Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: June 2005
the number-driven life
Each morning when I sit behind the wheel of my car, I look at the odometer and do two things. First, I check to see what kind of poker hand I have. Second, I ask myself whether I will, today, drive through a palindrome.
You know palindromes: numbers or words that read the same forwards as backwards, like “Ah, Satan sees Natasha,” or 34643. Why should I care about a palindromic odometer reading? Why do I have an instant of irrational worry if, after dictating an operative note, the service tells me I’ve just dictated #341790?
Superstition, you’ll tell me, is fundamentally irrational. You might as well ask why I keep a hunk of wood in my pocket so that I’ll always have something to knock on. (That’s a joke. Not a good one, admittedly, but I’d rather you not think me a full bowl of Fruit Loops.)
I’ll cop to the knocking-on-wood being irrational. But the numbers? Baby, that’s in the blood.
Imagine eleven-year-old me: a good-hearted, believing bar mitzvah-in-training, though not too good-hearted. Actually, I was a surly little bastard who resented the fact that all these Arcadians in my class were a full socioeconomic level above me, and they never let me forget it. Surliness is next to godliness (what, you never heard that one?) so my teachers (who inevitably pronounced my name Dog) frequently sent me to the library to, you know, soak up some Proverbial wisdom. That’s where I discovered Chaim Potok’s The Chosen, and through it, gematria.
Forget the Bible Code. The Jews got there a couple thousand years ahead of you guys. We’ve been crunching sentences into phrases, phrases into words, words into numbers, and numbers into even smaller numbers, because — and I’m sure of this one — we’re not content to accept God’s word at face value. You know that Biblical literalist bumper sticker, “God wrote it, I believe it, That ends it”? The Orthodox Jewish version would be, “God wrote it, now let’s figure out what he really meant.”
The only thing I remember from The Chosen was the gematria — the way the rabbi wowed his Hasidic congregation with wild feats of numerical prestidigitation. If I remember correctly, someone comments to the protag that the rabbi’s math is all wrong, but no one ever cared. And, the funny thing was, I didn’t care either, because the idea of parsing the Torah into numbers that had meaning struck me as unbearably attractive.
I invite you now to delve into that wellspring of knowledge which has given a spiritual enema to Britney Spears, Demi Moore, and (the archetype of all Judaically born-again celebs*) Madonna: kabbalah. For gematria is, in fact, the mathematics of kabbalah. Here’s that website again: The Art of Gematria.
So: is this stuff really in my blood, or did it merely get its teeth into me during my impressionable youth? I’m not sure. What I know — what I feel — is that numbers have a life beyond the abstract; that numerical functions have a foothold in reality that goes way beyond their graphical representation; that when we look at the world around us, we see a mathematical universe, or would see it, if only our senses didn’t lie.
D.
*Sammy Davis doesn’t count. As far as I know, he really did become Jewish.
And now, from SF Hall-of-Famer Adolf Hitler . . .
The Iron Dream by Norman Spinrad
For me, Norman Spinrad is most memorable as the author of the Star Trek episode, “The Doomsday Machine”, better known in my household as “Kirk Meets the Cosmic Blunt”. (We have alternate names for all the classic episodes. Three guesses as to the identity of “Captain Kirk, Space Queen”, or “Spock in Heat”. That’s my wife and I. So —
knockingonwood knockingonwood knockingonwood.)
Yup, “Kirk Meets the Cosmic Blunt”. Still saying, “Waaaaaah?” Here’s an unloaded blunt:
Now do you remember? No? Imagine William Shatner and William Windom fighting over who can chew the most scenery. That episode.
The Iron Dream and I only lasted one chapter together. By then, I had tired of the overly dense writing (me like dialog) and the core joke had grown old after ten pages.
Karen, masochist that she is, finished it, and penned the fine review which you shall soon read. She thinks she might have gone a little over the top in her conclusions, but what the hey.
I’ve taken a few editorial liberties. Karen says, “I don’t want to be judged over something you’ve written.” Okay: I’ll put any major interpolations by me in blue.
Norman Spinrad’s The Iron Dream (1972) caused a mild stir at the time of its publication. This satiric science fiction novel features an alternate history where Adolf Hitler emigrated to the United States in 1919 and became a comic book illustrator and science fiction writer. The Iron Dream (the actual title is Lord of the Swastika. I suspect Spinrad’s publisher chickened out and made him come up with a different title for the cover) is his supposed Hugo Award-winning novel of 1954, a story concerning the rise of Feric Jagger, a national hero who saves the nation of Held from the mutant hordes of inferior and corrupted humans.
