of the Shrew
Much Ado About Nuttin'
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
Monday, June 18, 2007
9 foot tall when you're 4-foot-5
"Gossamer" is an all-too-underutilised word in the modern English lexicon.
On the train this morning, I found myself listening to "Just One of Those Things," by Nat "King" Cole, in which he suggests taking "a trip to the moon on gossamer wings."
Personally, I would prefer some good, sturdy wings for a trip to the moon, along with a not-so-gossamer space suit. But I suppose "a trip to the moon in a quality-assured spacecraft with a few extra tanks of air, just in case," would have been a bit clunky in the verse scheme. And, of course, then he would have been forced to leave out the word "gossamer."
I have decided that I want to work "gossamer" into my lexicon, similar to the way I have been trying to work in "stud duck." The problem is, these aren't words and phrases that are likely to fit perfectly in my normal stream of conversation. I have to create places for them and then it feels weird and forced. Like when I try to wink.
Cool guys wink. It's got a sort of old-word charm, does winking*. But when I make an attempt, it comes off as really creepy (case in point the last six seconds of this video).
I think about these things because I feel the need to create my personality. I suppose we all do that to some extent, but I tend to want to mimic people whom I am nothing like. I am caught between wanting to be a less-buffoonish version of Bertie Wooster and a skinnier hybrid version of my both grandfathers.
Both my grandfathers are from West Texas, but are unique characters in and of themselves (Microsoft Word tells me "in and of themselves" is bad grammar, but I can't think of how else to write this). If Papa, my paternal grandfather, were a fictional character, a literary agent would make me rewrite him because of his strange mix of West Texas and World War II/hipster slang. He'll call people "hoss," "stud," 'stud duck," "cat," "man," and "Jackson."
Well, I'm pretty sure I've heard him say "Jackson." It's possible that I am confusing him for Phil Harris, the jazz musician who most famously voiced Baloo the Bear in "Jungle Book." Before "Jungle Book," Harris was band director for Jack Benny's radio show (Jack Benny?! Cripes, there's an ancient reference. Perhaps in my next post I'll yammer on about the Nicholas Brothers**). On the show, Harris would often greet Benny by shouting "Hiya, Jackson!"
Papa has a similar voice to Harris. And when I was a boy, I had a dream that Papa and I were laughing and dancing in his living room to "The Bare Necessities." The dream was so vivid and had such a profound effect on me that it rests precariously on the verge of being remembered as an actual event. The only thing keeping that memory out of the "things that actually happened" memories box is the fact that I have at no other time in my life seen Papa move that much.
Perhaps my dad (who occasionally reads this blog) can confirm whether Papa calls people "Jackson." Of course, my dad's memory is just as bad as mine, so if he disagrees with me I won't believe him. If my brother and I were to suddenly stop calling him "dad," my father would soon be confused by these two young men who are always asking him for money.
Other things I'm certain I have heard Papa say are "love a duck," and "I'm just Jake." There are a few other phrases that aren't coming to me at the moment, all of which I have unsuccessfully tried to work into my lexicon at one point. The only identifiable character traits that I have from Papa are that we are both unnecessarily moody and keen to stubbornly ignore good advice.
Grumpiness seems to be the key character trait I inherited from my maternal grandfather, as well. Breezy, as he is known, is not above character creating. There's a great picture of him as a young man smoking a pipe, and he readily admits that he only smoked because he thought it looked cool. He has since modelled himself somewhat after John Wayne, but, unlike me, he is successful in character creating.
If you go to Hollywood and look at all the celebrities' names and footprints in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater, you will see that John Wayne had shockingly tiny feet. He was probably, in fact, a rather smallish man, and my grandfather could have kicked his ass. Instead, I like to think of my grandfather as a sort of Stone Cold Steve Austin who doesn't drink or swear and who's really good at math (and this is the point where Anthony gives me shit for my man crush on Stone Cold).
One of my favourite books is Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms," which I like for the same reason that a lot of people dislike it, in that it is a bit ridiculous in its machismo -- this good-looking roguish make-it-up-as-you-go, one-of-the-guys soldier who escapes death, is loved by women, plays billiards with counts and always gets it right. Whatever, bitches. It was Hemingway's book and if he wanted to write it that way, it was damn well his prerogative and it made him so great that they put his face on coffee mugs. Either way, when I read that book, I always put Breezy in as the main character.
I mimic Breezy most in my storytelling. If I tell a story to you in person, I physically hold myself like my grandfather. As my writing style develops, I find myself trying to mimic his use of detail.
Here's an audio clip of Breezy telling a story. If you can understand his Texas accent, you'll note that he provides a certain attention to detail in his storytelling. He gives the names of towns and people, tells whether a person is right- or left-handed, describes landscapes, gives the prices of various items and on and on. This particular story doesn't show it, but what's great about Breezy's style is what he leaves out.
For example, he will tell you a story about a car breaking down. He will tell you the make and model of the car, provide a summary of the car's overall performance, explain the exact circumstances under which the car broke down, what the day was like when it happened, where he was and why he had chosen that particular route, what exactly was wrong with the car, how long it took to get it to a garage, and on and on. Then, suddenly, the story will become streamlined:
"...and this old boy says to me, 'Mr. Cox, that's gonna be $10.'
And I say, 'Nah. That's too much.'
Well, we had a little talk about it and he decided he was only goin' to charge me $5."
Eh? Something really important is missing in there. This is Texas. The mechanic's got my grandfather over a barrel because he's the only garage for 100 miles. They have "a little talk." Suddenly the mechanic drops the price. What happened?
The omission of detail amid so much detail makes it a brilliant story, because it forces the listener to create their own explanation of what "a little talk" means. Maybe the two sat and haggled for 45 minutes; maybe the mechanic simply felt like being a nice guy; maybe my grandfather kicked that mechanic's ass (my preferred version). Either way, my grandfather has brilliantly told a story by forcing me to tell the story for him.
"Gossamer," though, is not a word that would show up in that story. It wouldn't even really fit my Papa's style, who I think is influenced by his years working in newspapers and public relations. Newsmen of the generation before mine are hardwired to treat adjectives as weight -- a story moves best when it doesn't carry them. On the rare occasion that Papa feels like telling a story, it can usually fit comfortably on a 3x5 card in 12-point font.
So, I am left to try to create space for "gossamer" in places where it doesn't quite fit. This seems to be my style -- a stumbling, incongruous amalgam of every little thing I know laid out in story form.
Uhm, was there a point to this post?
*I can't work "gossamer" or "stud duck" into my vocabulary, but strangely I have no trouble structuring a sentence like Jim Ross.
**They were fucking brilliant, by the way. That clip also features the ultra-brilliant Cab Calloway. It really speaks to the chasmic evil of racism that these guys weren't just overlooked but aggressively refused the audience they deserved -- 64 years later, that sequence retains a "holy shit" quality (extending from the ECW days; when a wrestler performs a particularly amazing feat, the audience chant: "Holy shit! Holy shit!").
On the train this morning, I found myself listening to "Just One of Those Things," by Nat "King" Cole, in which he suggests taking "a trip to the moon on gossamer wings."
Personally, I would prefer some good, sturdy wings for a trip to the moon, along with a not-so-gossamer space suit. But I suppose "a trip to the moon in a quality-assured spacecraft with a few extra tanks of air, just in case," would have been a bit clunky in the verse scheme. And, of course, then he would have been forced to leave out the word "gossamer."
I have decided that I want to work "gossamer" into my lexicon, similar to the way I have been trying to work in "stud duck." The problem is, these aren't words and phrases that are likely to fit perfectly in my normal stream of conversation. I have to create places for them and then it feels weird and forced. Like when I try to wink.
Cool guys wink. It's got a sort of old-word charm, does winking*. But when I make an attempt, it comes off as really creepy (case in point the last six seconds of this video).
I think about these things because I feel the need to create my personality. I suppose we all do that to some extent, but I tend to want to mimic people whom I am nothing like. I am caught between wanting to be a less-buffoonish version of Bertie Wooster and a skinnier hybrid version of my both grandfathers.
Both my grandfathers are from West Texas, but are unique characters in and of themselves (Microsoft Word tells me "in and of themselves" is bad grammar, but I can't think of how else to write this). If Papa, my paternal grandfather, were a fictional character, a literary agent would make me rewrite him because of his strange mix of West Texas and World War II/hipster slang. He'll call people "hoss," "stud," 'stud duck," "cat," "man," and "Jackson."
Well, I'm pretty sure I've heard him say "Jackson." It's possible that I am confusing him for Phil Harris, the jazz musician who most famously voiced Baloo the Bear in "Jungle Book." Before "Jungle Book," Harris was band director for Jack Benny's radio show (Jack Benny?! Cripes, there's an ancient reference. Perhaps in my next post I'll yammer on about the Nicholas Brothers**). On the show, Harris would often greet Benny by shouting "Hiya, Jackson!"
Papa has a similar voice to Harris. And when I was a boy, I had a dream that Papa and I were laughing and dancing in his living room to "The Bare Necessities." The dream was so vivid and had such a profound effect on me that it rests precariously on the verge of being remembered as an actual event. The only thing keeping that memory out of the "things that actually happened" memories box is the fact that I have at no other time in my life seen Papa move that much.
Perhaps my dad (who occasionally reads this blog) can confirm whether Papa calls people "Jackson." Of course, my dad's memory is just as bad as mine, so if he disagrees with me I won't believe him. If my brother and I were to suddenly stop calling him "dad," my father would soon be confused by these two young men who are always asking him for money.
Other things I'm certain I have heard Papa say are "love a duck," and "I'm just Jake." There are a few other phrases that aren't coming to me at the moment, all of which I have unsuccessfully tried to work into my lexicon at one point. The only identifiable character traits that I have from Papa are that we are both unnecessarily moody and keen to stubbornly ignore good advice.
Grumpiness seems to be the key character trait I inherited from my maternal grandfather, as well. Breezy, as he is known, is not above character creating. There's a great picture of him as a young man smoking a pipe, and he readily admits that he only smoked because he thought it looked cool. He has since modelled himself somewhat after John Wayne, but, unlike me, he is successful in character creating.
If you go to Hollywood and look at all the celebrities' names and footprints in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater, you will see that John Wayne had shockingly tiny feet. He was probably, in fact, a rather smallish man, and my grandfather could have kicked his ass. Instead, I like to think of my grandfather as a sort of Stone Cold Steve Austin who doesn't drink or swear and who's really good at math (and this is the point where Anthony gives me shit for my man crush on Stone Cold).
One of my favourite books is Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms," which I like for the same reason that a lot of people dislike it, in that it is a bit ridiculous in its machismo -- this good-looking roguish make-it-up-as-you-go, one-of-the-guys soldier who escapes death, is loved by women, plays billiards with counts and always gets it right. Whatever, bitches. It was Hemingway's book and if he wanted to write it that way, it was damn well his prerogative and it made him so great that they put his face on coffee mugs. Either way, when I read that book, I always put Breezy in as the main character.
I mimic Breezy most in my storytelling. If I tell a story to you in person, I physically hold myself like my grandfather. As my writing style develops, I find myself trying to mimic his use of detail.
Here's an audio clip of Breezy telling a story. If you can understand his Texas accent, you'll note that he provides a certain attention to detail in his storytelling. He gives the names of towns and people, tells whether a person is right- or left-handed, describes landscapes, gives the prices of various items and on and on. This particular story doesn't show it, but what's great about Breezy's style is what he leaves out.
For example, he will tell you a story about a car breaking down. He will tell you the make and model of the car, provide a summary of the car's overall performance, explain the exact circumstances under which the car broke down, what the day was like when it happened, where he was and why he had chosen that particular route, what exactly was wrong with the car, how long it took to get it to a garage, and on and on. Then, suddenly, the story will become streamlined:
"...and this old boy says to me, 'Mr. Cox, that's gonna be $10.'
And I say, 'Nah. That's too much.'
Well, we had a little talk about it and he decided he was only goin' to charge me $5."
Eh? Something really important is missing in there. This is Texas. The mechanic's got my grandfather over a barrel because he's the only garage for 100 miles. They have "a little talk." Suddenly the mechanic drops the price. What happened?
The omission of detail amid so much detail makes it a brilliant story, because it forces the listener to create their own explanation of what "a little talk" means. Maybe the two sat and haggled for 45 minutes; maybe the mechanic simply felt like being a nice guy; maybe my grandfather kicked that mechanic's ass (my preferred version). Either way, my grandfather has brilliantly told a story by forcing me to tell the story for him.
"Gossamer," though, is not a word that would show up in that story. It wouldn't even really fit my Papa's style, who I think is influenced by his years working in newspapers and public relations. Newsmen of the generation before mine are hardwired to treat adjectives as weight -- a story moves best when it doesn't carry them. On the rare occasion that Papa feels like telling a story, it can usually fit comfortably on a 3x5 card in 12-point font.
So, I am left to try to create space for "gossamer" in places where it doesn't quite fit. This seems to be my style -- a stumbling, incongruous amalgam of every little thing I know laid out in story form.
Uhm, was there a point to this post?
*I can't work "gossamer" or "stud duck" into my vocabulary, but strangely I have no trouble structuring a sentence like Jim Ross.