Written in the bombastic tones of Mein Kampf, the novel is a distorted version of Hitler’s historic rise to power in Weimar Germany, and his subsequent actions in Europe and Africa. The story begins with Jagger returning from Borgravia (corresponding to Hitler’s youth in Austria). He arrives in Held, the last pocket of genetically pure humanity in a world still suffering from the devastating effects of an ancient nuclear war. Held is surrounded by radiation-contaminated land which has produced grotesque mutants who must be euthanized — for their own good, as well as for the sake of humanity.
Unfortunately for the blond, blue-eyed Heldons, these mutants are commanded by the sinister forces of the mind-controlling Zind, the analogue to the USSR. Ridiculously quickly, Feric gains leadership of a small political party, which he soon parlays into control of the entire country. How does author Hitler account for this? Feric’s amazingly powerful personal will and magnetism lead everyone to recognize his natural superiority. Under his magnificent leadership, the Heldon army finally confronts the vast armies of Zind in the book’s climactic battle.
Since Dream is written by alternate universe author Hitler, fascism is good, genocide justified, and everyone (everyone racially pure, that is) loves the good and wise hero who triumphs in the end. Spinrad’s difficulty, though, lies in maintaining a readable story that’s supposedly written by a psychopathic hack writer with no real insight into humanity. Thus, there is incredibly bad sentence structure and an obsession with the gory details of death and violence.
Desperately needed comic relief is supplied by the homoerotic descriptions of missiles, bullets, and the “Great Truncheon of Held,” Jagger’s semi-magical club that he wields as the true heir to the former Kings of Held:
Despite these attempts to shore up the narrative’s deficiencies, Spinrad lets the novel drag in many spots, particularly in the repetitious battle scenes. After reading 20 or so descriptions of Feric’s mighty blows decimating the mutant horde, I began to skip these passages.
But there’s more to this book than just the smug feeling that we are too clever to fall for fascistic propaganda. (In fact, I found a neo-Nazi review on the internet which didn’t realize this was satire; supposedly, the American Nazi Party loves the book, too.) (That last link — to AryanUnity.com — is more interesting than you might think. According to Karen, the reviewer plagiarized the review from another she (Karen) had just read. Then he tacked on a few paragraphs at the end to the tune of “Great book! Warms the cockles of my pure Aryan heart!”) Spinrad includes an afterword by a fictitious literary critic who discusses the popularity of similar stories in both science fiction and fantasy. Furthermore, the back cover quotes praise the novel as comparable to J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and G.K. Chesterton.
For example: recall, from LOTR, the slaughter of the mutant orcs and the short, debased men from the south by the racially superior elves and the tall and noble Aragorn. I have read a good deal of science fiction and fantasy and I have no doubt that a tinge of fascism, racism, and sexism seeped into a great many of the so-called classics of the Golden Age. In their defense, these stories were written decades ago and one shouldn’t necessarily apply today’s standards. However, their undeniable influence on today’s literature unconsciously leads some of us to separate different ethnic and religious groups into the ‘debased’ versus the ‘noble’, and the ‘fanatically homicidal’ versus the ‘protectors of humanity’. That, in conjunction with the ubiquitous scenes of slaughter and battle in the science fiction and fantasy genres, may lead the desensitized reader to support warfare and death in the real world.
Thanks, Karen. Folks, her next book review will be: “Charlotte’s Web: Beloved Children’s Classic, or Vegan Propaganda?”
D.
It’s the story, stupid!
Wherein I discover the world of Mundane SF
Futzing around with Technorati tags this AM, I found a link to writer Ian McDonald’s lengthy discussion of Mundane SF. As I mentioned recently, I always seem to be months if not years behind the times, and this is not exception. So if I betray my ignorance of the issues in this brief position piece, remember: you cannot embarrass me with my lack of knowledge because I have no shame. But you knew that.
Mundane SF comes to us from writer Geoff Ryman. (The linked page will lead you to the Mundane Manifesto as well as Ryman’s blog.) In essence, Ryman espouses a theory of SF which sticks strictly (think Madame Madge Dominatrix ‘strictly’) to the realm of the possible. No more faster-than-light travel, no wormhole travel, no interstellar trade with aliens, no time travel — nothing fun. It’s diamond-Hard SF.