**They were fucking brilliant, by the way. That clip also features the ultra-brilliant Cab Calloway. It really speaks to the chasmic evil of racism that these guys weren't just overlooked but aggressively refused the audience they deserved -- 64 years later, that sequence retains a "holy shit" quality (extending from the ECW days; when a wrestler performs a particularly amazing feat, the audience chant: "Holy shit! Holy shit!").
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
CDCCC
If you are a Facebook member in Wales, please join this group. Hell, join it even if you're not in Wales.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
01101010010110001111
I'm not really a science-fiction guy. The only science fiction I've ever read has been Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams and William Gibson and none of it solely for the purpose of reading science fiction. I watch Dr. Who and spot the enormous plot holes (seriously, my bitches, when the pig slaves were attacking Hooverville, Solomon -- who had fought in World War I -- took up the weakest defensive position I've ever seen), and the episode of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" in which Picard learns to play a flute* made me cry, but beyond that I don't really watch a lot of science fiction, either.
Yet, I find myself constantly thinking up lame science-fiction ideas. Case in point, the TV series in my head. And this morning I thought up something new:
Shortly after New York City is completely destroyed by a category 5 hurricane, the United States government finally decides to respond to climate change. Typical of American extremist mentality, it outright bans the use of oil and coal (except for its own military necessity). This move sparks a boom in the use of solar panels and soon the whole of America has an environmentally-friendly dark silver sheen. Western Europe is happy to follow along, as are a number of South American, Asian and African nations. Although it has yet to happen, it is implied that those slow to convert to solar energy will find a U.N. military contingent knocking at the door.
So, the world is becoming a better place but in a slightly uncomfortable way. Amid this, one of the main side-effects is that the cost of silicon jumps rather dramatically. The cost can be offset by using less-efficient, easier-to-produce silicon for the solar panels but the cost of the quality silicon needed for computers bumps up by 900 percent.
At about this same time, an MIT biochemist hooks a special processor to a live chicken's brain and is able to create a shockingly powerful computer, one with vastly more memory than most existing technology. The discovery goes over incredibly well: Chickens are cheap to feed and maintain, they don't require deadly chemicals to create, they are considerably easier to dispose of, and the only power needed is that for the access box (the processor device attached to the chicken's head connects via a simple cable to an "access box" that feeds to a monitor, keyboard and mouse). And, much to everyone's surprise, this bio-computer is impervious to computer viruses. Within a short time, "PC" comes to stand for "personal chicken."
The only drawbacks are this:
1) The chicken has to be alive.
2) Using the computer knocks the chicken unconscious. This has no lasting negative effects, but it does mean you have to shut the computer off so that the chicken will wake up and eat and continue to live.
3) Chickens have a short lifespan.
4) Chickens are difficult to interface.
5) Chickens are troublesome to transport.
These issues lead to further experimentation and eventually Apple develops a hip mouse-based bio-computer that is easier (and cuter) to carry around and, due to the way its brain works, easier to interface. The drawback is that the lifespan is shorter and your computer runs risk of being eaten by the family cat.
At this point, as almost always happens in science fiction, someone works out that human brains are the best suited to this whole bio-computer thing. The size and power of our brains mean that the bio-computers are, in effect, infinitely powerful, we interface brilliantly, and we take direction better than mice and chickens.
But there remains the issue of knocking the "computer" unconscious when it's being used. For the average user then, a person-based bio-computer is unrealistic. Getting a person to carry around your unwritten novel and Frank Sinatra albums in their head is tricky because you run the risk of them deciding they don't really like you anymore. Imagine asking for an extension on your master's degree thesis because your girlfriend is mad and won't let you access your files. So, most people stick to mice and chickens.
But corporations, as they are wont to do, are perfectly happy to use people as computers. People are hired on to basically spend eight hours a day sleeping. Corporations choose candidates who are intelligent, relatively well-adjusted, live healthy lives, and inclined to be loyal to the corporation; a lot of Mormons get jobs as computers**.
And so we arrive at the protagonist, Milo, whose enviable life involves being paid to sleep, eat well, and live healthfully. It's a pretty good life. The corporation puts him and his wife, also a bio-computer, up in a great home and treats them both quite well. Thanks to advanced interfacing technology, they are even able to take vacations, albeit only to corporation-sanctioned locales.
This bio-computer technology is different than William Gibson's microsofts technology which allows a person to input information into their brain and use it. For example, with microsofts you can put a chip in your head and suddenly speak Spanish. With the bio-computer technology, the information is not accessible to the person carrying it. It's just there in their head and they know nothing of it. Occasionally, though, and for unknown reasons, the people serving as bio-computers will experience a "mental burp," in which some bit of data suddenly reaches their consciousness. For the most part, these are short, irrelevant bits of binary. For example, in the way that a smell can suddenly flash a memory of a girl you dated in high school, unspecified situations can suddenly cause the bio-computer to see a stream of binary in his or her head (the headline to this post is "Milo" written in binary). But sometimes, mysteriously, these mental burps will actually produce snippets of intelligible information: "...Davis and I contacted..." "...activates 29 August..." and on.
Milo has been experiencing several of these as of late, all coming from what seem to be the same document. His guess is that it is being accessed and updated frequently, but it's none of his business to bother about what they put in his head and he doesn't pay much attention to it until he wakes up one afternoon and five of his fellow bio-computers are dead, including his wife.
A weak explanation is given and Milo is given a few weeks off to mourn. In that time, he is tormented by the mental burps. He suddenly realises that the document he keeps seeing contains the true explanation of what killed his wife and co-workers, and that something important, something big is set to occur on 29 August. But all these things are totally unclear.
The novel, then, follows Milo as he goes on the run and tries to figure out the mystery of what happened. To access the information, he needs to find someone he can trust -- since he has to be asleep and defenceless when the information is accessed -- someone who can hack the corporation's security codes, and some way to access the information without it being immediately obvious to the corporation (the computers are so well integrated that as soon as the information is accessed, the corporation would know exactly where to find him).
This leads him to hunt down an old work colleague who lives in one of the remaining "carbon nations." Suspiciously, at exactly the same time, a war kicks off against the carbon nation and Milo finds himself pursued by the corporation, government agents from both the carbon nation and the United States, and possibly some other nefarious entity.
And that's what I was dreaming up this morning as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My only challenge now is, uhm, thinking up what the hell the big secret is and how Milo could save the world. You know, the plot. I've got an amusing premise and absolutely no substance. Typical.
*You know which episode I'm talking about. If watching that didn't make you weep like big baby, you have no soul.
**A nod to my favourite nutjob theory, that Mormons are behind an elaborate conspiracy to take control of the United States.
Yet, I find myself constantly thinking up lame science-fiction ideas. Case in point, the TV series in my head. And this morning I thought up something new:
Shortly after New York City is completely destroyed by a category 5 hurricane, the United States government finally decides to respond to climate change. Typical of American extremist mentality, it outright bans the use of oil and coal (except for its own military necessity). This move sparks a boom in the use of solar panels and soon the whole of America has an environmentally-friendly dark silver sheen. Western Europe is happy to follow along, as are a number of South American, Asian and African nations. Although it has yet to happen, it is implied that those slow to convert to solar energy will find a U.N. military contingent knocking at the door.
So, the world is becoming a better place but in a slightly uncomfortable way. Amid this, one of the main side-effects is that the cost of silicon jumps rather dramatically. The cost can be offset by using less-efficient, easier-to-produce silicon for the solar panels but the cost of the quality silicon needed for computers bumps up by 900 percent.
At about this same time, an MIT biochemist hooks a special processor to a live chicken's brain and is able to create a shockingly powerful computer, one with vastly more memory than most existing technology. The discovery goes over incredibly well: Chickens are cheap to feed and maintain, they don't require deadly chemicals to create, they are considerably easier to dispose of, and the only power needed is that for the access box (the processor device attached to the chicken's head connects via a simple cable to an "access box" that feeds to a monitor, keyboard and mouse). And, much to everyone's surprise, this bio-computer is impervious to computer viruses. Within a short time, "PC" comes to stand for "personal chicken."
The only drawbacks are this:
1) The chicken has to be alive.
2) Using the computer knocks the chicken unconscious. This has no lasting negative effects, but it does mean you have to shut the computer off so that the chicken will wake up and eat and continue to live.
3) Chickens have a short lifespan.
4) Chickens are difficult to interface.
5) Chickens are troublesome to transport.
These issues lead to further experimentation and eventually Apple develops a hip mouse-based bio-computer that is easier (and cuter) to carry around and, due to the way its brain works, easier to interface. The drawback is that the lifespan is shorter and your computer runs risk of being eaten by the family cat.
At this point, as almost always happens in science fiction, someone works out that human brains are the best suited to this whole bio-computer thing. The size and power of our brains mean that the bio-computers are, in effect, infinitely powerful, we interface brilliantly, and we take direction better than mice and chickens.
But there remains the issue of knocking the "computer" unconscious when it's being used. For the average user then, a person-based bio-computer is unrealistic. Getting a person to carry around your unwritten novel and Frank Sinatra albums in their head is tricky because you run the risk of them deciding they don't really like you anymore. Imagine asking for an extension on your master's degree thesis because your girlfriend is mad and won't let you access your files. So, most people stick to mice and chickens.
But corporations, as they are wont to do, are perfectly happy to use people as computers. People are hired on to basically spend eight hours a day sleeping. Corporations choose candidates who are intelligent, relatively well-adjusted, live healthy lives, and inclined to be loyal to the corporation; a lot of Mormons get jobs as computers**.
And so we arrive at the protagonist, Milo, whose enviable life involves being paid to sleep, eat well, and live healthfully. It's a pretty good life. The corporation puts him and his wife, also a bio-computer, up in a great home and treats them both quite well. Thanks to advanced interfacing technology, they are even able to take vacations, albeit only to corporation-sanctioned locales.
This bio-computer technology is different than William Gibson's microsofts technology which allows a person to input information into their brain and use it. For example, with microsofts you can put a chip in your head and suddenly speak Spanish. With the bio-computer technology, the information is not accessible to the person carrying it. It's just there in their head and they know nothing of it. Occasionally, though, and for unknown reasons, the people serving as bio-computers will experience a "mental burp," in which some bit of data suddenly reaches their consciousness. For the most part, these are short, irrelevant bits of binary. For example, in the way that a smell can suddenly flash a memory of a girl you dated in high school, unspecified situations can suddenly cause the bio-computer to see a stream of binary in his or her head (the headline to this post is "Milo" written in binary). But sometimes, mysteriously, these mental burps will actually produce snippets of intelligible information: "...Davis and I contacted..." "...activates 29 August..." and on.
Milo has been experiencing several of these as of late, all coming from what seem to be the same document. His guess is that it is being accessed and updated frequently, but it's none of his business to bother about what they put in his head and he doesn't pay much attention to it until he wakes up one afternoon and five of his fellow bio-computers are dead, including his wife.
A weak explanation is given and Milo is given a few weeks off to mourn. In that time, he is tormented by the mental burps. He suddenly realises that the document he keeps seeing contains the true explanation of what killed his wife and co-workers, and that something important, something big is set to occur on 29 August. But all these things are totally unclear.
The novel, then, follows Milo as he goes on the run and tries to figure out the mystery of what happened. To access the information, he needs to find someone he can trust -- since he has to be asleep and defenceless when the information is accessed -- someone who can hack the corporation's security codes, and some way to access the information without it being immediately obvious to the corporation (the computers are so well integrated that as soon as the information is accessed, the corporation would know exactly where to find him).
This leads him to hunt down an old work colleague who lives in one of the remaining "carbon nations." Suspiciously, at exactly the same time, a war kicks off against the carbon nation and Milo finds himself pursued by the corporation, government agents from both the carbon nation and the United States, and possibly some other nefarious entity.
And that's what I was dreaming up this morning as I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. My only challenge now is, uhm, thinking up what the hell the big secret is and how Milo could save the world. You know, the plot. I've got an amusing premise and absolutely no substance. Typical.
*You know which episode I'm talking about. If watching that didn't make you weep like big baby, you have no soul.
**A nod to my favourite nutjob theory, that Mormons are behind an elaborate conspiracy to take control of the United States.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
I say spider, you say monkey
Sometimes the world is not fair. We all know that, but sometimes it is more glaringly obvious. Sometimes the unfairness of this life looks you square in the eye and doesn't even flinch when it stabs you in the gut.Such is the case that 3 Minute Hero never became famous.
They were good. I mean really, really good. Originally formed as yet another ska band, their horn section was just too powerful for such staid musical confines. In its prime (1997-2000), the horn section was fronted by two trombones -- instruments that, when played right, produce a brutal sound; a sound that punches and leaves you standing dumb like Peter Manfredo Jr. against Joe Calzaghe. This was supported by trumpet and sax and keys that swirled around the jabs and pulled you in. The whole thing fell together so perfectly that you found yourself not really hearing the different instruments, just this immense, immense sound. It was a sound that you could feel in your chest, a sound that felt too large for your head.
Fuelling the immensity was the sort of if-Animal-were-real-and-angry-and-100-feet-tall drumming you would expect from a guy who taught himself to play by listening to Kiss records. Atop it all was a larger-than-life frontman who stood as ringmaster, wailing and bellowing through the songs.