If you write SF, Ian McDonald’s thoughtful discussion (linked above) is well worth your time. Here’s the line that had me applauding:
“It’s not just the Mundane Manifesto is totally unnecessary to produce the type of science-fiction it celebrates (one very very much worth celebrating, and that is due it’s time in the sun) , it’s that the genre has a much richer palate of colours. It’s a poor manifesto that would venerate Verne (tech-speculation) but consigns much of H.G. Wells’ core texts to the ‘bonfire of stupidities’ (interplanetary war, aliens, time-travel…). To me, one of the strengths of SF is that it is an allegorical literature: parables and myths of our age.” (emphasis mine)
A few of you out there have read my stuff; you folks will recognize why something like a “Mundane Manifesto” gets my blood pressure up. I could sally forth against Mundane SF, but as an unpublished author my words don’t carry much clout. YET. (Muwahahaha.) So, here’s one small voice making a pitch for reason.
The object of writing is entertainment.
There. I’ve said it. We’re not politicians and we’re not social planners. You can’t blame us for fostering an irresponsible attitude towards the environment. (So goes the claim of the Mundaners — by willy-nilly planet-hopping, we encourage the idea that we can rape this planet and move on to the next.) We’re performance artists, nothing more.
I’m not saying there’s anything bad about Mundane SF. I’m sure it has a healthy audience of readers — all those hard SF wonks who jeered when Han Solo used ‘parsec’ as a unit of time.
Just leave us allegorists alone, will you?
D.
Here’s how f’d up I am
So f’d up I can’t even mention him by name . . .
I mean, where did all this superstition come from? I know where I get my paranoia, but the superstition? It’s being a surgeon that does it. You begin believing in lucky charms. If you have a pediatric airway emergency on your hands, you begin praying — hell, you enter into full balls-to-the-walls bargain mode with God — no matter how agnostic you might be. You avoid black cats. You step over sidewalk cracks. You worry when the umbrella opens by accident indoors.
And you always, always knock on wood when you say something good.
Here’s the deal. A certain someone has been spending way too much time talking about his wonderful marriage. I like this guy, like him enough that what he’s doing is scaring the hell out of me. He’s calling down the bad juju.
Let me repeat: this is MY problem. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, I’m still rattled.
Fact: every time I tell someone how great my marriage is, Karen and I end up in knock-down take-no-prisoners warfare for at least a week. This generally follows within twenty-four hours of my verbal excess. True, we’ve always bounced back*, but you have to understand: we both learned to fight dirty as kids (Karen even moreso than me) so it’s never pretty.
Fact: we only fight about once a year, which is about how long it takes me to forget that I should keep my mouth zipped.
So, if that certain someone happens to wander this way and read this, please, please, for the love of God, knock on wood.
Your thoroughly f’d up friend,
D.
P.S.: NO GUESSES in the comments thread. I’m being purposefully vague to keep the bad juju confused.
*Knocking on wood, knocking on wood, knocking on wood.
Natalie Portman — shaved
I’m still curious whether outrageous name-dropping can bump traffic. Didn’t work using ‘Scott Savol’, but then, I guess he’s old news.
The Sunday New York Times has a cool story on the film V, an adaptation of Alan Moore’s graphic novel from the 1980s. The movie is slated for release in November. (You might need to subscribe to their site to read the article — I’m not sure.) Natalie Portman, head shaved, plays V’s apprentice, Evie.
The NYT story, by Sarah Lyall, makes a good point:
“In today’s skittish atmosphere, it takes a certain courage – or foolhardiness- to make a film that might be seen as endorsing terrorism, or at the very least, bomb-fueled anarchy. At a time when many studio films avoid what might offend, the makers of “Vendetta” have stepped out onto a lonely limb.”
My question: when will someone make a movie out of Moore’s other classic, Watchmen?
D.
Start at the fifth book in the series? Why the hell not!
Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith
Arkady Renko and I go way back. Gorky Park came out in ’82, and, poor student that I was, I bought it as a paperback in ’84.
1984: First year of medical school. My mind was ripe for dermestid beetles munching flesh off human skulls. At that age, I hadn’t read much hard-boiled fiction, and the moody, angst-ridden Renko came as a breath of fresh arctic air compared to the science fiction characters I knew from childhood. (True, Neuromancer came out that year. That, too, was a kick in the head.) And the interlude sequence, two-thirds of the way through — when, suddenly, we are brought face to face with Renko’s nemesis, Pribluda — changed forever how I looked at fiction, both as a reader, and as a wannabe writer.
1989: the year of Gorky Park’s first sequel, Polar Star. I was still in medical school (don’t ask). Polar Star proved to me that a sequel could be every bit as good as the first novel. Having read at least one sequel to Dune (gotta be vague, here — I’ve struck those books from memory), I’d had my doubts. Gross-o-meter high point in Polar Star: the slime eels. Yum.