Obviously, with such a dynamic sound they were difficult to categorize. They were sort of a cross between stadium rock, Barenaked Ladies, Mighty Mighty Bosstones (circa Let's Face It), Parliament, and the first time a girl let you put your hand up her shirt. The lyrics were rapid-fire funny and brilliant, the music was incredible, and their shows were explosive in energy. They remain my favourite band of all time.
OK, true, I went to high school with three of the band members, one of whom has been my best friend for 19 years*, and I wrote the lyrics to one of their songs. I am biased. Even in the face of this they were good. In my mind, they had everything they needed to be big and I very seriously believed that one day everything would drop into gear and they would be touring around the world.
That never happened, of course. They played in bars in forgettable towns in forgettable states, bounded across North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin in an old school bus that they had won in a battle of the bands competition, until growing up became inevitable. The band split in 2000 and the members became husbands, fathers, home owners, teachers. A few of them joined other bands and achieved equal levels of success (most notably Jack Brass Band, where the two-trombones-kicking-your-ass-with-sound format was again used), but the 3MH experience remains wholly unique in my eyes.
The story of 3 Minute Hero is an almost bittersweet tale; evidence that incredible talent can exist and go unnoticed. It forces you to realise that there are authors more brilliant than Shakespeare who will never be published, songs being sung that would fill your soul but that you will never hear. It's unfair.
But there is hope: They're back, bitches!
Well at least for two performances. One will be in St. Peter, Minn., which became a sort of spiritual home for the band, and the other will be at Minneapolis' Fine Line. Their meteoric rise to fame will still probably never occur but at least a few more people will get a chance to finally hear the greatest band they never knew existed.
3 Minute Hero's Fine Line show is June 9, so you can expect to see me going on about this for a while. I am very serious that when I got the e-mail from Eric today I spent about half an hour trying to figure out if it would be at all possible for me to fly back to the U.S. to see the show (sadly, ignoring the $1,500 cost of a flight, I still have exams at that time).
There are a goodly number of Upper Midwesterners who read this blog, though, and I would encourage them to make the trip. No, really. This is a band worth driving several hours to see. Tickets are only $11, so you should have some extra money to buy Eric a beer.
*19 years, Eric. We are old.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The height of self-interest
As The Editor (I like that he always signs comments that way, as if he is a super hero who doesn't want us to know his secret identity) correctly identified Wednesday, the URL of this blog has changed.
It is now, officially www.chriscope.co.uk, although the old chriscope.blogspot.com address still works. I openly admit that buying my name in URL form is a lame thing to have done, and I encourage you to take the piss about it ("make fun of me" for those of you playing along at home). Although, if you do, I will storm out of the room like Preston did on Never Mind The Buzzcocks, or like when Eric hit me in the face with a piece of candy at Angie Luukkonen's house.
In a world where there are several free blog providers, there is no particularly good reason for me to have paid somebody so that I can use my own name. It doesn't make it right, but here's why I did:
Despite several years of consistent failure, I still have dreams of being the sort of author that people would actually give money to. Keen readers will note that just on Wednesday I was yammering on about plans to write a book this summer. If I ever do get something published, I think having my own site would become valuable in promoting myself so as to be able to dupe a publisher into paying me to write another book, and on and on.
That bastard Kiwi has already claimed www.chriscope.net, and www.chriscope.com is currently owned by Eun Cho of North Bergen, NJ. What the hell he's doing with my name, I do not know. Perhaps he is banking on my success even more than I am, hoping to extort shit loads of money from a future successful me. Well, you're shit out of luck, Cho, because I am now the true and rightful owner of my name in .co.uk domain.
In the two months (or so) that I've had Google AdSense I have earned a whopping $11.24, which isn't exactly going to buy me a new house, but does cover the cost of the name.
The domain name is about all that will be changing at the moment -- I'll continue to use Blogger as my provider for the foreseeable future. Obviously if I had a published book I would want a more coherent website, but that's a way off. Even without that, though, I have long had visions of better incorporating my multiple blogs under a single banner. That would require money, which, at the current rate, advertising is unlikely to provide (it is against the rules for me to tell you to click on the ads -- cough, cough).
When I can be arsed, the URL for my Welsh blog will change to cymraeg.chriscope.co.uk, following the trend of my (almost never used) Spanish blog (so rarely updated that I refuse to link to it). I may then create my own sort of Welcome page that then directs to my multiple blogs -- this depends on available time and my ability to come up with a good splash page (I am thinking of stealing Shooty the Death Panda as my logo*). So, uhm, it will probably never happen.
*That, or something incorporating a pint glass.
It is now, officially www.chriscope.co.uk, although the old chriscope.blogspot.com address still works. I openly admit that buying my name in URL form is a lame thing to have done, and I encourage you to take the piss about it ("make fun of me" for those of you playing along at home). Although, if you do, I will storm out of the room like Preston did on Never Mind The Buzzcocks, or like when Eric hit me in the face with a piece of candy at Angie Luukkonen's house.
In a world where there are several free blog providers, there is no particularly good reason for me to have paid somebody so that I can use my own name. It doesn't make it right, but here's why I did:
Despite several years of consistent failure, I still have dreams of being the sort of author that people would actually give money to. Keen readers will note that just on Wednesday I was yammering on about plans to write a book this summer. If I ever do get something published, I think having my own site would become valuable in promoting myself so as to be able to dupe a publisher into paying me to write another book, and on and on.
That bastard Kiwi has already claimed www.chriscope.net, and www.chriscope.com is currently owned by Eun Cho of North Bergen, NJ. What the hell he's doing with my name, I do not know. Perhaps he is banking on my success even more than I am, hoping to extort shit loads of money from a future successful me. Well, you're shit out of luck, Cho, because I am now the true and rightful owner of my name in .co.uk domain.
In the two months (or so) that I've had Google AdSense I have earned a whopping $11.24, which isn't exactly going to buy me a new house, but does cover the cost of the name.
The domain name is about all that will be changing at the moment -- I'll continue to use Blogger as my provider for the foreseeable future. Obviously if I had a published book I would want a more coherent website, but that's a way off. Even without that, though, I have long had visions of better incorporating my multiple blogs under a single banner. That would require money, which, at the current rate, advertising is unlikely to provide (it is against the rules for me to tell you to click on the ads -- cough, cough).
When I can be arsed, the URL for my Welsh blog will change to cymraeg.chriscope.co.uk, following the trend of my (almost never used) Spanish blog (so rarely updated that I refuse to link to it). I may then create my own sort of Welcome page that then directs to my multiple blogs -- this depends on available time and my ability to come up with a good splash page (I am thinking of stealing Shooty the Death Panda as my logo*). So, uhm, it will probably never happen.
*That, or something incorporating a pint glass.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Random joke from the stand-up routine that will never occur
People seem to be more concerned about the environment these days. I support that, I really do. Even though it's pretty much killed my plans to sell a wood-burning air conditioner.