Red Square (1993) : This one almost put me off Smith indefinitely. Then my wife bought Rose (2000: not a Renko novel, but still a keeper). By now I was a grown-up. I’d done a bit of writing, enough that I could recognize Smith as a master technician. So I went back to the Renko series with book four, Havana Bay, and found our Investigator lower than ever. Near the beginning of the story, Renko is assaulted in his apartment. The usual rough stuff, right? No: there’s a twist (no spoilers here) which hooked me in to the rest of the book.
In Wolves Eat Dogs, Renko’s investigation of an apparent suicide leads him to the ruins of Chernobyl. What do you do with a burnout like Renko? Surround him with other burnouts! (I wonder if Smith ever worried whether his readers would say, “Enough already.”) The outskirts of Chernobyl is populated with soldiers, scientists, and folks too old to care about a little radiation. There’s a strong, unspoken feeling that Death stands just behind everyone’s shoulder.
The investigation begins in Moscow, where billionaire Pasha Ivanov, president of NoviRus, has jumped ten stories from the window of his luxury suite. There’s a bottle of salt in Ivanov’s hand, more salt on the windowsill, and a pile of it in the closet. NoviRus Senior Vice President Lev Timofeyev has a bloody nose . . . and before long, he shows up dead in a cemetery near Chernobyl. Unexpectedly dead, that is.
Perennial pain-in-the-ass Renko doesn’t think Ivanov jumped voluntarily. When Timofeyev’s body is found, Renko’s boss ships him down south to the Ukraine for a bit of hot time. In graduate school, we had to wear those little radiation badges so that we’d know when we’d been poisoned. Renko gets a Geiger counter and a bit of advice — don’t eat the locally grown food.
But, wouldn’t you know it, before long the Geiger counter has been retired, Renko’s scarfing down the local produce, lovin’ the local women and scrappin’ with the local brutes. You gotta love him.
Smith does everything right: three-dimensional characterization, clearly written action sequences, crisp dialog, a deft plot, and plenty of poignant drama. Some folks read Elmore Leonard to hone their craft; I read Smith.
D.
P.S. I think I may have gone way beyond the boundaries of good taste tonight with Bare Rump’s Diary. Box me about the ears if you are offended.
If Jesus were alive today . . .
From the New York Times Forums, by way of my wife:
If Jesus were alive today, he would be ethnically profiled and put on the United States’ No Fly list.
Okay, your turn. If Jesus were alive today . . .
(More later. Just taking a blog break from my NiP.)
D.
Scott Savol Exxxplicit Photos
John Scalzi’s blog today made me realize something: Karen and I don’t often say “I love you” to one another. Even when we were dating, one of us always managed to undercut the mood. Candlelight dinner, red wine, rack of lamb —
“Hey! My gawd, we’re having a romantic moment.”
“No, really? How did that happen?”
If I can allow myself to be truthful for one moment, here are the sweet nothings we repeat to one another nowadays:
Doug: Fix this.
Karen: You have no shame.
Ah, the sweet sound of honesty. You have no shame. Hence today’s title, Scott Savol Exxxplicit Photos. Hmm. Maybe I need a link to Scott Savol to really clinch the deal. Here’s a cute mugshot. And here are the Exxplicit Photos I promised.
Thanks to Demented Michelle for this idea. She told me she saw a substantial leap in blog traffic when she mentioned Savol. Failed bench scientist that I am, I feel compelled to test her theory.
Now that I have you all here, I’d like to point out a new link on my right margin. Click on the title below the ’59 T-Bird, and you will be led to my favorite published short story, “The Mechanic”.
Warning: it’s crime fiction, which you would soon have figured out from the URL. Didn’t want you SF fans to keep expecting an alien to pop up.
Crime Scene Scotland didn’t pay me a penny for this story. Told you I was a slut.
D.
Because I’m such a slut
See, I almost said whore. Almost. But a whore expects payment for his services, whereas I give mine up for free.
Here’s the deal. The other day, I learned about Technorati.com on John Scalzi’s The Whatever (linked on the right, if you’re curious). Technorati allows you to find out what other sites are linked to yours. Cool! So that’s how he tracked down my wife’s review.
Anyway, Technorati will put up a link to my blog on their Sci-Fi page as long as I link back to them. So if you just traipsed over here from Technorati, welcome! I’ll write SF for pocket change — I’ll do it for free. Not even a crack whore will do that for you.
Gotta go. Be back real soon.
D.