Actually, it's OK. Because I'm now working on a hybrid that runs on coal and whale blubber.
Actually, it's OK. Because I'm now working on a hybrid that runs on coal and whale blubber.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Bottlenose
I had a dream last night that I was in a romantic comedy with Matthew McConaughey and Reese Witherspoon, but I was living the film, if that makes sense. I was aware that everything was following a set plotline and that McConaughey and Witherspoon were, in fact McConaughey and Witherspoon, and not the characters they were playing, but I felt all the things that happened to me.
I was the comic-partner-sort-of-thing to McConaughey's wealthy and slightly arrogant character. He was trying to exact revenge from Witherspoon, who had fouled up some major business deal. Or some such thing. It was a romantic comedy, so of course strength of plot wasn't particularly relevant.
I was a homeless guy who hung out with five very large dogs that would keep me warm a night by sleeping on top of me. A number of my scenes involved having conversations with the dogs. I can now only remember two of the dogs' names: Benedict and Bottlenose.
Benedict (short for Benedict Arnold, of course) was so named because he was desperate to find a new owner. He would run up to people in the park where we lived and try to charm them into taking him in. When I caught him doing this, I would shout: "Traitor!"
Bottlenose was a muddy golden retriever who took incredible joy in finding plastic Coca-Cola* bottle caps and bringing them to me.
McConaughey recruited me to pull all kinds of boneheaded stunts in an attempt to embarrass Witherspoon, but, of course, they all fell through.
I can't remember exactly how the love story of McConaughey and Witherspoon went, but predictably it involved a life-altering fall from wealth that resulted in McConaughey hanging out with me and the dogs. And something hinged on Witherspoon becoming Benedict's new owner.
In my storyline, after Benedict's departure, all the other dogs leave as well, one by one, until it's just me and Bottlenose trudging through a cold rain. As you will have seen coming from a mile off, Bottlenose digs from the mud a Coca-Cola bottle cap that is from one of those look-under-the-cap competitions. The cap is worth £100,000.
McConaughey and Witherspoon end up together, and me and Bottlenose become millionaires -- having invested much of our winnings in Coca-Cola stock. The end.
*My dreams have product placement.
I was the comic-partner-sort-of-thing to McConaughey's wealthy and slightly arrogant character. He was trying to exact revenge from Witherspoon, who had fouled up some major business deal. Or some such thing. It was a romantic comedy, so of course strength of plot wasn't particularly relevant.
I was a homeless guy who hung out with five very large dogs that would keep me warm a night by sleeping on top of me. A number of my scenes involved having conversations with the dogs. I can now only remember two of the dogs' names: Benedict and Bottlenose.
Benedict (short for Benedict Arnold, of course) was so named because he was desperate to find a new owner. He would run up to people in the park where we lived and try to charm them into taking him in. When I caught him doing this, I would shout: "Traitor!"
Bottlenose was a muddy golden retriever who took incredible joy in finding plastic Coca-Cola* bottle caps and bringing them to me.
McConaughey recruited me to pull all kinds of boneheaded stunts in an attempt to embarrass Witherspoon, but, of course, they all fell through.
I can't remember exactly how the love story of McConaughey and Witherspoon went, but predictably it involved a life-altering fall from wealth that resulted in McConaughey hanging out with me and the dogs. And something hinged on Witherspoon becoming Benedict's new owner.
In my storyline, after Benedict's departure, all the other dogs leave as well, one by one, until it's just me and Bottlenose trudging through a cold rain. As you will have seen coming from a mile off, Bottlenose digs from the mud a Coca-Cola bottle cap that is from one of those look-under-the-cap competitions. The cap is worth £100,000.
McConaughey and Witherspoon end up together, and me and Bottlenose become millionaires -- having invested much of our winnings in Coca-Cola stock. The end.
*My dreams have product placement.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
The Wisdom of Tea Bags
"Radiant inverted question mark, Sneaveweedle, where have you been? It feels as if I sent you for tea three months ago!" Penhill bellowed. "And what on earth are you doing on the floor?!"
"Oh moan," whimpered the travelling assistant. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm not very stable on moving trains; I had to crawl back from the snacks trolley to avoid spilling the tea."
Penhill stared down at Sneaveweedle for a moment, then at the two paper cups in Sneaveweedle's hands. He took in a deep, whistling breath through his nose.
"Did it not occur to you to ask for a lid?" Penhill asked.
He took the cups of tea and Sneaveweedle climbed back into his seat in a graceless, flailing all-hands fumble across Moonfloat that resembled a teenage boy's first endeavour to second base. Each attempt to avoid touching her inappropriately resulted in making things worse; when he pulled back his hands to avoid touching her stomach, he fell face-first into her breasts. He eventually found his seat with the assistance of Penhill's shillelagh, which dug into his sternum and shoved him to his spot.
Sneaveweedle stared back in red-faced horror and embarrassment at Moonfloat, whose face was also red, but from laughter.
"For future reference," she giggled, "a woman expects dinner before you attempt something like that."
Sneaveweedle made a high-pitch squeak and attempted to hide by pulling up the collar of his green windcheater and slouching.
"I can read your tea bags for you if you'd like," Moonfloat said, pointing an unpolished fake fingernail at the cups of tea balanced in Penhill's left hand.
"You want to read the tea bags?" he sniffed.
"Yeah. I can do tea leaves, too, but no one drinks loose-leaf tea anymore, do they? So, I thought to myself one day, 'Oh, I'll have a go with the bags.' It's not as clear as the leaves, mind you, but it works."
"Indeed" Penhill said, plucking a tea bag from one of the cups. "Ah yes, I see what you mean. This tea bag is most certainly telling me something. It's coming in quite clearly, now: This tea is cold! It is undrinkable, Sneaveweedle."
Moonfloat ignored him, pulling a small square of blue plastic from her purse and placing it on the floor. She took the tea bag from Penhill's hand and dropped it onto the square.
"Hmm, OK..." she muttered, reaching down to pick up the square. She looked at it for a second, wiped it off on her skirt and placed it back on the floor. She then removed the tea bag from the second cup of tea, also dropping it on the square.
"There, you see?" she said, pointing to the floor.
"Brilliant," Penhill muttered. "You've made a mess. Congratulations. You don't charge people for this, I hope."
"See how the splatter pattern is similar to the other tea bag?" Moonfloat said. "That means your destinies are linked."
"And this long tea splatter means an adventure," she continued, pointing to a pattern that extended beyond the plastic square, "an adventure in, well, in that direction."
"Oh, I say," Sneaveweedle moaned, coming out of his windcheater cocoon. "That is quite exciting. An adventure, Sir Penhill. In that direction."
Sneaveweedle followed the direction of his own pointing out the window to a panoramic mid-afternoon view of the Pembrokeshire coast. The sun shone brilliantly. The train was pulling into Fishguard Harbour -- a strange lost fishing village amid green coastal cliffs. It was the sort of picture they put in holiday brochures or on the walls at chain hotels, but for the enormous Stena Line and Irish Ferries boats in dock. The ferries were like shining white office buildings turned on their sides and set on waves of light.
"In that direction is nothing but open sea. Ireland is over there," Penhill boomed, nodding to the right of where Sneaveweedle and the tea splatters were pointing. "The ferry would have to be horribly off course for us to end up in that direction."
"I'm afraid tea bags aren't very clear, Mr. Penhill," Moonfloat said. "But they are also never wrong."
==============================
The above is a piece of Flickr Fiction, inspired by this photo from user Dejon. I am quite out of practice in Flickr Fiction and creative writing in general at the moment, so keen observers will note that the photo doesn't particularly match the story I've written. That said, the two things that stood out for me in the picture were sunlight and a sense of adventure. That's what I've written on.
Also playing along this week are: Donal, Elisa, Sarah, and Tadmack.
You can catch up on previous episodes of Penhill and Sneaveweedle here. With this and a few other episodes, I have written in some necessary direction for myself, but for the most part the story is being written as I go along. I would love your input and ideas on where you think things should go from here.
"Oh moan," whimpered the travelling assistant. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm not very stable on moving trains; I had to crawl back from the snacks trolley to avoid spilling the tea."
Penhill stared down at Sneaveweedle for a moment, then at the two paper cups in Sneaveweedle's hands. He took in a deep, whistling breath through his nose.
"Did it not occur to you to ask for a lid?" Penhill asked.
He took the cups of tea and Sneaveweedle climbed back into his seat in a graceless, flailing all-hands fumble across Moonfloat that resembled a teenage boy's first endeavour to second base. Each attempt to avoid touching her inappropriately resulted in making things worse; when he pulled back his hands to avoid touching her stomach, he fell face-first into her breasts. He eventually found his seat with the assistance of Penhill's shillelagh, which dug into his sternum and shoved him to his spot.
Sneaveweedle stared back in red-faced horror and embarrassment at Moonfloat, whose face was also red, but from laughter.
"For future reference," she giggled, "a woman expects dinner before you attempt something like that."
Sneaveweedle made a high-pitch squeak and attempted to hide by pulling up the collar of his green windcheater and slouching.
"I can read your tea bags for you if you'd like," Moonfloat said, pointing an unpolished fake fingernail at the cups of tea balanced in Penhill's left hand.
"You want to read the tea bags?" he sniffed.
"Yeah. I can do tea leaves, too, but no one drinks loose-leaf tea anymore, do they? So, I thought to myself one day, 'Oh, I'll have a go with the bags.' It's not as clear as the leaves, mind you, but it works."
"Indeed" Penhill said, plucking a tea bag from one of the cups. "Ah yes, I see what you mean. This tea bag is most certainly telling me something. It's coming in quite clearly, now: This tea is cold! It is undrinkable, Sneaveweedle."
Moonfloat ignored him, pulling a small square of blue plastic from her purse and placing it on the floor. She took the tea bag from Penhill's hand and dropped it onto the square.
"Hmm, OK..." she muttered, reaching down to pick up the square. She looked at it for a second, wiped it off on her skirt and placed it back on the floor. She then removed the tea bag from the second cup of tea, also dropping it on the square.
"There, you see?" she said, pointing to the floor.
"Brilliant," Penhill muttered. "You've made a mess. Congratulations. You don't charge people for this, I hope."
"See how the splatter pattern is similar to the other tea bag?" Moonfloat said. "That means your destinies are linked."
"And this long tea splatter means an adventure," she continued, pointing to a pattern that extended beyond the plastic square, "an adventure in, well, in that direction."
"Oh, I say," Sneaveweedle moaned, coming out of his windcheater cocoon. "That is quite exciting. An adventure, Sir Penhill. In that direction."
Sneaveweedle followed the direction of his own pointing out the window to a panoramic mid-afternoon view of the Pembrokeshire coast. The sun shone brilliantly. The train was pulling into Fishguard Harbour -- a strange lost fishing village amid green coastal cliffs. It was the sort of picture they put in holiday brochures or on the walls at chain hotels, but for the enormous Stena Line and Irish Ferries boats in dock. The ferries were like shining white office buildings turned on their sides and set on waves of light.
"In that direction is nothing but open sea. Ireland is over there," Penhill boomed, nodding to the right of where Sneaveweedle and the tea splatters were pointing. "The ferry would have to be horribly off course for us to end up in that direction."
"I'm afraid tea bags aren't very clear, Mr. Penhill," Moonfloat said. "But they are also never wrong."
==============================
The above is a piece of Flickr Fiction, inspired by this photo from user Dejon. I am quite out of practice in Flickr Fiction and creative writing in general at the moment, so keen observers will note that the photo doesn't particularly match the story I've written. That said, the two things that stood out for me in the picture were sunlight and a sense of adventure. That's what I've written on.
Also playing along this week are: Donal, Elisa, Sarah, and Tadmack.
You can catch up on previous episodes of Penhill and Sneaveweedle here. With this and a few other episodes, I have written in some necessary direction for myself, but for the most part the story is being written as I go along. I would love your input and ideas on where you think things should go from here.
One weird thing
You've probably seen that meme that has a person list six weird things about themselves. I am stuck for a blogging topic, but too lazy to be arsed with six things, so I've come up with one.
Of course, the question of what falls under the category of "weird" is a bit of a trick. I speak Welsh, I think medieval fayres are awesome, and I follow EastEnders so religiously that I refer to characters as if I know them personally (I am about two dead brain cells away from writing them letters of advice on how to solve their problems: "Stacey, you know that nothing good will come of this thing with Max!"). So, I'm not 100% sure* I'm qualified to judge "weird."
Perhaps that I am so taken with iTunes (a half decade after everyone else) is a bit odd. But for the most part, I don't tend to think that things I do or think are all that weird -- probably because I am the person doing and thinking those things. It's a bit like Catch 22; people who are crazy don't know they are crazy. If they think they are crazy, it's almost certainly a sign that they are not.
So, the fact that I don't tend to think of myself as not weird may be a sign that I am, in fact, very weird. Most likely, though, this is wishful thinking. More likely, I am one of the most boring people on Earth.
In terms of what other people might think is weird, I am either so boring or people are so used to my quirks, that I ceased surprising people years ago. I could list just about any odd thing and people who are close to me would think: "Yeah, sure -- that's not all that weird coming from him."
So, here's my totally un-weird weird thing about me:
I have a science-fiction TV series in my head.
It's about a border-line suicidal space fighter pilot. Because of the accessible nature of electronic information, his branch of the military (which would have to have a cooler name than the usually lame "Space Force" or "Space Marines," but I haven't thought up the name yet. Most likely it would be an acronym) starts putting important information on paper again (written in Sioux). The fighter pilot -- nicknamed "Witke," Sioux for "crazy" -- is given the job of hurtling unescorted (so as to not draw attention) across vast, cold, dangerous stretches of space, delivering various ultra-important messages.
Recognizing that he is already more than a bit psycho (he gets this assignment after being pulled as a squadron leader, having led his group into one too many mismatched fire fights), the yet-to-be-named military branch he works for fits his ship with a beta-version navigational/operating system that is designed to develop a personality of its own. The idea is to give him company on the long, cold (to preserve power and to help avoid detection, most of the time his ship does little more than circulate oxygen, so he's almost always weighed down by cold-weather gear [hence the connection to Heather's kittyhead hat]).
The system learns at an immense rate, so it tends to know everything that can be known, or can learn it in a pinch by gathering information from the future incarnation of the Internet. It is also designed to make itself as compatible and personable as possible to the user, so in short order it develops a female voice (probably with an accent) and Witke names it after some girl he had a crush on as a cadet before she was killed by some habitually-evil alien race that have been warring with Earth for 100 years.
Partially because his mood is erratic, and partially because the software recognises Witke actually enjoys arguing, the two have long, bantering philosophical/humorous conversations as they hurtle through space. They are occasionally interrupted by the need to blow stuff up or narrowly escape certain doom or save the universe. You know how it goes.
Needless to say, this culminates in all sorts of philosophical questions about the nature of reality as Witke "falls in love" with his ship's navigational/operating system, and vice versa. Neither will admit this fact.
At about the same time as this man-software love that dare not speak its name is coming to fruition, the military branch with a cool acronym name decides through other tests that the software -- hard-programmed to be so accommodating and protective of the user -- is a bad idea all around. They order it removed from Witke's ship and all existing versions of the software are deleted.
That's the end of season 1.
The second season starts with Witke in the bar, receiving the equivalent of a text message. The message contains a backup file to his ship's navigational/operating system -- it was sent by his ship, and had been bouncing around the corners of space, making it impossible to trace.
And it goes on from there, with all kinds of possibilities:
- The ship becomes too reckless in actions, because it can always provide a backup of itself, and almost kills Witke.
- An evil-twin version shows up, based on a corrupted version of the file that was bounced around space
- The ship starts to project a hologram of an attractive woman, so it messes with Witke's head even more.
- Through either Star Trek replicator technology or William Gibson microsofts technology, the OS becomes a tangible female form.
*The phrase "100% sure" is there only because I wanted to use the percent sign.
Of course, the question of what falls under the category of "weird" is a bit of a trick. I speak Welsh, I think medieval fayres are awesome, and I follow EastEnders so religiously that I refer to characters as if I know them personally (I am about two dead brain cells away from writing them letters of advice on how to solve their problems: "Stacey, you know that nothing good will come of this thing with Max!"). So, I'm not 100% sure* I'm qualified to judge "weird."
Perhaps that I am so taken with iTunes (a half decade after everyone else) is a bit odd. But for the most part, I don't tend to think that things I do or think are all that weird -- probably because I am the person doing and thinking those things. It's a bit like Catch 22; people who are crazy don't know they are crazy. If they think they are crazy, it's almost certainly a sign that they are not.
So, the fact that I don't tend to think of myself as not weird may be a sign that I am, in fact, very weird. Most likely, though, this is wishful thinking. More likely, I am one of the most boring people on Earth.
In terms of what other people might think is weird, I am either so boring or people are so used to my quirks, that I ceased surprising people years ago. I could list just about any odd thing and people who are close to me would think: "Yeah, sure -- that's not all that weird coming from him."
So, here's my totally un-weird weird thing about me:
I have a science-fiction TV series in my head.
It's about a border-line suicidal space fighter pilot. Because of the accessible nature of electronic information, his branch of the military (which would have to have a cooler name than the usually lame "Space Force" or "Space Marines," but I haven't thought up the name yet. Most likely it would be an acronym) starts putting important information on paper again (written in Sioux). The fighter pilot -- nicknamed "Witke," Sioux for "crazy" -- is given the job of hurtling unescorted (so as to not draw attention) across vast, cold, dangerous stretches of space, delivering various ultra-important messages.
Recognizing that he is already more than a bit psycho (he gets this assignment after being pulled as a squadron leader, having led his group into one too many mismatched fire fights), the yet-to-be-named military branch he works for fits his ship with a beta-version navigational/operating system that is designed to develop a personality of its own. The idea is to give him company on the long, cold (to preserve power and to help avoid detection, most of the time his ship does little more than circulate oxygen, so he's almost always weighed down by cold-weather gear [hence the connection to Heather's kittyhead hat]).
The system learns at an immense rate, so it tends to know everything that can be known, or can learn it in a pinch by gathering information from the future incarnation of the Internet. It is also designed to make itself as compatible and personable as possible to the user, so in short order it develops a female voice (probably with an accent) and Witke names it after some girl he had a crush on as a cadet before she was killed by some habitually-evil alien race that have been warring with Earth for 100 years.
Partially because his mood is erratic, and partially because the software recognises Witke actually enjoys arguing, the two have long, bantering philosophical/humorous conversations as they hurtle through space. They are occasionally interrupted by the need to blow stuff up or narrowly escape certain doom or save the universe. You know how it goes.
Needless to say, this culminates in all sorts of philosophical questions about the nature of reality as Witke "falls in love" with his ship's navigational/operating system, and vice versa. Neither will admit this fact.
At about the same time as this man-software love that dare not speak its name is coming to fruition, the military branch with a cool acronym name decides through other tests that the software -- hard-programmed to be so accommodating and protective of the user -- is a bad idea all around. They order it removed from Witke's ship and all existing versions of the software are deleted.
That's the end of season 1.
The second season starts with Witke in the bar, receiving the equivalent of a text message. The message contains a backup file to his ship's navigational/operating system -- it was sent by his ship, and had been bouncing around the corners of space, making it impossible to trace.
And it goes on from there, with all kinds of possibilities:
- The ship becomes too reckless in actions, because it can always provide a backup of itself, and almost kills Witke.
- An evil-twin version shows up, based on a corrupted version of the file that was bounced around space
- The ship starts to project a hologram of an attractive woman, so it messes with Witke's head even more.
- Through either Star Trek replicator technology or William Gibson microsofts technology, the OS becomes a tangible female form.
*The phrase "100% sure" is there only because I wanted to use the percent sign.
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